“I don’t know …”
“Look, it’s no secret: The Pales have tried to keep us down since the beginning of history. But we always rise up. At some point we’ll seize the power.”
I wasn’t sure how much of Rittika’s sermon to believe. I wasn’t even sure how much she believed. All I knew was that when I thought about Mel, I felt guilty.
“So if they’re the Pales, what are we?” I whispered.
She laughed. “Let’s see … Oh, I got it, the Golds.” She waved her hand across the air, as if showing me a headline.
“Those are the official names: the Golds and the Pales?”
“That’s right. We’re mortal enemies, like the Montagues and the Capulets, the Greasers and the Socs, the Sharks and the Jets.”
Against my better judgment, I laughed, too. Rittika seldom bothered talking to me. I couldn’t deny that it felt good to have her attention. To be included.
“So, do you think we’ll get this guy?” she asked, switching the subject.
“Do you?”
“My brother says we have a good shot.”
“I don’t know—I’m … a little scared.”
“I am, too. But something about this island makes me feel like I could do anything.”
“Not me. I’m the opposite. I just wanna get home,” I admitted.
“Why?” she demanded. “Everything at Drake Rosemont is so boring. Every day’s a routine. There’s no mystery. It’s almost like my life is already written out: graduation, then college, then I’ll start working at my father’s company. With Rish, of course.”
“I thought you wanted to work at your father’s company.”
“Not really. But it’s gonna happen. It’s been my destiny since—like—forever.”
“What do you really want to do?”
“I don’t know—something creative. Acting, maybe. I just wish I had time to decide. To try things.”
“Maybe you should tell your dad that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Sam. You know he’d go nuts. You have an Indian father, too!”
I blushed so deeply that I was actually grateful for the mud on my face.
“What does your father want you to do?” she asked.
“Me? My dad and I don’t talk much. We’re not close.”
While she took this in, she slapped a mosquito that had landed on her thigh. A breeze blew and I caught a whiff of her hair. It smelled perfumy. I wondered if she had a secret shampoo stash, or if everything about her was just preternaturally perfect.
Truth was, I had always been fascinated by Rittika’s hair. The obsession had started the first time I’d ever sat behind her in class. I spent a disproportionate amount of time ignoring the professor and staring at those lush locks. Once, I’d even picked up a stray strand from her back and wound it around my finger. The whole class had been taking notes, typing furiously on laptops, but I’d missed everything the professor had said. I’d worn the hair all day long, twined around my finger like a ring.
“Well, be glad you got your father’s skin at least,” she said. “We’re gold—the real thing. Mel, with her mud—she’s just a poor imitation.”
Nervously, I giggled along with her. Then I glanced at Mel, to make sure she hadn’t heard.
At the last minute, Mel handed me her knife. I didn’t want to take it, but she insisted.
“Don’t worry, I have a spear,” she said. “And I know how to use it.”
I believed her.
“Remember,” she continued, “keep your eyes peeled, and come back early. Don’t stay in the jungle at night.” She looked me in the eye. “You’ll be okay.”
We hugged, then I joined Pablo and set off.
As we tromped over greenery and vines, I caught him staring at me sideways. I touched my encrusted cheek uncomfortably.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothing. It’s just you look very glamorous.”
I shoved him playfully.
“Seriously,” he continued. “It’s a good idea—the mud. Good protection.”
“I guess. Hey, Rittika said something interesting to me—that on the island, brown people have the advantage.”
“The advantage? Like how?”
“I don’t know—like, how we’re superior because we’re darker.”
“Yeah, she would say that. It’s basically the opposite of white supremacy, but just as screwed up. Rittika has a unique way of looking at the world. That’s what comes from having the world’s richest dad.”
“She seems pretty confident we’ll find the enemy.”
“Confidence is good, but overconfidence isn’t. I’m with Mel—we should have prepared better.”
“You don’t think we can do this?”
“We’re not hunters! I don’t even like to step on bugs.”
I liked the way Pablo didn’t try to impress me or make himself out to be something that he wasn’t.
“I hope we don’t see him—the enemy,” I said.
“Yeah, you’re not the only one.”
“But if we do …”
“We have to put him out of commission,” he replied grimly.
“How are we going to do that?”
“You’re the one with the knife.”
“But I don’t know if I can use it.”
At that, he stopped and looked at me squarely. “Look, even though I’m scared out of my mind, I’m still gonna use this spear if I have to.” I glanced at the sharpened stick in his hands. “You gotta be ready, too.”
I nodded and we continued walking in the direction Rittika had chosen for us. We were to survey a southwest swath of the jungle. As we walked side by side, I was aware of his elbow brushing my arm, of the synchronicity of our breathing. I was equally aware of the density of the jungle, of the nearly impenetrable green. Even if I lived here for twenty years, I wouldn’t get used to the riot of trees, vines, and shoots. All of them were cross-hatched, pressing over, under, across, and between.
Keep your eyes peeled, Mel had warned.
