Under the Bali Moon

by Grace Octavia

  “Sure won’t, Boss Lady,” Malak confirmed solidly.

  The friends laughed, and Zena made her way through the joyous, drunken crowd of now-smiling professionals. Zena recognized a guy she’d met on a dating website standing by the bar with a beer in his hand. His white business shirt was unbuttoned to his chest; opposing ends of an open tie flanked each shoulder. Men and women who looked as if they must be his colleagues stood laughing at something he’d just said. When he saw Zena, he waved, but she turned her head, pressed her cold cell phone to her ear to pretend to be on a call and padded quickly toward the door.

  Outside Margartia Town, Zena found a place on the curb beside a skinny and stylish East Indian couple smoking cigarettes and dialed Zola’s number. Beneath the amber glow of an oversize blow-up margarita glass filled with plastic golden liquid, she pressed the phone to her ear again, crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at the couple in heightened disgust at their activity. While the early-summer afternoon heat had cleared with the sunset, it was still too hot and muggy outside in Georgia to withstand the stale, dry air of cigarette smoke. Just when Zena was about to mention the local ordinance banning smoking in the private dining zone, Zola answered.

  “Zeeeennnaaaa!” Zola squealed into the phone so loudly Zena winced and pulled the receiver back from her ear. There was a brazen exuberance and cheeriness to Zola’s voice. She sounded like a pregame high school cheerleader, eager and enthusiastic, but decidedly so. Determinedly so. The voice was simply the calling card of everything else about the little sister on the other end of the phone. She was the metaphor of a smile. Anxiously happy. Not only was her glass always half-full, but it was also filled with sugary pink lemonade and she was all too excited to share with everyone else. But that was how she’d decided to be; how Zola made herself function.

  As the sisters exchanged common salutations filled with updates and weather predictions, Zena relaxed in the comfort of her sister’s arbitrary joyfulness. There was always something about the sweet spirit in Zola that calmed and loosened the uptight and upright spirit in Zena.

  “I was actually surprised we won,” Zena acknowledged on the tail end of a summary about her adventure in the courtroom closing Priest Rayland’s case. “Of course, we had enough evidence stacked against that fool to make it impossible for the jury to rule in his favor, but you just never know these days. I used to expect the jury to rule based upon facts, but it’s really all emotion. All feeling. You’ll see.” Zena inhaled deeply as the couple departed after taking their final puffs. “Enough about me. What’s up with you? How’s studying going for my future partner?” Zena’s voice was wrapped in giddiness then.

  Just two weeks ago, Zena was in Washington, DC, for Zola’s law school graduation at Howard. Though Zola originally planned to move to New York City to pursue her dream of being a fashion critic after undergrad, with much prodding and planning and some strings pulled by Zena, Zola attended her big sister’s law school alma mater, graduated with decent marks, and now it was just a matter of getting Zola to pass the Georgia Bar Exam before she’d be the newest addition to Z. Shaw Law, soon to be Z. and Z. Shaw Law.

  “Um...it’s going fine,” Zola let out with a marked zip in her zeal. “Okay, I guess... It’s cool—”

  Zena cut in, ready to inspire, ready to employ the swift hand of big sister judgment that had already decided that Zola wasn’t living up to her potential. She needed to let Zola know this slacking was dangerous. She needed to inspire Zola to do better. And this was the way things had always been between the sisters.

  “You don’t sound like it’s ‘cool.’ Come on, Zola. Don’t drop the ball now. You can do this. I’m paying your bills, so you don’t have to work. All you have to do every day is study. You know how many people wish they had that privilege? I know I did.”

  Sounding diminished, Zola started, “I know. I know—but—”

  Zena cut her off again, though. “Look, you’re smart. You can do this. You have to focus. Focus and don’t accept mediocrity. I keep telling you that.”

  “I know I can do it, Zena, but that’s what I’m calling to talk to you about—I don’t think I want to do it right now.”

