The instant Kyle drains the glass, a silver tray containing two new pink drinks appears practically out of thin air. Man, this place is unbelievable. Before we can even thank that waiter, along comes another waiter with a tray of appetizers, some lovely thing I don’t even recognize—yellow and green and white piled on a cracker. We each take a couple. It’s then, when I notice Kyle’s hand shaking as he lifts a cracker to his mouth, that I realize he’s nervous too, no matter how cool he may seem. And frankly, that makes my own hand shake.
“I’ve got to go back and trade spots with Roo,” I inform him. “We decided it’s less suspicious that way. Hopefully she’ll come along soon.” I poke my chin upward, at Vivi.
Kyle nods again, barely acknowledging my existence as he stares at Vivi with that familiar Big Thoughts look on his face.
“Hey, Kyle,” I say, wanting some kind of reassurance from him before I go, “do you really think this whole bathroom plan is going to work?”
“Absolutely!” Kyle says, finally looking at me but still not seeing my dress.
Kyle’s bold Absolutely! echoes in my mind for a while, but by my third shift waiting for Vivi, I think he’s very, very wrong. Tons of ladies have come and gone and come and gone while I’ve been waiting in here, but not Vivi. Never Vivi. Meanwhile, whenever Roo’s in the ladies’ lounge and I’m on the outside, I see Vivi on this or that balcony, frowning and drinking and laughing and pronouncing, always surrounded by people. It’s maddening! I’m really starting to wonder how we convinced ourselves we’d definitely cross paths with her in the bathroom. It makes me feel like we’re just three dumb kids in way over our heads.
Suddenly a gong sounds out over all of La Lava—a long, deep, rich note that hovers in your ears for a moment afterward.
“Good lord, what’s that?” a lady washing her hands asks her friend. She’s swaying in a funny way, as though she can’t remember how to stand up straight.
Like most of the women who’ve passed through the lounge while I’ve been waiting, these two don’t actually seem to realize I’m here. Once in a while a lady—usually an older one—will give me a quick smile and compliment my skin. But mainly they just ignore me while I sit at my post on the golden bench. It almost makes me feel as though I have the superpower of invisibility. Or maybe a normal-looking American girl is just no big deal to anybody.
“The dinnertime gong,” the friend says. “At least, that’s what that sexy bartender told me.”
“Dinnertime!” she gulps, clinging to the edge of the sink. “But I am so smashed!”
Dinnertime. The word makes me go cold all over. Already? My heart deflates. What do we do now? I knew this wasn’t going to work. Didn’t I say this wasn’t going to work?
For the next ten minutes there’s a big rush of women to the ladies’ lounge, everybody emptying their bladders before going to their tables, and I sit there invisible as ever while the dinner gong sounds a second time, then a third, wondering what I should do—give up, leave the lounge, find our table, make a face at Roo and Kyle to tell them I didn’t manage to get the letter to Vivi, acknowledge that I’ve failed Dad, failed Miss Perfect, failed everyone?
The frosted glass door swings shut on an extra-noisy group of women, leaving the bathroom quiet and empty, and I’m slowly, despairingly standing up from the golden bench, when who should come in but Patricia Chevalier in her wine-red dress … followed by Vivi in her grass-green dress. Vivi! At last! But then I freeze. I can’t do or say anything with Patricia Chevalier watching! I panic and dart into the third stall before they notice me.
“Twenty-one,” Vivi is saying in her low voice. “Twenty-one, Patricia.” She pronounces Patricia the right way, with a Spanish accent, and I decide that Patricia is actually a very beautiful name. “Thirty-eight years old playing a twenty-one-year-old. It’s a fabulous role. But this could be extremely embarrassing.”
“You look exceptionally young for your age.” It must be Patricia Chevalier who’s speaking, but she sounds so timid that I barely recognize her voice.
“Not twenty-one young,” Vivi says, “and please, I don’t want your flattery; I just want your treatment.”
“I am very, very sorry,” the nervous version of Patricia Chevalier says. “There has been a bit of a delay but it will be ready tomorrow by noon. I absolutely promise.”
And I’m going: Wow, how can she be making that promise? As far as Patricia Chevalier knows, there’s not another LTVT on the entire planet!
