It Never Rains in Colombia

by W. H. Benjamin

  Sophia laughed, “It looks pretty bad.”

  “He's still as nice as he ever was, just…” Harlow paused, “is that shallow?”

  “It's so distracting,” Mei said, opening the main doors to the Cafeteria. She was glad that they hadn't asked her about her conversation with Christian and that no one had noticed her in the video. “All that hair in his face. I think this looks better.”

  Harlow started talking about revision; happy to change the subject.

  On the train, Harlow couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

  Memories of Christian with his beautiful wavy brown hair would appear amongst her thoughts. He had become remote, distant, since that day. She saw him in class, but as soon as it was over he was gone. Harlow was not the only one who noticed his strange behaviour. Without the school uniform, he would have looked unkempt. He looked haggard, and instead of coming over to her and making jokes, he seldom spoke. He began to arrive late for classes, so that even she, the perpetual latecomer, would arrive before him, and then he cancelled their revision session. The ever smooth, calm, cool Christian that she knew had become jumpy, nervous, and sullen. She wandered over to him as he packed his books up after class. She was back thinking about that day a few weeks ago when he had driven across town to help her, racing in the darkness against the rising sun.

  “Christian,” she tapped him.

  “Hey,” Christian gave her a warm smile. “Sorry, I have to go,” he said, “I'll see you tomorrow,” and he left faster than a shooting star.

  Harlow spent the rest of the day and night preoccupied with him. The one person she understood had become a mystery to her. She was saddened by the change that had come over him and spent days bothering all her friends with speculations on it. When the teacher called his name during the register one morning, Sarah, Mei, Sophia, and Harlow greeted the silence that followed with side-long glances at his empty chair and exchanged knowing looks. One day when he blew in late to class, a handsome clumsy tornado, his bag fell off his desk so that all its content were spilled across the floor, scattering to the four corners of the classroom. His bag was full of pamphlets, short leaflets of poems by Byron, Coleridge, William Blake, and Percy Byshe Shelley—Romantic poets. They each rushed to help him gather up his things. It was only Sophia who remained seated, looking disinterestedly away as if he weren't there.

  As Harlow picked up the pencil sharpener and the rubbers that had bounced to Mr. Stenhoffer's desk, she realised something. “It must be,” Harlow said aloud, standing up straight as though she had been jolted with lightning. “It must be,” she murmured, making all eyes turn on her. She faced the quizzical look of her classmates with a clarity of mind that she had never had before and placed the rubbers on his desk.

  That afternoon in the group study room, Harlow watched Christian take out textbooks from his bag, waiting for her moment.

  “Christian, what happened between you and Sophia?”

  Christian looked up in surprise. “Nothing.”

  “Really? Then why does she hate you?”

  He remained passive, “She doesn't.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “What makes you think she hates me?” he asked. “You know, just because she seems abrasive doesn't mean that she hates me.”

  “It kind of does,” Harlow said.

  “People aren't always that straight-forward,” Christian replied knowingly. “I don't think she has much hate in her at all,” he said.

  Harlow remained quiet, studying him carefully.

  “She's actually a very caring person.” Christian moved over to the window. “She just doesn't show it,” he muttered, returning to the table abruptly.

  “Maybe she likes you,” Harlow looked over at him.

  “Shall we get started then?” Christian asked. “I have to leave early. Mei and Patrick can catch up when they get here.”

  Harlow nodded taking her books out one by one. “Where you going?” she asked.

  “Work,” he said.

  “Who?” She started pawing through her bag. It was as if her ears had been stuffed with cotton. Christian's mouth moved but no words came out, time seemed to slow down. Harlow was filled with horror. “Oh no! No! No! No!” she shouted, pushing the things in her bag aside. “Come on!” she said, angrily slamming her palm on the desk.

  “What's wrong?” Christian asked.

  Harlow looked up at him desperately. “Nothing, I lost something. Listen, I have to go,” she said, hurriedly shoving the books that lay on the desk back into the chasm of her bag. She rushed to the door and he followed her, opening it for her to leave.

  “Hey, wait, maybe I can help you look for it? My sister loses earrings all the time. Honestly, I'm like a sniffer dog.”

  She seemed unconvinced, clutching the door handle.

  “Let me help,” Christian pleaded.

  “It's nothing.” She said.

  “What does it look like?”

  Harlow cut him off, “Thanks, but I think I know where it is.”

  “Where are you going?” Christian called after her as she ran off. “Sssh,” the librarian chastised as Harlow ran past.

  Harlow found herself in the common room again amongst the plush brown leather sofas and oak-panelled walls. He was there just as she had hoped. Roberto looked up from the sofa, placing his book just out of sight before she could get a good look.

  “Twice in one day?” he asked with a smile. “You miss me that much?”

  Harlow shrugged. “Did you?” pausing, she considered how to put it. “What are you reading?” she asked. There was so much intensity in the question that it made her tense up, dreading the answer.

  Roberto subtly pushed the book further back, toward the back of the sofa, so that she couldn't see what it was. “The same thing I read every day,” he said. “A manual on how to take over the world.”

  Silence.

