by Sonia Patel
“It felt good.” We smile at each other then tune back to the testimony being spoken.
Just did me.
I’m kinda astounded. The me I just did was sure of herself. She finished what she set out to do. What she wanted to do. What she believed in. Despite the stress of seeing someone who doesn’t have her back anymore. She was self-assured when it counted.
Wait a second.
Why am I surprised? I’ve had it in me all along. Except I didn’t make the connection.
Tonight MC Sutra handled my biz. And she’s not some different personality or some figment of my imagination. She is me. I am her.
BUT I LOVE YOU
The line for hot bread is longer than I’ve seen it in awhile. No one’s talking. The silence makes me notice the throbbing in my feet for the first time tonight. The restaurant was noisy and crazy busy. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there was someone there besides me and Mom. What I really should’ve done after closing, especially for the sake of my overtaxed feet, is gone straight home. Like Mom. And soak my feet or something. But I’m willing to take a little more pain because of what I’ll get. I’m thinking butter and cinnamon tonight.
My eyes drift up to the vibrant full moon. It’s practically flaming in the night sky. The beauty of it summons the animal in me. I get this urge to howl. I imagine throwing my head back and doing it when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around.
It’s Mark.
Oh-no.
Oh-yes.
I haven’t talked to Mark in a couple months. We’ve been incommunicado since Mom broke up with him for me. I think I’ve worked through most of my feelings about the rape. I think I’ve gotten over Mark, though I’ve maintained my self-imposed ban on guys. Not that it matters. It’s not like there are any guys lined up at my door. No guys pulling a Bob Marley Waiting in Vain.
But just like that, my guy hiatus is over. Because one look at Mark and this she-wolf is all Hungry Like the Wolf. Duran Duran to the max. He’s as virile as ever. Like he’s regained his normal muscle weight. I don’t see any sores or fresh burns. His teeth are pearly white. I can’t find any evidence of batu use on him.
He gives me a chin-up and says, “Hi there, Sutra.” The words roll off his tongue like LL Cool J’s permission to the girl in Jingling Baby.
I try to sound as casual as possible. “Mark. Oh hi.”
“Been awhile, huh?” He slides his hands into his baggy jeans. Then he smiles. The tingling feelings inside me awaken from their months of slumber.
“Yeah.” My face feels hot. I peel my eyes off him and force them to stay focused on my black-on-black high tops. The white soles and Adidas insignia seem to glow in the dark. I tug at my acid wash high-waisted denim shorts. I shift my stance.
“How’ve you been?” I think I hear tenderness in his voice. Or maybe that’s what I want to hear.
“Fine.” I don’t look up. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Just got out of rehab on Maui. Clean for over a month.”
I lift my head and smile. “Cool. I’m happy for you.” I’m not sure what else to say. So I stand there and fiddle with the bottom edge of my tank top. My glasses slip down. I don’t notice them perched precariously on the tip of my nose. Not until Mark reaches out and brings them into line. Our eyes link. Within seconds, the jumbled up parts of my brain about Mark—the parts that I’ve tried to bury—rise up from the depths of my hippocampus and frontal lobes. Like vampires in the depths of night, the neurons that still connect Mark to love, hurt, and feeling good about myself arise from their coffins. I’m flooded with memories of his charisma. And mesmerized by his drop-dead hotness.
It’s like all my hard work at staying sober from Mark-the-love-drug just went out the window.
So this is relapsing.
For a second I think about how easy it is to fool yourself into thinking you’re over something. And if you stay away from it, you may convince yourself that you’re completely over it. But when it’s staring you in the face, like a frosty beer to a recently sober alcoholic…
All Mark sees are my wide eyes and frozen mouth. Now he’s the wolf and I’m a deer caught in the headlights.
“Let’s get out of here, Rani.” He grabs my hand and draws me towards him. He presses his forehead into mine. I catch the familiar whiff of cigarettes and beer.
