“It could never hate you,” she reassures me. “It’s a part of you.”
“No, it’s a part of you. I barely know St. Croix.”
“It is a part of you, Isla. It’s a part of Alex. This is where you come from; it doesn’t matter where you were born. I know there are aspects of it that still feel foreign, but it’s in your blood.” She lets go of my hand to dab at her eyes. “Look how easily you made friends. That doesn't happen just anywhere.”
“That was mostly Camille.”
Mama rolls her eyes in amusement, standing. “I’m sure it was.”
Her ears must’ve been burning, because Camille chooses that moment to poke her head in, knocking belatedly at the doorjamb. “I was looking for you,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at me.
“I don’t even want to know,” Mama says, sighing. “Go on. Let me finish up here.”
I give her a kiss, pausing. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” My mama’s crows feet and laugh lines are deeper than I remember. And I realize that, despite Daddy’s absence, we are, in fact, happy. Like it’s far from perfect, but it’s exactly where we’re supposed to be. We share a smile. “You girls keep it down, okay? I don’t want Alex getting up during the night.”
Camille pokes at me as we walk back down the hall. “We forgot about the Black Stallions,” she hisses.
“I didn’t forget.” I raise an eyebrow. “I was just waiting on Jasmine.”
Morning dawns fair and warm, the sky a muted grey-blue smudged with wispy clouds. Complaining about the glut of homework she’s got waiting at home, Jasmine has her mother pick her up while Camille and I linger over breakfast on the porch. I tell her about the birthday party I’ll be attending later on, and she smiles knowingly.
Today is pivotal, I think. It’ll be Rigel’s first time picking me up, the first time he brings me to his house. We hung around outside last time, goofing around with Cam and Nando in the garage. This time I’m meeting his family. His mother. It all feels very significant.
Mama drives Camille home while I get ready. I’m halfway through my shower when Alex decides to make a game of throwing little dinosaurs into the tub. It’s cute for about five seconds, until I step on one.
“Alex!”
Giggling maniacally, he tosses another one in. It lands on my toe. Before I can rip the shower curtain open, I hear Grandpa Harry’s voice telling Alex to leave his damn sister alone. The door closes, and things are quiet after that.
Rinsing my hair one last time, I hop out of the shower. Admittedly, longer showers are one thing I miss about the States. Here, houses collect rainwater in underground cisterns. If there’s a dry season (or a crack in the cistern, like the house Jasmine and her mom used to live in) the water can run out, requiring a water truck to come and deliver more. Everyone conserves water here—which, logically, is great.
Selfishly, though? I miss longer showers. I tell myself this is better for the environment, but damn.
After rifling through my closet about five times, I spy a pale yellow sundress Camille convinced me to buy from a boutique in Christiansted. It’s delicate and strappy and sweet, with eyelet detailing along the hem. Perfectly useless in general, but pretty perfect for a birthday party.
“That’s gorgeous on you,” says Mama, watching as I braid my hair into submission. I wanted to wear it down, but it’s not cooperating. “Yellow’s your color.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, frowning at my frizz. “Is there any leave-in conditioner left?”
“No, I used it on Alex’s hair last night,” she says, tucking one of my stray curls back. “I’ll get more.”
Out front, in the driveway, tires growl loudly over the gravel. Larry starts to bark, which is rare, so I’m guessing he doesn’t know the vehicle. It’s probably Rigel. Finishing a hasty fishtail braid, I grab my bag and head for the door, only to find that Grandpa Harry’s beat me to it. He swings it open open boisterously, clapping Rigel’s shoulder. “I knew I recognized that truck. How you do, boy?”
“Can’t complain, Mr. Evans,” Rigel says, grinning, his eyes flickering my way just briefly before giving my grandfather his full attention. “How have you been?”
“Good, good. Thanks for asking.” He steps back, allowing Rigel inside. “First the hurricane and now this. Didn’t realize you were so closely acquainted with my granddaughter.”
“We go to school together, Grandpa,” I explain, cheeks warm. “And he taught me to swim.”
“Hmm.” He gives me the side eye before returning to Rigel, who’s watching the two of us with a faint grin. “How’s your father?”
“He’s great. Doing a lot of business these days. I was telling Isla about his crops.”
“Let me know if he has sorrel come Christmas.”
“Will do.”
“Hi Rigel,” says Mama. “Good to see you again.”
“You too, Mrs. Kelly. Thanks for letting me take Isla out.”
“Of course,” she says, all charmed as she looks at me.
“Be on your best behavior,” Grandpa Harry warns, and I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. “And give your father my regards.”
“I’ll be sure to,” Rigel promises, and Grandpa shuffles away, presumably back to his armchair.
I give my mother a look, and she snorts. “Welcome to my teenaged years.”
“My grandpa’s the same way,” Rigel says. “I’m used to it.”
Wearing Star Wars socks and matching underwear, Alex skids into the room. He stares up at Rigel, uncharacteristically shy.
“Al, this is my friend Rigel.” I ruffle his curls. “Rigel, this is my brother, Alex.”
“Hey, little man,” Rigel says, bending down to bump fists.
“Hi.” Alex reaches out, taps Rigel, and then hides behind Mom’s legs.
“Not too late, okay?” she says to me, even though it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Okay.” I give her a kiss, and try to grab Alex, too, but he darts away.
“You look like your mom,” Rigel says, once we’re in the truck.
“You think so?” I peer at myself in the sideview mirror. “I used to hear that all the time. Now people say I look more like my dad.”