  “What? What do you mean ‘want’?” Zena’s face contorted into something that looked like an angered question mark. She looked at the phone as if Zola could see her cold stare. As she had all of those times in the past, Zena felt she just needed to find the right words of encouragement to entice Zola to change her view. Should she be stern or sensitive? What would work best at such a crossroads just shy of eight weeks before the July Georgia Bar Exam?

  “This isn’t about your clock, Zola. It’s not about whether now is the time for you. Now is the only time. You have to take the Bar. You have to take it this summer.”

  There was silence then—the kind that signifies that there’s more information coming.

  “Wait, didn’t your text say you had news?” Zena recalled. “Is that what this is about? What’s going on?” Images depicting a reel of disaster rolled through Zena’s mind—Zola had already run off to New York to dance in hip-hop music videos; she’d used all the money Zena had been giving her for rent to pay for a secret drug habit; she hadn’t even started studying; she was preg— “Are you preg—?”

  Zola stopped her sister’s stream of dark thoughts with a soft and mousy revelation: “Alton asked me to elope. That’s what I’ve been trying to get out. That’s why I’ve been calling you all day. We decided to just do it—to just get married. Now.” Zola was referring to her recent status as the fiancée of Alton Douglass, her childhood sweetheart and long-term boyfriend, who’d just popped the question at Zola’s graduation in DC. While Zena wasn’t exactly hip to the idea of Alton and Zola getting married right when Zola was about to really start her career, as she watched her baby sister cry when Alton slid the stoneless silver ring he’d called “antique” onto Zola’s finger, Zena was reconciled knowing that it would be at least one year before there was even a discussion about a wedding. By then, Zola would be back in Atlanta, have passed the Bar Exam and be a practicing attorney.

  “Zena? Zena? You there?” Zola called after a long pause.

  “Yes. I am.” Zena’s words were void of emotion but somehow also overly laden with something else.

  “So?” Zola paused awkwardly. “What do you think? No big wedding. We’re just going to do it. Get married and start living our lives. It’s a smart decision—right?”

  Though there was the common glee in Zola’s tone, there was a stiffness there now, too—a covering used to veil her joy in some way. To protect it.

  Zena could sense all of this.

  Zena began pacing in small circles, subconsciously reaffirming the existence of her environment as she prepared to quiz Zola. She felt as if she was being sucked away. As if the smoking couple had returned and lit up new cigarettes to steal her air.

  She looked back up at the oversize plastic margarita glass hovering over her. It was glowy and amber. Happy. This was her happy place.

  She wished Malak was outside Margarita Town standing beside her to hear this. She’d put Zola on speaker and have her best friend there to share her disbelief, confirm this horrible mistake Zola was about to make. A mistake Zena would have to clean up. The thing was, Zena had been protecting her baby sister for so long, there was no way she would let anything like that happen. She loved Zola so much, and she’d gotten her so far. They were almost there—almost at the finish line.

  “Well did you tell Mommy and Daddy? What did they say about this?” Zena asked.

  “Daddy’s too busy with whatever up in New York. And Mommy loves Alton, of course. Who doesn’t love Alton?” The adoration in Zola’s voice was so absolute Zena imagined that Alton must be standing right beside her, listening in and probably laughing at Zena’s reaction. Maybe Zena was the one on speakerphone.

  “Of course ev
eryone loves Alton,” Zena said with years of knowing and, yes, loving sweet and kind Alton, Zola’s spiritual twin, laced in her words. While Zena, at fifteen, was nearly in love with the mere vision of Alton’s older brother, Adan, Alton was actually like a little brother to Zena.

  “All of this seems so sudden. Like, who’s going to pay for all of this?”

  “Really, Z? I can’t believe you asked me that. I say I’m getting married and you ask who’s paying?”

  “It’s a perfectly reasonable question. I’ve been supporting you, and Alton isn’t exactly rolling in the dough.”

  “He’s a singer. That’s just how it goes when you’re just starting out. But he is getting money for his songwriting. And he’s about to sign a deal with a major label. We just have to hold out.”