Clean? Doubtful. Don’t trust him. Don’t go with him.
Oh yum. That smell still turns me on.
Things are proceeding so fast that my rationality and emotions don’t have a chance to find common ground.
My emotions triumph over my rationality.
“Ok,” I say. I forget my hot bread zeal. Instead, I fall into a Mark fervor. We hop into his truck. Driving west out of town, he pumps his stereo. Chubb Rock’s Treat ‘Em Right is on blast. I’m hoping Mark’ll take a hint.
There aren’t any other cars on the road when he turns right on Kala’e Highway. My eyes drift down and left. I keep tabs on his right hand. I see it meandering towards my thigh. I’m pretty sure he can feel the heat radiating off my body. By now I’m almost feverish with desire. I can’t resist capturing his wandering hand. I position it in its proper location on my upper thigh. Where it always used to be when we drove.
Guess it’s true. Old habits die hard.
He slides his hand under the frayed leg opening of my shorts. I exhale slow and heavy. Just as his fingers reach my thigh crease, we pull into the Kalaupapa lookout parking lot. He jerks his hand away because he has to use both hands to crank the steering wheel. He barely makes the turn to avoid crashing into the metal fence along the edge of the lot. He slows the truck down. Then he catches his breath and parks. I don’t see any other cars or people around.
I haven’t taken a sip of alcohol, but I’m feeling high off the unexpected thrill of what’s happening. Plus I’m not thinking straight. In fact, I’m not thinking at all. I’m just going with it. Just following his lead. My old Mark brain pathways are operating full throttle and I’m on automatic pilot. I want to do whatever with Mark. Let him do whatever to me.
He opens my door and before I can climb out, he thrusts one hand under my knees and one behind my back. He lifts me out. He slams the door shut with his leg. He carries me across the well-lit parking lot to the dark edge of the forest. Then he steps onto the narrow pine needle covered trail. There aren’t any lights on the path. I can’t see a thing. Somehow he avoids the protruding tree roots that I know jut out all over the place.
When we reach the bench next to the lookout, he lowers me down gently. We sit side-by-side. I’m ready to go at it. I lean in to kiss him. But he stops me. And I’m confused because I thought that’s why he brought me here.
Nope.
He wants to talk first.
“Rani, baby, I’m so sorry for everything.”
“It’s ok,” I say. I get up and straddle him. I throw my arms around his neck.
This is what he wants. I want to make him feel good. Then I’ll feel good.
Running my fingers through his hair, I try to kiss him again. He turns his head to the side so my lips land on his ear. “Easy there, little lady,” he says. “I wanna tell you something first.”
“Ok.” I try to slow my breath. “I’m listening.”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes.” I attempt to kiss him again.
He dodges me. “Do you love me?” he whispers into my ear.
“Yes.” I kiss his cheek.
He kisses my forehead. Then my nose.
Finally!
“There’s something else,” he says. He kisses my lips. My chin. My neck.
“What?” I manage to say, my voice breathy.
He kisses my neck again.
“There’s a girl on Maui,” he whispers.
As soon as he says that, it’s as if someone threw ice cold water in my face. Like someone put a “t” in front of t
he “h” in horny. “What?” I back up and off his lap. I take a few steps away from him. He jumps up and puts his arms around me. I start to ask him about it again but before I get the words out, his tongue’s in my mouth. I tear my mouth away. “Wait a minute, what?”
He runs his hands up and down my back and says, “She’s pregnant. It was a one-night thing. But I gotta take care of my mistake. I’m moving in with her.” By now his hand is on my okole. “Rani, I don’t love her. I love you. I want to work it out with you.” And with that he pulls me to the ground. Now I’m lying on top of him. He kisses me hard. At this point, I’m all mixed up.
Still it feels familiar.
Love = Hurt.
His hand slips under my tank top.
Dad’s love = Repeated hurt.
He deftly unhooks my bra.
Mark’s love = Repeated hurt.
