An Infidel in Paradise

by S. J. Laidlaw

  She turns back to me and seems almost startled to find me still in the doorway. “It’s late, Emma.”

  She’s dismissing me, but I don’t move. “Why did we have to leave Manila early?” I persist. “Why did you do this to us?”

  “I’m sorry.” She stops, waiting for me to leave, as if her apology should be enough, as if it even comes close. “I know this move has been hard on you,” she continues, finally. “But surely you understand why we couldn’t keep living there the way things were – not with him, not with them.…”

  She massages her forehead and gives me a beseeching look. It occurs to me she might have a headache, and I almost relent, tell her it’s okay, but it’s so not okay I don’t know where to begin.

  “You should blame your father, not me,” she says bitterly. But she catches herself and takes a deep breath. “This has been hard on all of us. We’re all making adjustments. I just need you to be a team player.”

  “What do you know about being a team player?” I demand. “You’re never here! I’m the one at the dinner table, listening to Mandy’s problems. I could count on one hand the number of times you’ve put her to bed since the move.”

  “I know and I’m sorry about that too,” she says, sounding genuinely regretful. “But if you can just be patient. I was lucky to get this job at such late notice. They didn’t have to offer me another posting, and it’s even a promotion. It’s my first time being a program manager. I need a few weeks to establish myself with my staff, then things will settle down. I promise it will get better.”

  “Mandy needs you now, Mom.” I don’t add that I need her too. I’m not admitting that, even to myself.

  Mom looks past me and doesn’t answer for several minutes. I don’t know if she’s thinking about what I said or just trying to wait me out. I am pretty exhausted, actually, and it’s unlikely this conversation’s going to make her change her ways. Despite her current excuse, she’s always been a workaholic. The truth is, when I first found out about Dad’s affair, there was a part of me that wasn’t surprised. I think he was lonely. I know there was more to it than that, but I really believe that was part of it.

  “I’m under a lot of pressure.” Mom breaks into my thoughts. “You live in these big houses with servants, go to expensive private schools. You have a lifestyle most kids only dream about, but you never think about who makes it all possible. It was certainly never your father. Now he’s gone. Is it too much to expect you to help a little?”

  I tune out halfway through her diatribe. I’ve heard this one or versions of it too many times. I wonder how Dad felt when she went on about how hard she worked to support us. She never said it directly, but even Mandy could read the subtext. It’s true, Dad never made much money off of his writing, but she never said anything appreciative about all the things he did do. She was too busy playing the martyr.

  “Yes,” I snap, my temper out of control now. “It is asking too much to expect me to pick up your slack. I didn’t ask to come here. None of us did. You never checked with us about moving. You just dragged us along like you always do.”

  “You know why we had to leave, Emma. It was the only way I could separate your father from that woman.”

  “But you didn’t separate them!” I shout. I can feel tears starting, but I blink them back. “You just forced him to choose, and he didn’t choose us!”

  “Do you think I could have predicted that?” Mom demands, exasperated. “I supported him for years, and he left me for a woman with a sixth-grade education. I asked him to come with us. We could have made a fresh start. It would have been the best thing for all of us, and he’d have a new country to write about. Why wouldn’t he come?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Mom,” I say. “Maybe he felt like being in charge of his own life for a change.”

  “You don’t understand anything,” Mom says sadly, sinking down into the couch I vacated.

  She picks up the remote and clicks on the TV, flipping around till she gets to an English news channel. I glare at her for a minute, but she ignores me, so I scoop up my books and head out of the room. I stop in the doorway and look back, but she’s engrossed in other battles, giving every appearance of having forgotten our own.

  “I understand you’re a selfish bitch,” I say under my breath.

  She’s on her feet like a shot, her face crimson with rage. “You’re grounded!”

  “Grounded?” I laugh humorlessly. “How can you ground me when I have no life to begin with? It’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

  “Well, you can go to your room for starters.” Her hands are balled into fists and she’s breathing heavily, but her voice is controlled, her face a hard cold mask.

  “My pleasure,” I say, keeping my own voice steady. I don’t shed a tear until I’m in my room with the door closed.

  CHAPTER 10

  “You have to give it to him today,” says Angie for the millionth time.

  It’s Wednesday lunch, and I’m sitting in the cafeteria with what I’m beginning to think of as the usual gang. Angie has not only told everyone about the note but has been passing around multiple versions of it for the past two days. She thinks this will pressure me into giving it to Mustapha, just so I won’t have to hear it dissected and revised one more freaking time. I hate that she knows me that well already.

  “I really think you should start off with a salutation,” says Leela. Not for the first time. She looks down at the note again. “It’s more polite, isn’t it? You shouldn’t go right into the apology. At least say ‘How are you? Best wishes to your family.’ It’s rude not to ask about his family. Don’t you agree, Tira?”

  Tahira takes the note and reads it again, as if it might have changed since she read it three minutes ago. These girls don’t get enough entertainment. Cineplex would make a killing here.

  “You’re right, Leela,” she says. “She can’t apologize for insulting him and then insult him again by not inquiring about his health and family.”