  “Sure, ‘hold out,’” Zena shot nastily, though she hadn’t intended on sounding so awful.

  “Z, I knew you wouldn’t take this well—especially since I’m supposed to be preparing and everything. But I at least thought you’d be excited. Like happy for me,” Zola said.

  “I am happy for you. It’s just—” Zena paused and looked at the inflated margarita glass again for inspiration. She needed to say the right thing, find the right words. She needed to support her sister. Be there for her sister. But how could she do that if she felt her sister was doing the wrong thing? Marriage? It wasn’t the right time. How could she support that? Be there for that? Didn’t support and being “there” for her sister mean telling the truth? Telling it like it is? Zena looked away from the margarita glass and let go of the idea of saying the right thing. She decided to say exactly what was on her mind. “What about your life...your future?” Zena let out, and she immediately hated every word she’d said. She sounded like their mother, like their grandmother.

  “My future?” Zola laughed at this assertion in a way that Zena hated. The statement and tone reeked of “my big sister is crazy and cold. She doesn’t get it.” Zola took to using the tone whenever Zena said something with which Zola found fault or could easily deconstruct. “Z, listen, Alton is my future. Not being an attorney. That’s just a job. I know how you feel about it—it’s your life—but that’s not how I see it.”

  Zola’s last sentence grated against something in Zena.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t go there.” Suddenly, Zena felt incredibly lonely standing out there in front of Margarita Town. Cold. Bare. Though no breeze had passed, she shuddered and turned to peek through the front window of Margarita Town to find Malak’s face. “I’m just trying to look out for you. You know? That’s all I’m doing. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

  “I know. And I love you for it. And I’m still taking the Bar Exam. Just not this year.”

  “What? Why not? It’s scheduled for July—that’s like eight weeks from now. You’ve been studying, right?”

  “Well, that’s kind of the other thing I wanted to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Alton is so excited about this whole thing—well, we both are—anyway, he really wants to do it right away. And I agree with him—I love him and I want to be his wife—sooner rather than later, of course,” Zola clattered out as if she was explaining this all to herself. “He wants to elope—now.”

  Again, Zena felt herself drifting away. What was happening?

  “So, we’re getting married in two weeks,” Zola went on, ignoring her sister’s silence.

  “Two? Two weeks? I thought you meant like six months—three at the very least. How are you going to get married in two weeks? And where are you going to get married in two weeks? That’s like impossible. Any decent place has a waiting list of like nine months. And please don’t tell me you two are going to the Justice of the Peace. And not Vegas!” Zena felt herself growing more aggravated, so she paused for a second before beginning again with less sharpness in her tone. “Listen, Zol, why are you doing this? Is there something you need to tell me? Are you pregnant?”

  “I can’t believe you just suggested that, but I already told you that I’m not pregnant. I’m just in love. And I’m not getting married in Vegas or at the courthouse. We’re going to do it in Bali. We’re getting married in Bali.”

  Zena could hear the smile return to Zola’s face as she went on revealing her plan. The wedding would be a small seaside ceremony. No audience. Only two witnesses in attendance. Zola wanted Zena to be there as her maid of honor. The second witness would be the best man: Alton’s older brother; Zena’s old flame... Adan.

  After more minutes of sibling emotional wrangling in the form of probing questions and slick statements, Zola was back in Margarita Town sitting across from Malak.

  “You knew? You knew? All this time, you knew they were eloping and you didn’t tell me?” Zena had shifted her interrogation to Malak, who sat there buzzing from her second big blue margarita and holding her hands in the air innocently.

  “She just told me a few hours ago. Right before we went into the courtroom,” she said. “I didn’t exactly want to tell you before you were walking in to give your closing.”

  “But what about after? Why didn’t you tell me after? Immediately after?”

  “Because I wanted Zola to tell you herself. I wanted it to be a surprise. And don’t you think you’re kind of missing the point here? The point is that your little sister is getting married? It’s great news. Right?” Malak smiled, though she knew the expression would not be returned.