His hand veers down. “Rani baby, sorry I keep messing up. I have to help her. But I want you.”
And the chaos makes my mind take its usual leap into the chasm of worthlessness. Even though I thought I’d sealed it up for good over the last couple of months.
They hurt me because they’re damaged. They hurt me because I let them.
He shoves his hands under the waistband of my shorts.
They hurt me because I deserve it. They hurt me because I’m worthless.
“You should come live with us on Maui,” he whispers. Then his mouth becomes a leech on my neck. His words, and what his mouth is doing to me, extract my Dad-memories from the deepest recesses of my brain. Those old sick recollections are pulled out and thrown into the current turmoil with Mark.
What’s happening now is the same chaos I’m used to. It’s what I’ve grown up with.
I’m at a crossroad. Because it would be so easy to take the path of least resistance and do what Mark wants me to do.
Then Mark yanks my shorts and panties. Before I know it, they’re down at my knees.
Dad is happening to me again.
That’s when my tangled thoughts start to become ordered.
It wasn’t me with the problem. It was Dad. It’s not me this time either. It’s Mark.
He’s sucking on my neck with such tenacity that it aches.
Stop trying to figure things out. Stop trying to make excuses for their unacceptable behavior. They abused me. Straight up, it was—is—wrong.
I mobilize all my strength, tear myself away from Mark. I pull up my shorts and panties. I start running.
And I don’t look back.
RIGHTEOUSNESS
Pono once told me that Native Hawaiians believe that rain is a blessing. Does heavier rain mean more blessing? I’ll have to ask him next time I see him. But I think it does. Because this torrential downpour keeps the customers away. And I get uninterrupted time under the porch roof to finish my epic bravado rap, “Revolution.” I even remember two lines I’d made up on the spot way back during the 4eva’ Flowin’ audition.
Bam!
And those two lines are now the sick hook to this rap. Three sweet verses and the hook, done. I close my notebook. I’m satisfied. I listen to the rain pelting the metal roof of our store.
I look over at the restaurant. No cars in front means no customers there either. And that means Mom’s getting some down time too. I’m glad. Things are so different for her now. In a good way. That’s when Love and War pops into my mind.
You’re finally free of his chains…
It’s amazing how much more this line means today than when I first wrote the rap. There are only a few weeks until graduation and my mom’s definitely free from his chains.
So am I—from many chains.
I’ve seen Dad around town with super preggo Wendy. I haven’t talked to him. He tried to contact me a few times but stopped after Mom reminded him that if he tried again, she’d call the cops.
I haven’t seen or talked to Mark in over two months. He moved to Maui to live with his baby mama just like he said he would.
Good riddance.
When I think about my dad saga—that repeated itself as my Mark saga—I mostly feel disgust. I shudder and shove the identical narratives from my mind.
I concentrate on the steady rain. I like steady. I know what to expect. I know how to handle it.
This is what steady means to me:
1. I study.
2. I work.
3. I talk to Mom.
4. I stay away from booze.
5. I’ve made friends with a couple of girls. Paula and Chantel. They’re in the environmental club with me at school and they seem nice. And drama free.
6. I keep it real with Omar and Pono.
Pono hasn’t let up on the one-on-one hanging out with me at school. I’ve kept my guard up though. My mind’s still been flip-flopping between he likes me and he likes me not. I can’t fathom how someone who went out with the splendid Emily Angara would ever go for someone like me. He’s probably already got his eye on another girl like Emily if she won’t take him back. I’m just trying to enjoy hanging out with him without overthinking it. Besides, it’s cool talking to him about college stuff, graduation, and our rhymes.
But then maybe two or three weeks ago, I started to feel more relaxed around Pono. And when his hand accidentally brushed mine—or he fixed my glasses on my face—I felt a few butterflies. And some chicken skin! Haven’t had those feelings since I left Mark at the lookout.