“I’ve been waiting a week,” Vivi says, the growl swelling up in her voice. “Esperado, y esperado, y esperado,” she adds, whatever that means. If only Roo were here to translate!
Patricia Chevalier murmurs something I can’t make out, maybe because it’s Spanish or maybe because of her fearful voice or maybe both.
“I don’t wait, okay,” Vivi says, her voice getting deeper. “I don’t wait, Patricia.”
Patricia Chevalier’s response is lost in the sound of them locking the doors of their stalls.
A strange, paralyzed feeling comes over me as I realize that this is my moment. I wish more than anything it were Roo on duty right now. She’d be totally fine. She wouldn’t be standing here suddenly unable to move.
But then I think of Dad. Of that time we talked to him up there in the jungle, when we were in the pit, and I knew how worried he was, even though he was pretending not to be. I just have to pretend I’m not scared. I gather myself up and tell myself, Here goes!, exclamation point and all, forcing my legs into motion.
I open my stall and pull the letter out from where I stuck it when Roo and I last swapped. Stepping toe-heel, toe-heel—the quietest way to walk, as Dad taught us when we were little—I go stand across from their stalls and look down at their feet.
And I freeze.
Whose shoes are whose?
One set of feet is in a pair of black stiletto heels. The other set of feet is in a pair of simpler, lower, tan-colored heels. Both sets of ankles are slender and tanned. Both dresses are pulled up too high for me to see their color.
I have to get this right. It is so insanely important that I get this right.
Okay, okay, stay calm, I tell myself. Let’s think this through. Vivi is a movie star, so wouldn’t she wear super-high, super-fancy stilettos? Isn’t that what movie stars do? But then again, Vivi is so famous she can do whatever she wants, and maybe she doesn’t want to wear uncomfortable shoes, even if they are glamorous. And the tan shoes are pretty, in their own way. Patricia Chevalier, though, seems like the kind of woman who wouldn’t mind being uncomfortable if it meant she got to appear extra glamorous, plus I’ve only seen her in stilettos. But she is also more of a normal person who might own more normal tan-colored heels. And she has to do lots of running around and hostessing tonight, so maybe she wouldn’t choose to wear those impractical stilettos.
I don’t know. And I don’t have much time.
My heart is banging, my fingers shaking. My whole body feels terrified and thrilled. I try to ignore the feeling that this isn’t going to work as I reach my hand under the stall with the tan shoes and hold out the letter.
“Ah!” The woman releases a brief, startled gasp. I can’t tell whose voice it is just from that gasp. And I’ve already made my decision anyway—I have to stick with it.
I wiggle the letter, begging Tan Shoes to take it from me.
A hand reaches out to snatch it.
Then, before anyone gets the chance to see me, I dash out the frosted glass door and head down the marble steps toward the dining area, breathing hard, my blood buzzing through me.
CHAPTER 18
It takes some searching but eventually I find the table in the outside dining area where Roo, Kyle, Mom, Ken/Neth, Señora V, and Señor V are seated. There’s an empty chair for me between Kyle and Roo. And boy, can I just say that after being stuck alone among all those bizarro rich ladies it is really nice to see some familiar faces, even Ken/Neth’s. They’re all looking at me and smiling, and I
feel lots of love enveloping me as I sit down. I glance at Kyle and Roo, who are staring at me with these expectant, forced grins, like they’re dying to know if I succeeded but they’ll try to not be totally devastated if I failed. I give them a small victorious nod, a nod so small no one else would notice, and then their smiles relax and become genuine, and in my mind I pretend I did hand the letter to Vivi, ignoring the fact that it’s possible I’ve failed big-time, that I’ve done worse than the opposite of succeeding—that Patricia Chevalier is reading my letter right this second and learning every single detail of our plan for tonight. I just swallow that thought and smile back at them as if everything is perfect.
“Mad! I didn’t know where you were!” Mom exclaims with a vast Yoga Smile.
“In the bathroom,” I mumble.
“Oh, doesn’t their hand soap have the most uplifting fragrance?” Mom says. If she weren’t yogafied, she’d be asking me what took so long and if I’m feeling okay. But I guess it’s just as well, because I don’t know what I’d say to that.