  “Not exactly. This is a big mistake for her right now. They aren’t ready to get married. Yes, they’re in love. But they don’t have enough money. They’re just banking on Alton getting this record deal. This is a recipe for disaster and you know it. We’re in the business of watching marriages fail. And what makes most marriages fail?”

  “Money,” Malak reluctantly mumbled.

  “Exactly. When money is short, people start changing. They become horrible versions of themselves. And I’m not saying they’ll always be poor. I’m not going to wish doom on Alton’s career or anything, but being a performer has its ups and downs.”

  “Alton and Zola have been together forever. They’ll be okay.”

  “They have no idea what they’re in for. What’s going to happen to them,” Zola said to herself as if she hadn’t heard anything Malak said. “I just can’t sit back and watch Zola do this—mess everything up that we’ve worked so hard for.”

  Malak’s best attempts to placate her friend turned to annoyance. “Why do you do that to Zola? Always act like she has no clue? Like she’s stupid and can’t make any decisions without you?” Malak paused and looked down into her drink. She exhaled and grimaced frankly, as if she was about to say something she might regret. “You know, maybe this isn’t about the wedding—about Alton and Zena getting engaged. Maybe your reaction is about—you know—him. And the fact that he is going to be there in Bali.”

  Him and he needed no further explanation. The words bounced from Malak’s mouth like a fireball and landed on the table before Zena. She wanted to pick it up and throw it across the room, get it away from her as soon as possible, but she was also afraid to touch it, afraid to hear it, to think it, to think of him.

  “Don’t bring him up,” Zena scoffed, and she sounded like a little girl.

  “I have to. Sorry, Z. But there’s no way you haven’t thought about him. His brother is marrying your little sister. That has to matter. Right? Everyone thought you guys would do it first. And now Zola and Alton are getting married and you two will be together for that. It’s been so long. When was the last time you spoke to Ad—”

  “Don’t say his name,” Zena cut in. “I don’t want to hear it. And I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t care about him. And I don’t think about him. My opinion of this disaster of a wedding that’s about to take place in two freaking weeks has nothing to do with Adan—” Zena tried to stop her diatribe before
she got to the name that was flashing in her head, but out it came.

  Malak was right. Zena had thought of Adan, of course. And while she’d done a grand but strategic job of avoiding him and all topics concerning him, when Alton proposed to Zola in DC, Zena knew she’d finally have to see Adan. But then she figured she had at least a year—one year to get her head together. She could even meet a wonderful, well-traveled, well-read man, who was also funny and down-to-earth and rich, and get married—at least engaged—okay, at least committed. She’d arrive at Zola and Alton’s wedding to see Adan and his NYC doctor wife and perfect children, and Zena would have to show for her own life a successful law practice, bombshell body and hot judge husband, with dimples—fiancé—okay, boyfriend. But now everything had changed.

  “Okay. I won’t make you talk about Adan. If you say you haven’t thought of him and you don’t want to think of him, then we can move on to something else,” Malak agreed patronizingly, as if she was some kind of barroom therapist. “We can focus on what’s really important. And that’s Zola’s happiness. That girl loves you. She trusts you. She adores you. She admires you. She needs your support. Can you just support her?”

  “I’ll support the right decision. That’s what I’ll support.” Zena rolled her eyes and waved to a random waitress who was rushing past their table. She asked her, “Can you have our waitress get our check?”

  “No problem, hon,” the woman said, sounding more cheerful than she actually looked. “I’ll actually just get it for you.”

  “Thanks,” Zena said as the thought of seeing Adan again suddenly hit her. After so many years of blocking painful memories, she wondered if her heart was strong enough to deal with his actual presence. Zena quietly considered that maybe they would be distant, even mockingly cordial. She’d feel like she was meeting a stranger, a stranger who maybe just happened to look like someone she knew. Someone she’d known for a very long time. But Adan was no stranger. He was once Zena’s everything. He was her past, what she’d hoped would become her future. But that was all gone now. And it was all because of him.