Last week I found the mixtape I’d made for his birthday back in November. The one I never got a chance to give him. I listened to it. By the time Salt-N-Pepa finished rapping Push It, my brain pushed my Pono crush back to the surface. My walls came down and I let myself bask in the glory of crushin’ on Pono. I’m not gonna tell him, but I think I’m ready to trust myself with feeling the crush, even if he isn’t feeling anything like that for me. I still have to give him the tape.
Yep, things are all G.
I yawn and stretch my arms. It doesn’t seem like the rain’s going to let up anytime soon. I watch it beat down on the ground. Its steady rhythm puts me in a trance. I yawn again. Drowsiness drags my eyelids down. I’m about to nod off when I hear the rumble of a truck. I open my eyes and lift my head. It’s Pono’s 4runner pulling into the store’s parking lot.
He bounds up the steps with his head down. He lands so hard that it jars the old wooden floorboards. Dripping with water, he grins at me.
“Hey, Rani,” he says, slicking his hair back to push the water off.
Time lags. Chaka Khan’s Ain’t Nobody plays in my mind’s boombox. Pono’s tilting his head back and I imagine that his eyes are closed. I delight in the beads of moisture on his smooth, dark skin and the way his white t-shirt clings to his well-built chest. Rain blessing number two.
“Rani. Hey,” he says again.
“Oh hey, Pono.” I blink my eyes and try to erase the silly expression off my face. “What’re you doing here?”
He sits down on the bench opposite me and leans back with his arms crossed. “Looking for you,” he says with his foxy smile.
I smile back. Normally, this time. “Hey, do you want a towel? You’re soaked.”
He nods.
In a flash I grab a towel from inside. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. Better.”
“What’s up?”
“On my way to work. Thought I’d stop by to say hi.”
“Cool. But you got all wet.”
“It’s ok. I’ve got extra clothes in the truck.” He wipes his legs with the towel. “It’s slow cuz of the rain, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m glad. Gave me time to finish my latest rap masterpiece.”
“And? What’s it about?”
“Oh, it’s another bravado rap. For the next 4eva Flowin’ jam.”
“Awesome! Can’t wait to hear it. I’m still working on mine.”
“What’s yours about?”
“Shit,” he mumbles under his breath. He looks away, laughing nervously. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
&n
bsp; “I promise.” I cross my heart and put my hands together in prayer.
He’s still looking away. “It’s about a girl.”
I sit up taller and cover my mouth with my hands in surprise. I’m sort of disappointed. Tilting forward I say, “Oh. Hmmm. A hypothetical girl of your dreams, or…a real girl?”
He stalls. His face gets a little red. He takes off his slippers and wipes the water from his feet. “A real girl.” He keeps his eyes on the floorboards.
“What?” I cup my hand behind my ear and angle my head towards him. “I didn’t hear you,” I say.
He shakes his down-turned head, then mutters, “A real girl.”
“Ohh. Hmmm. I wonder who she is…”
He shrugs. “You’ll never guess.”
“Does she go to our school?”
“Yes.”
“Is she a senior?”
“Yes.”
I stand up and pace across the porch. I cross my arms over my chest and run through all the senior girls at our school that I think he might like. “Give me another hint.”
“She’s super smart,” he says with a slight smile.
“Paula?” I guess.
“No.”
“What else?”
“She’s funny.”
“Richelle?”
“Nope. She’s sweet.”
“Rayna?”
“A’ole. She’s beautiful.”
“Crystal?”
“No!” he exclaims. He cracks up.
I don’t really like this game and want it to end. “Ok, so Pono and blank, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…”
“Real mature, Rani.”
“Yep. Didn’t I tell you? Mature’s my middle name,” I say, sitting back down on the bench. Now the steady rain just irritates me.
“Ha ha ha.”
“Come on. I’m tired of guessing.”
“She’s got killer taste in music.”
“Chantel?”
“No.”
“Ok. Come on, I give up.”
“She raps.”
My eyes widen and I hold my breath.