But it was impossible. I closed my eyes every few moments just to let them rest. A headache was building behind my temples like the one I’d had right after the crash. There was just too much to take in. The green color wheel was spinning out of control. The enemy could be hiding anywhere: on a bower overhead, in the thicket to the right, under the curtain of ivy to the left, behind the mossy bank we’d just passed. Every creak, crack, and snap startled me. Every rustle and drip made me tremble.
I jumped when Pablo took hold of my arm.
“What?” I whispered urgently.
“Relax.”
“What?”
“You stopped breathing.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
With his spear he started swatting at the brush ahead of us. I concentrated on that motion: the whipping of the sharpened cane back and forth, back and forth. I concentrated and tried to remember to breathe.
I kept my knife in the air, like Pablo kept his spear. We walked in concentric circles, or what we thought were concentric circles. It was hard to know precisely where we were or where we’d been, even though we noted landmarks, the location of the sun, everything Mel had told us. We saw butterflies, birds, snakes, frogs, monkeys, lizards, the flash of something four-legged and yellow disappearing in the distance. I swore it was a jaguar. It was more likely a figment of my reeling imagination.
The tension didn’t abate. I grew more tired by the minute. I started to understand how people were able to sleep amid warfare, in the most uncomfortable of places, in the most treacherous of conditions. It must come upon them, the sleep, like a torrent. It was impossible to stay hyperalert like this without the body and mind giving out.
Pablo and I walked and searched for hours. He noticed before I did how the sun was falling, how the shadows were growing longer. I didn’t know why, but I felt closer to him than ever before. I trusted him. When we decided to go back to camp, we began t
o talk. We spoke quietly and intensely, still on guard but not quite as wary.
“Tell me the story of how you got to Drake Rosemont,” he said, his eyes focused on the jungle. “Were you recruited?”
“Me? What for? No.”
“For being mixed.”
“You mean half Indian?”
“Yeah.”
“Do they recruit for that?” I asked, remembering something Alexa had once told me.
“Well, not exactly. But they do like diversity—especially URMs.”
“What’s a URM?”
“Under-Represented Minority. I bet you got counted as one and didn’t even know it. Who was your Drake Rosemont interviewer—Mrs. Duval?”
“Yeah. You had her, too?”
“Yup. She was ecstatic that I’m half Mexican. I guess they needed me to meet some quota.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure some of their funding depends on getting students of color.”
“Students of color—I hate that. What does it even mean?”
“I know—seriously, right? Like if you’re some shade other than white, you’re suddenly riding a rainbow.”
“I don’t even know if I consider myself a student of color.”
“Well, you’re a mixie, and Duval loves mixies. We’re brown enough to be considered minorities, but white enough not to make anyone uncomfortable.”
“Did you just call us mixies?”
“Yeah, mixies! Mixed race—you and me, kid. We’re the hot new thing.”
“I guess I should be flattered …”
“You know I’m being sarcastic.”
“Yeah, I get that. So are there other mixies, besides you and me?”
“Sure. Lots of people. Ming, Chester …”
“Chester?!”
“Yeah, he’s part Native American. Like, one-sixteenth or something like that.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“No joke. That kid looks like a Nordic Viking—like a teenage Thor.”
I giggled. And I realized something. Pablo was funny—and fun to be around. He wasn’t typical crush material, but he was a lot more interesting. I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” he said.
My heart skipped a beat. “Sure.”
“Do you like it here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Being on the island—do you like it?”
“I don’t know. All I’ve thought about since being here is getting off—and getting away from the psycho who’s threatening us.”
“I’m the opposite! All I can think about is staying. This is my definition of paradise. I can’t believe there isn’t some big, fancy resort here. I can’t believe some developer hasn’t come with his crew and torn down the trees to put in a golf course and casino and whatever other crap developers put up.”
I laughed.
“Sorry,” he said shaking his head. “I’m a little cynical.”
“Aren’t you too young to be cynical?”
He looked at me ruefully. “Probably. Chester won’t even talk to me about environmental stuff anymore. He says I’m obsessed. But I think the way I feel is a logical response to our planet going down the toilet.”
We were silent for a few minutes, then Pablo said, “Hey, you want to see something crazy?”
I shrugged, not sure what to expect. “Okay—I think …”
Pablo smiled and turned. He’d ripped his Drake Rosemont trousers into shorts. Now he dropped them low enough for me to see a small black tattoo above his butt. It looked kind of like a cat, but was so sloppy and misshapen, it was hard to tell.
“Oh my …”
“What? You don’t like it?”
“I want to tell you it’s not terrible, but I’d be lying.”
“Now, that’s cruel, Samantha.”
“Sorry!” I laughed when he pretended to look hurt.
“My friend from home inked it on me and two other guys. He’d never tattooed anyone before. We were his guinea pigs.”