  “Forget the family,” says Angie. “She doesn’t even know the family.”

  “What difference does that make?” demands Leela.

  “No difference at all,” says Tahira. “You wouldn’t buy fabric in the market without asking after the merchant’s family. Are you saying Musa Khan deserves less courtesy than a trader in the market?”

  “The only thing I ever ask a merchant is ‘How much?’ ” chimes in Jazzy.

  “And you wonder why you’re always overcharged,” says Tahira.

  “And she shouldn’t have typed it,” says Leela. “A personal note should be handwritten.”

  “Good point,” agrees Tahira.

  “She handwrote the first four versions,” says Angie pointedly.

  “Five,” I correct.

  “Well, she should have handwritten it again,” says Tahira.

  “Although she does have terrible handwriting,” Leela muses.

  “All Americans do,” says Tahira.

  “Probably because they type everything,” says Leela.

  “Oh my God,” I say.

  Angie snatches the note from Tahira and passes it across the table to me. “Put it away, Emma, and give it to him today.”

  I roll my eyes at her as I shove it in my pocket. Rewrapping my untouched sandwich and shoving it in my bag, I jump up, mumbling an excuse as I head for the door. I don’t realize Angie’s behind me until, emerging from the building, I stop for a minute to let my eyes adjust to the blinding brightness of the midday sun. We walk over to the fishpond, which, in spite of its history, I’m inexplicably drawn to, and we sit side by side on the stone wall facing the fish.

  “Have you spoken to him since Monday?” she asks.

  “No, I’ve seen him around, but I just try to avoid him.”

  “I noticed him talking to your brother yesterday.”

  “Yeah. Me too, but Vince didn’t say anything about it. I think they have some classes together.”

  “Yeah, probably. Are you nervo
us?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes.

  “Can you hang out after school?” she asks.

  “No, I have to go straight home. I’m grounded.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story.”

  Another long pause; I can tell she’s waiting. I watch my favorite fish. It’s mottled white, orange, and black, the only one not a solid color. I wonder what it feels like to be a misfit in fish world.

  “I look after my sister every day,” I say. “Vince disappears with Michelle, and my mom just disappears, but she says I’m not a team player.”

  “That’s not fair. Is that why you’re grounded?”

  “I said some things.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. I might have called my mom a selfish bitch.”

  Silence. I look over at her, and she’s grinning.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “Sorry, but you might have called her a bitch?”

  “Okay, I did call her a bitch, but I really didn’t mean for her to hear me. I was, like, halfway out the door and I just said it quietly. Is it my fault if she’s got superhuman hearing?”

  “So, why is your mom a selfish bitch?”

  “She’s not. I shouldn’t have said it. It’s just that she’s never around, and I know she thinks she did the right thing bringing us here, and she works hard, but sometimes it feels like …”

  I stop, pull my sandwich out of my bag, and unwrap it. I look around the courtyard before I break off a small piece and throw it to the fish. They thrash around, fighting each other to get some, so I throw in more. I’m not trying to provoke another confrontation with anyone, I just like feeding them. I don’t know why. It’s the same feeling I get when I make Mandy’s lunch, or pour her a bowl of cereal at bedtime, or put out corn for the little green parrots that come into our yard, even though The Ghoul says I shouldn’t encourage them. It’s weird that I find it so satisfying watching food disappear because I’ve pretty much given up eating. For weeks now, I’ve had this boulder in my stomach that doesn’t leave space for food. It may be the only thing Mom and I have in common. “It feels like what, Emma?”

  I turn to find Angie watching me, her face serious.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You said your mom’s never around and it feels like …?”

  “It feels like we’re going to be late for class,” I say, shoving the remains of my sandwich back in my bag. Angie’s a nice girl, but I hardly know her, and it’s way too soon to start spilling every twisted detail of my messed-up life. The courtyard is starting to fill with students. I stand up.

  “Good luck with Mustapha,” says Angie, but she looks sad. I quickly turn away and try to focus on which classroom I’m heading for. I’m still not used to the way the classes alternate every other day at this school, and it’s only my second day on this schedule.

  I’ve taken just a couple of steps when Angie calls to me. I look back and find she’s still where I left her.

  “If you want my opinion, I think you’re one heck of a team player,” she says before turning away. I stand there for a few seconds, watching her retreating form until she disappears into a classroom. Angie is probably the sappiest girl I’ve ever met, but as I walk away, I feel a lightness that, for once, has nothing to do with losing my temper or letting off steam.

  CHAPTER 11

  I get to the theater early. I think maybe it will give me an edge if I have a chance to catch my breath and cool off from the heat before he arrives, but I realize my mistake almost immediately. With each passing minute, I get more nervous. My heart has expanded into my throat, cutting off my air supply. I take short, shallow breaths as my whole body throbs with each beat.

  By the time he finally does walk in, with Ali and Faarooq and at least four other kids who orbit him like he’s the sun, I’ve pretty much decided to ask for a nurse’s pass so I can take my heart failure to a more appropriate location.