Anyway, the gong saves me from having to respond to Mom’s silly question, and a bunch of waiters deliver avocado and papaya salads all at once. As we unfold our napkins and begin eating, we fall into awkward silence. How can it be this awkward to sit at a dinner table with my sister, my mom, and my best friend (because now it really feels 110 percent true that Kyle is obviously my best friend aside from Roo—who knows if I’m his best friend, but he definitely is mine), not to mention Ken/Neth “I’m Friendly” Candy, plus the most interesting old people I’ve ever met?
I try to just sit there enjoying the sight of all these people I love (well, in one case, only sort of sometimes like). They look so radiant in the candlelight, lifting their forks and buttering their rolls and sipping their drinks, and I tell myself I was right about the tan shoes and everything is going to work out and we aren’t in danger.
And I try not to be mad and sad that Dad isn’t here at this table with us. I wonder where he is right now. Up on the volcano, still searching for a bird? Trapped in that white marble room?
The awkward silence continues, everybody thinking private thoughts, I guess. Señora V and Señor V look wonderful—Señora V in a dark purple dress and an extra-lacy black veil, a golden handkerchief replacing the typical orange one in the pocket of Señor V’s white suit—but they seem distracted, even more anxious than they were yesterday, glancing apprehensively at each other and then gazing off into the distance. I twist around to see what it is they’re looking at and am struck by what’s there. The volcano. Of course.
A dark feeling seizes me and I wonder if I’ve been directing my fear toward the wrong threat. There may be bigger things to be scared of tonight than La Lava. The volcano is starting to seriously smoke. It’s coming out in huge swelling yellow clumps, which is by far the most dramatic it’s been since we arrived.
ONCE THE LAST BIRD DIES, THE VOLCANO WILL BLOW. The words push their way into my head as yet another billow of smoke rushes upward. And I think of Miss Perfect, limp and weak in Roo’s pouch. Is she the last bird? Are the volcano stories true? Does the volcano have reason to believe the last bird is about to die?
I twist back around, hoping to meet Kyle’s eyes to see if he’s noticed the volcano, but he’s staring solemnly at a piece of papaya on his fork. So I look over at Roo to see if she’s noticed, but she’s looking off in the opposite direction, up toward one of the tables closest to the stage—a table with a bouquet larger than any of the others. A woman in a grass-green dress and a woman in a wine-red dress sit at that table, their backs to us.
I stare at Vivi’s back, trying to figure out if it’s the back of someone who’s just read a life-changing—well, if not life-changing, at least very important—letter. But it’s impossible to tell. Her back is strong and hard. And when Vivi turns to say something to Patricia Chevalier, I see the profile of her face. She looks like her normal icequeen self, and my stomach sinks.
Suddenly I feel absolutely positive that I gave the letter to Patricia Chevalier.
Meanwhile, our table continues to be stuck in silence, and man, would I ever like to have some normal chatter to hide beneath. It’s Ken/Neth who finally rescues us by asking Kyle a question about Spanish grammar, something about how to use articles. I never thought I’d be this grateful for Señor All-Friendliness-All-the-Time. Kyle—who looks even more like he’s drowning in his tuxedo when he’s sitting down—has an excellent answer, I’m sure, but I wouldn’t know because I tune it out and instead focus all my energy on Vivi, willing her to turn around, look at me, and blink three times, as instructed in my letter.
Beside me Roo wiggles restlessly in her seat, and I turn my attention to her.
“You okay?” I mutter under Kyle’s little Spanish-grammar speech.
Roo looks at me, wide-eyed and—I realize—scared, then gives a tiny shrug, staring meaningfully down at the place under her skirt where Miss Perfect is attached, and lets her neck go limp for a second.
Oh no! Miss Perfect, fading fast beneath Roo’s dress! But I can’t waste another second on Roo and Miss Perfect—I know Roo can take care of Miss Perfect (far better than I can, at least), plus I have to keep my eyes on Vivi and hope for a sign from her.
The gong sounds and the salad plates are cleared. Then it sounds again, and the entrées are served. If I weren’t totally focused on Vivi, I’d fall in love with tilapia in mango sauce, something I’ve (obviously) never had before. But I can’t really enjoy the food, because I’m so super nervous, and because I’m so busy staring at her with all my might.