  “Pinky and the Brain,” Roberto explained when she didn't laugh. “No, ok,” he followed Harlow's gaze to where the book lay.

  “Can I see it?” she asked.

  “It's private,” Roberto said uncomfortably.

  “A private book?” she considered aloud. “Where did you get it?” she asked.

  “What's with the inquisition?” he replied. “Do I have to pass my reading material through you now? Are you the school censor?” His tone was playful.

  It made her angry. Everything is a joke to him. “Just give it back?” she cried in irritation, reaching down to snatch it. The book was under his coat just out of grasp.

  Roberto got up, lifting the book with his coat. “What's your problem?” he asked and then stormed off. Harlow tried to follow but lost him in the crowded corridors.

  Since her grandfather's death, Harlow had tried to spend every weekend at her grandparent's house. On Saturday afternoon, before lunch, she went for a walk with her grandmother.

  “When you get to my age, exercise is important. If I sit too long, my joints just seize up.”

  Harlow laughed, “Oh no.”

  “It's nothing that a good walk won't fix,” her grandmother reassured her. “So dear, how’s school?”

  “Okay, I guess, I'm just preparing for the exams.”

  “I thought they were months away.”

  “You can never start too early,” Harlow said.

  Julia chuckled.

  “My friends and I have a study group we meet twice a week to revise.”

  “That's my girl.”

  “Christian is great with maths, so it's really helpful. He teaches me equations and I help him with French and science.”

  “Christian?”

  “Christian Ribeiro, one of the boys in my class. He's on a scholarship.”

  “Oh, the boy in the school newsletter, ten A stars at GCSE.”

  Harlow nodded, “Yes, that's him.”

  “I think your grandfather knew him.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, if it's the same one I'm thinkin
g of.”

  There's only one in the school.”

  “He seems nice. Are you two…?”

  “No, grandma,” Harlow said blushing.

  “But you like him?”

  “He's completely oblivious to me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No reason. We're just friends. He's crazy about Sophia, you know that girl I told you about.”

  Her grandmother appeared mystified.

  “The superstar, the singer from Colombia.”

  “Ah, the one that gave up her career to become a school prefect. Now that's dedication to academia. Hmm, that's a tough one. Well, if what you're saying is true and he's crazy about this girl, it's not the end of the world. You'll find somebody who sees exactly how wonderful you are.”

  “Do you think so?” Harlow asked doubtfully.

  “I know so.” Just then her grandmother smiled.

  They wandered by the river under the warm beam of the afternoon sun and walked down the field on the other side of the bank, her grandparents’ house in the distance with its many windows like eyes watching them.

  “I always get the feeling that Christian wants to say something but doesn't have the courage to do it. Is that silly?”

  “Maybe he's shy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Poor boy, he's had an awfully rough time,” her grandmother commented.

  “What do you mean?” Harlow asked.

  “Your grandfather was on the school board when they gave Christian the scholarship. He said that he remembered reading about Christian's father in the papers when it all happened. He convinced the school board to give Christian the scholarship.”

  “When what happened?”

  “Christian's father was the Colombian Ambassador to Spain for a time. When he returned to Bogotá, he became more involved with domestic politics, proposing legislation, trying to make a real change to the country. He was on his way to work one day when his car exploded. They found bits of the device in the wreckage.”

  “A bomb?” Harlow asked startled.

  Her grandmother nodded grimly. “No one claimed responsibility. Everyone assumed it was the Farc. But Christian's father had a lot of enemies. He was a crusader. He took a very hard line on the drug lords. He tried to clamp down on drug trafficking and some people think the government was starting to listen to him. He wasn't a rich man, but he was very intelligent; he had a plan and a good heart. In the end, he wielded a lot of influence in government circles.”

  “So they killed him? That's awful.”

  “It was really terrible, I remember seeing it in the news.”

  “He's never said anything.”

  “Christian would have been a child when it happened. I expect he doesn't remember much about his father.”

  “We don't talk much now. He's always rushing off,” Harlow said as they made their way back down to the house, coming closer to the fragrant rose bushes outside the garden doors.

  Julia slid the glass doors open. “Lunch must be ready by now.”

  Chapter 9 - The Thing About Christian

  Christian rifled through his bag, pushing aside the book on the Spanish-American war and took out a notebook.

  Patrick leaned over, “I thought it would be pink and fluffy.”

  Christian laughed. “I don't think she's the type. She's very serious.”

  Patrick shrugged. “What did you find? Come on, the suspense is killing me.”

  “Me too,” he admitted.

  “You didn't read it?” Patrick asked in an exasperated tone. “I went to all that trouble to steal it and you didn't read it?”

  Christian flipped the red notebook over in his hands. “I didn't ask you to,” he said sheepishly.

  “Orrrrr,” Patrick said, “maybe you wanted this to happen. She won't know, just have a look, then you can have some peace once and for all.” He took the notebook and began to read, avoiding Christian who at first tried to snatch it back then sat down as if spellbound, as Patrick read:

  “September 28th – I stopped talking to Sophia/ liar whatever her name is. Our friendship is over. She's sided with Amy over this Roberto thing. I get that it's her brother but she clearly has no moral compass. He was in the wrong.”