“But why a cat? And why your ass?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it’s not a regular cat. It’s an Iberian lynx. They’re close to extinction. There are only, like, a hundred left.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yeah—it is. I got the tattoo to remind myself about conservation.”
“For me, your tattoo’s more like proof.”
“Proof?”
“Proof that tattoos are always a bad idea!”
“All right, all right. Calm down,” he joked.
“Well, now I know your deepest, darkest secret.”
He smiled, and I thought for the first time that his smile just might rival Chester’s. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
Pablo and I made it back to camp safe and sound. We were the last ones back. Immediately, I could see something else had gone wrong. Mel’s brow was furrowed. The camp was buzzing with news: Anne Marie had gotten hurt.
Mel explained what had gone down. She and Anne Marie had explored the caves but hadn’t found anything. On their way back, Anne Marie had fallen through a clump of palm fronds, straight into a hole in the ground.
“It was definitely man-made,” Mel said. “It was about eight feet deep, and totally disguised on the jungle floor. All Anne Marie did was take one wrong step. The ground gave way and she tumbled down.” She shook her head. “It was a trapping pit.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a classic hunting trap. They’ve been around since the Stone Age. All I can think about is what would have happened if she’d been alone. She hurt her leg pretty bad. It’s not broken, but it’s banged up. She wouldn’t have been able to climb out. She could have been stuck there for days. She could have died.”
“Well, that didn’t happen,” I said, hoping to make her feel better. I could tell she was shaken.
“Was anything in there?” Pablo asked.
“Yeah, some old bones,” she replied. “Animal bones.”
“What about people bones?” Chester asked.
“No—no human bones.”
“Was the trap meant for people?” I asked, feeling goose bumps rise on my skin.
“It’s hard to say. Trapping pits are usually for animals. They get trapped inside, and then they’re killed—for food, or trophies.” Mel paused, lost in thought. “But I can’t rule out that it was meant for us.”
“You think the enemy made it?” Chester said.
She shook her head. “I just don’t know.”
“Where is Anne Marie now?” I asked.
“She’s resting in the tent. She’s pretty freaked out.”
“No wonder.”
“She doesn’t want to see anyone.”
“I’m gonna go anyway,” I said, surprising myself.
Night was falling and the air inside the tent Betty had woven was murky and thick. I could barely make out the outline of Anne Marie’s body, curved like a comma on the ground.
“Can I come in?” I whispered.
When she didn’t say anything, I crawled inside and sat cross-legged beside her on the bare ground, the top of my head skimming the pitch of the roof. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I got a fix on Anne Marie’s face. Her eyes were wide open.
“I heard what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—except for the person who made that trap.”
Her voice sounded flat and exhausted.
“How’s your leg?”
“I’m trying not to think about it. I’m trying not to think about anything.”
I got the sense that she still wanted to be alone. It wasn’t as if Anne Marie and I were good friends or anything. We had a few classes together, and of course we were both on the fencing team, but we didn’t talk much, and when we did, it was almost always about assignments or our fencing schedule. Polite conversation.
I didn
’t want to leave, though. I liked Anne Marie—she’d always struck me as special. Maybe it was the fact that I’d seen so much of her art—paintings, sculptures, and photographs—and it had made an impression on me. Obviously, it had made an impression on other people, too, because a few galleries showcased her work and private collectors commissioned it. Once or twice I’d browsed her website. I didn’t get the meaning behind a lot of her stuff, but there was no denying her ability to make big statements and grab attention. Her huge watercolors of flowers were especially arresting: pansies, daisies, columbine, and violets blown up larger than life, on canvases six, eight, even ten feet tall.
Being so quiet, Anne Marie clearly expressed herself best through her art.
She touched a large bump, like a golf ball, on her shin. “It’s really hot. I don’t know why.”
“Your body is sending extra cells to repair the injury. All that cellular activity is generating warmth.”
“Oh,” she replied, surprised. “Are you going to be a doctor or something?”
“No. I just know that from Mel. I know all kinds of random stuff from her.”
She smiled, but it was a rueful kind of smile. “In a weird way, it’s good to have this to concentrate on. I’ve felt pretty out of it since the crash.”
“I think all of us have.”
“Yeah, but it’s a little different for me. I don’t have my meds with me.”
I felt relieved and nervous at the same time: relieved that she was sharing; nervous that she might be in real trouble.
“What happens if you don’t take them?”
“I guess the best way to put it is—I have a hard time figuring out what’s real and what’s not. The world, like, loses its structure.”
“Have you ever been off your meds before?”
“Yeah, and it didn’t go well. So to get off like this—cold turkey—it sucks.”
“Just try not to worry, okay? I’m sure we’ll be rescued soon. Who knows—maybe even tonight. You just have to hold on.”
“Yeah, but what if we’re here for weeks? Did you ever watch that old show—Gilligan’s Island? How long were those poor suckers stranded?”
Despite her earnestness, I cracked up. “I wish this was like Gilligan’s Island. To me, it’s more like The Hunger Games.”
Damselfly Page 9