I notice that yet another awkward silence has fallen over our table. I wish I could say something casual to break the silence, but the weight of all the secrets I have to keep hangs too heavily over me.
Then Ken/Neth saves the day yet again by asking Kyle about the life span of jungle frogs. After Kyle gives a very detailed response, Ken/Neth launches into some funny stories about the problems the La Lava management has encountered in trying to keep the resort pristine (in the mornings they have to chase monkeys away from the pools, because the monkeys like to sit there staring at their reflections, and if the monkeys are feeling aggressive they’ll try to pee on whoever’s shooing them away). I pretty much tune it all out—except for that funny thing about the monkeys—because I’m still looking at Vivi like there’s no tomorrow. It’s nice to have a bit of chatter going on at the table. It makes me feel more hidden as I stare at Vivi.
I’m getting very, very close to giving up on Vivi when Mom says with a sigh, “Oh, girls, my beautiful, beautiful girls, I wish your father could see you right now.” She almost chokes on those words, your father—I hear them getting snagged in her throat—and for a second I wonder why I find that statement so incredibly creepy, until I realize it’s because Mom sounded like she was talking about someone who was dead.
Somehow that feeling of creepiness makes me want to believe even more that Vivi got my letter, and I stare at her twice as hard as before, if that’s even possible.
I stare as the waiters move among the tables, clearing dinner plates. And I stare as the gong sounds again and the waiters wheel out golden carts piled high with desserts.
“Coconut flan with lime foam?” Roo repeats after a waiter announces the dessert, first in Spanish and then in English. “YAY, YAY, YAY!” I honestly can’t tell if Roo is playing the role of Excited Innocent Little Girl At Big Party or if she’s truly able to get excited about dessert even with everything that’s going on.
Ken/Neth asks Kyle another question—this one about poisonous snakes. Amazingly, Ken/Neth seems fascinated by all the million things Kyle has to say on the topic, and Kyle responds energetically to Ken/Neth’s in-depth inquiries. As with Roo, I’m not sure if Kyle is pretending to be the passionate teenage naturalist or if he’s genuinely getting swept up in his conversation with Ken/Neth. Either Roo and Kyle are phenomenal actors or they know how to compartmentalize their fear big-time. Jeez, I have a lot to learn from
those two. But now’s not the time to learn it, because I’m keeping most of my focus on Vivi, whose back still looks just as perfect and serene as it has this whole time.
The band is winding down, the last notes of a slow, romantic song washing away into the violet evening. The band members in their white tuxedos leave the stage and the only music now is the sound of forks clinking against golden dessert plates. The gleaming dance floor stretches out from the raised stage, reflecting the rising moon.
The gong sounds yet again and now there’s new activity on the stage: Patricia Chevalier is walking up the stairs that lead to the elevated platform, followed by five men in dark tuxedos. I strain to catch a glimpse of her shoes as she steps upward, but her dress is too long. She marches over to the microphone while the men sit in five chairs that have been placed in a row behind her.
But as they all take their seats, it strikes me that one of the tuxedoed men is very familiar. And then I realize that it’s Dad! He was paraded out right in the middle of those other guys. I look around and notice a table on the opposite side of the dining area with five now-empty seats. And my stomach goes all funny from the strangeness of it. He’s been there all along, sitting at that table, while we’ve been over here missing him? And why is La Lava putting their prisoner on the stage, in a tuxedo no less? It’s really, really, really weird to see Dad in a tuxedo. He’s not even wearing a tuxedo in his wedding photos! I glance at Roo and Kyle, who are grinning at the sight of the Bird Guy.
It takes me a second to realize what’s actually weird, way weirder than seeing Dad in a tuxedo: What really makes him unrecognizable is that he looks happy and peaceful and calm. I haven’t seen him so happy and peaceful and calm since he left Denver. Happy and peaceful and calm even though he’s sitting on the stage that belongs to the people who are holding him hostage and threatening his wife and daughters. Happy and peaceful and calm even though Volcán Pájaro de Lava is billowing smoke on the horizon.
Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green Page 21