  “October 1st – Had Maths today. It's the only thing that I'm actually good at.”

  He paused.

  “Christian seems a bit down. I think he's avoiding me. It's probably this Sophia thing. I have to find a way to fix the situation.”

  “Wow.” Patrick said, “That was mundane. God, what happened to the good old days of one-night stands and lesbian love affairs?”

  Christian recovered his senses and snatched the diary from Patrick, “Umm, it only happens in films,” Christian suggested. He sank back into the chair, into the desperation he had been immersed in for days. He held the diary close to him.

  “It's a book, dude, it's not her. Why don't you just ask her out?” Patrick suggested.

  “She wouldn't go out with me.” Christian replied miserably. “She's so perfect, you know.”

  “No,” Patrick said, “I don't. She's average, ok some days Harlow looks hot, but there are so many other girls out there.”

  “I want this one,” Christian admitted sadly. “I don't mind being friends but...”

  “That's where you're going wrong.” Patrick insisted, “You need to set the parameters straight away. Right now you're trapped in the friend zone. Harlow sees you as another one of her girlfriends. You have to break out man.”

  Christian interrupted his polemic, “She wants Roberto.” Christian continued, “The whole school knows, I was there.”

  “So who cares?” Patrick insisted. “Crushes are temporary.”

  Christian sat up, paying attention, “People change their minds all the time,” he said. “Harlow could change her mind. Roberto,” Christian almost spat the name.

  “What kind of name is that?” Patrick joined in, “Dude sounds like a fairy.”

  “I don't understand it, he treats people like dirt and they're all over him like white on rice,” Christian continued.

  “Give me more Roberto,” Patrick mimicked pretending to flick his hair. “Here, slap me, Roberto, I don't care. I love you, you're great. I love your accent, what are you, French? OMG!”

  “What does he do?” Christian asked, infuriated by Patrick's mimicry, the innuendo too close to truth. Christian wondered with gall why Harlow liked Roberto, why any of them did. Roberto seemed to be a perfect waste of time. “He's never worked a day in his life. I come to classes early to revise, work my ass off to get good grades, then do night shifts in a bar just to keep the lights on in my house. And he does nothing while they fall at his feet.” By they, he meant her.

  Patrick shook his head, “It's disgusting. This guy sits around combing his hair, taking the mick out of hard-working people and gets all the girls. It's not right,” Patrick said, his Irish accent rolling over the words. Christian placed the notebook back in his bag, continuing in irritation, “and all....why?” He searched for the answer, then not finding one, he announced, “Because he's French.”

  “Unbelievable,” Patrick muttered angrily, “half French, half Colombian, how could any man compete.”

  “It's not on,” Christian said, packing up his stuff. They left the private study room. Christian was filled with energy. “I've had enough,” Christian whispered as if to Roberto, a silent challenge. He recalled the image of Roberto sliding an arm around Harlow's waist in the hallway and then flashbacked to Harlow falling, humiliated, into the lake, and anger rose unbidden as they entered the main reading area.

  Sophia was hard at work practising the routine before sound check began. She moved gracefully in sync with the dancers behind her, twirling around right on cue. She loved the freedom of performing.

  “Ok, cue music in five.” The backing dancers behind her dissipated, breaking the circle formulation they had been in, running to their places at the edges of the stage. Sophia rema
ined at the front of the stage, only shifting her position slightly to clutch the microphone.

  “Three, two, one,” the stage manager Eric's voice bellowed before the music blasted out on all sides, soaring to the ceiling. “Fireworks, fireworks,” he said, but nothing happened as he had expected, vocally directing her and the others on what would happen at the actual concert. “Guitar,” he shouted, then Joe began the riff that made Sophia's song so distinct. Eric pointed straight at her with a tense nod. He was glad to have her back, without Sophia there was no show, she could see it written all over his face; sweet relief. This knowledge brought a smile to Sophia's face when she sang the first verse.

  Christian watched from the back of the crowd of dancers, technicians, personal assistants, and other staff that had gathered in the arena a few feet away from the stage. When Sophia finished her set he clapped the loudest. Despite his efforts when Sophia saw Christian her face fell in displeasure.

  “You again,” she said haughtily in Spanish, rushing past him as Ellie handed her a bottle of water. A small troop of people followed behind her. One handed her a towel; the other repeated the phone messages he had taken as Christian walked casually past the bodyguards to walk beside Sophia at the front of the troop. She nodded at the bodyguards to let Christian pass and they continued their conversation in Spanish:

  “You're really back on form,” Christian commented.

  “I've never been off,” Sophia said matter of factly.

  The troop left the arena, heading backstage at a near jog.

  Christian raised an eyebrow, “There were a few pitch problems,” he remarked.

  Sophia stopped abruptly at the door of her dressing room. “You can go,” she said, flicking her hand dismissively at the train of personal assistants, PR people, vocal coaches and bodyguards. The two of them entered the lavender-scented dressing room. “I didn't think you would come.”

  “I can't resist a free show,” Christian replied with an easy smile, going over to sit on the white couch.

  “So what's up, then?” Sophia went over to the costume rack and began removing the restrictive corset.