  Unfortunately, the cherub, who is even more enthusiastic than two days ago, chooses that moment to get things started. He bounces to the middle of the room and shouts gaily to Mustapha and crew.

  “Quickly, now! We have a fun exercise to get to know each other better.” I cringe at the word fun, which every kid knows is teacher-speak for “excruciatingly embarrassing.”

  “How many of you have played Blind Trust before?” he asks, ignoring the groans of the few kids who have and the wary looks of the rest. “You need to take a scarf,” he continues, holding aloft a fistful of dark scarves. “And choose a partner, someone you don’t know very well. You’re going to take turns blindfolding each other and leading each other around the school.”

  Ali and Faarooq race down the aisle to grab a scarf, jostling each other as they run back to Mustapha and begin debating whom he should partner with. He laughs good-naturedly and takes Ali’s scarf. For a moment, I think the battle’s resolved, but he says something to them and walks away. He seems to be coming in my direction, and I look around, thinking he must be targeting someone else, but he’s heading for me with the resolve of a cruise missile.

  “Hello, Emma,” he says, flashing his devastating smile.

  “Hello, Mustapha,” I say, sliding one hand into my pocket to check if the note is still there or has suddenly imploded from the intense heat suffusing my body.

  “Are you ready to follow me blindly?” he asks. I stare at him blankly until he holds up the scarf.

  “I don’t really think that’s a good idea,” I say, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Do you?”

  “Probably not,” he agrees.

  We both look around the room at other kids pairing off. I notice we’re the only mixed-gender couple. I wonder if this is another huge cultural blunder, but I can’t be blamed this time. I finger the note again. Now would be the perfect time to give it to him. We’re alone. I haven’t said anything stupid yet, and I’m only moderately irritated with him.

  “Close your eyes,” he says, interrupting my planning. I look back at him. In the dim lighting of the theater, his face is half-shadowed as he looks down at me.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s just a game. You’re not scared of me, are you?” He’s still smiling benignly, but the atmosphere in the room has changed. I’m pretty sure it’s leaking oxygen. Any minute now, masks will drop from the ceiling.

  “Mr. Baker will be disappointed if you refuse to join in.” I startle at the mention of the teacher’s name. I’d almost forgotten where we were. “Come on, close your eyes,” he croons. “You can trust me.”

  We stare at each other for a long minute. I don’t know why I finally close my eyes and let him tie the scarf over them. I regret it the minute the darkness becomes absolute.

  “You know, I don’t need to be blindfolded to get lost on this campus,” I quip, trying to ease the pressure that has magnified exponentially with the darkness.

  “You won’t get lost. I’m going to guide you.” Strangely, his disembodied voice is more comforting than I would have expected, and his hand on my elbow as he nudges me forward feels steady. I’m suddenly aware of his smell – soap and cinnamon.

  I can tell we’re heading out of the theater because the floor gradually slopes up underfoot. The giggling of various classmates surrounds us but seems far away. Light creeps under the blindfold as we emerge into the heat. Mustapha keeps leading me forward but is strangely silent, as if he’s preoccupied with his own thoughts. I have the feeling he has a destination in mind. As we walk along, I can no longer hear other students and try to get my bearings under the blindfold. I think we must be crossing the parking lot because we’ve walked on pavement without stepping up or down for quite a while. Sweat is collecting in all the places you don’t want to be sweating when you’re blindfolded and with a boy.

  “It must be time to take off the blindfold,” I say, wishing I hadn’t agreed to play this game.

  �
�Soon,” he says, picking up the pace and dragging me with him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” he says, missing the irony.

  Finally, he tells me to step up, and we’re walking on grass. It’s harder going, less even, and I stumble once, but he catches me. It’s cooler now and I can feel shade.

  “We’re here,” he says, eventually letting go of my arm. “You can take it off now.”

  I pull off the blindfold. We’re at one far corner of the campus, in a field next to a wall. I look around, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be seeing. It’s obvious from his quiet watchfulness that this place has some significance, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is.

  “So?” I say finally.

  He points to a pile of stones.

  “A man died here,” he says. “A guard. Students aren’t supposed to know where it happened. They want us to forget. The administration keeps having the stones removed, but they always find their way back.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “A long time ago, ten years maybe. There was rioting in the city. That happens a lot. People get angry about the foreigners, the infidels, and they look for someone to take out their anger on. The school’s an obvious target. It wasn’t as well-guarded back then, and the walls were lower. They’ve raised them eight feet since and put the broken glass on top. No students were hurt; the teachers hid them. But one guard was beaten to death right here.”

  We’re silent for several minutes as we contemplate the pile of stones.

  “Why are you showing me this?” I say after a time.

  “Because you need to understand.”

  “Understand what?” I turn to look at him.

  “You can’t make fun of things.” His gaze is intent. “You need to be careful, show more respect.”

  I’m disappointed. He thinks it’s that simple. I’m just culturally insensitive, an ignorant kid who needs to be schooled in foreign relations. I know he doesn’t know about my dad or how hard it was to leave my friends in Manila, and maybe he wouldn’t forgive me even if he did know, but still I expected more compassion from him. I hoped for more.