“Guess I won’t know till I meet your dad.”
“He’ll be here in a few weeks,” I say, light inside at the thought. “For Thanksgiving.”
Rigel nods, pausing to look both ways on Centerline Road before turning onto it. The truck is quiet without music. “I like this,” he says, touching the scalloped hem of my dress. His hand lingers, and my stomach wobbles at the feeling of his fingertips on my skin.
“Thank you.”
His eyes are off the road just long enough to look at me. He flattens his hand against my thigh, and I rest my hand over it, keeping it there.
There are at least a dozen cars parked in front of the Thomas house.
Now the nervousness comes. Rigel cuts the engine and gets out, and I scramble to join him, not wanting to get left behind in this sea of family and friends. When he said birthday party, I imagined seven-year-old girls and their mothers. This looks like a wedding.
Perhaps Rigel senses my hesitancy, because he slides his hand into mine and leads me inside. Right away, I catch a warm, cozy vibe, like this house is lived and loved in. There’s art everywhere: paintings and tapestries, sculptures on ornately carved, wooden stands. Brightly colored rugs adorn the gleaming hardwood floor, and plants hang from corners and beside windows. Faint strains of incense mingle with the mouthwatering aroma of grilling from outside, and fans blow lazily in every room. It’s easy to imagine Rigel spending time here.
A group of children runs by, barely avoiding us as they scream and laugh. A beat later Orion lumbers after them, hands clawed, roaring like a lion. Our eyes meet before he disappears outside, and there’s a sparkle in his eye I remember from Halloween. Rigel ignores him, drawing me toward the kitchen. “My mother’s probably in here,” he says.
The only white woman in the room, Rigel’s mom stands out. She’s curvy and tall, with wavy, dark blonde hair tucked into a topknot and a freckled tan. At the moment, she’s pressed against the kitchen island, deep in conversation with another woman. They’re slicing mangoes, oranges and strawberries and tossing them into a glass bowl.
Rigel touches her arm to get her attention, as if he doesn’t want to interrupt her. She looks up at him, and then at me. She’s got Orion’s catlike green eyes, and Rigel’s mouth and smirk, and she’s beautiful. “Just a minute Joycie,” she says to the other woman, setting down her knife. She wipes her hands on a towel and comes around to our side.
“Mom, this is Isla, and...Isla, this is my mom, Diana.”
“Hello, Isla,” she says, giving me a hug. Her accent isn’t Crucian, per se, but it’s not quite American, either, as if years of living here have seasoned it into something her own.
“Hi, Diana,” I say, her first name foreign on my tongue. It feels so casual. “Thank you for having me today.”
“Oh, so polite!” she teases, eyes crinkling as she grins. Rigel looks so much like her in this moment. “I love it.”
Shaking my head, I glance at Rigel. “Can’t help it...my mama’s brainwashed me.”
“Good!” she says, patting my hand. “She’s a wise woman.”
“She’s Harry Evan’s granddaughter, Mom,” Rigel says, his hand resting on the small of my back.
Diana’s amusement dies down, and she cocks her head. “No kidding? Charlene’s your mom?”
“She is.” It’s a recurring theme: everyone knows everyone in this intricately woven island society. “I didn’t know you knew her.”
“I know Greta better, but we’ve met a few times. Long time back.” She nods, just once. “You look a lot like her.”
Surprised, I laugh a little. “That’s what Rigel said.”
“Because it’s true,” he says.
“Family genes run strong, eh?” Diana pushes a few blonde wisps from her face. “Speaking of which, is Camille coming?”
“I don’t know,” Rigel says, before I can. “You don’t have enough people here already? Jeez and bread.”
Sucking her teeth, she smacks him with the towel. “Rude self. Go on, show Isla around. Have something to eat. Uncle Jimmy brought passion fruit juice...there’s a cooler out back…” She’s already back to cutting fruit, chatting with Joycie. Rigel steps around the island to give Joycie a half-hug and a kiss on the cheek, saying something to her that earns a swat, he barely escapes, and then we’re outdoors.
People, old and young, mill around patio. Built beneath a copse of trees, it’s the only part of the backyard that isn’t the garden. It’s well shaded and indulgently green, so the heat is kept at bay. Balloons and streamers play in the breeze, and there are tables and chairs scattered around.
“Is that a hot tub?” I ask, noticing a small, covered, above ground pool near the house.
Rigel shakes his head. “Lap pool. I use it for practice.”
I frown. “Oh. It’s so small.”
“It’s got jets that create a current for me to swim against,” he explains. “I’ll show you later. I want you to meet Rory.”
“Rory,” I muse, imagining a little girl who looks like Rigel. “That’s cute.”
“It’s short for Aurora...but no one really calls her that.”
“Aurora’s such a pretty name,” I say, following him as we wind through tables and people. “Like Sleeping Beauty.”
“Sleeping Beauty?”
“Yeah. The Disney movie?” I frown, digging around my memory. “Actually, I think it predates Disney.”
“I know what Sleeping Beauty is.” He throws a smile over his shoulder. “But I can’t say I remember any of the names. Guess I was more of a Nemo kid.”
“Ah, Nemo...the ocean. Of course.”
We find Aurora and her friends having a water balloon fight, party clothes damp and dirty. Barefoot and squealing, they chase each other around, grabbing water balloons from a giant bucket.
“Leo and I filled those up this morning,” Rigel says, nodding at it. “Rory insisted.”
“Is he here? Leo?”
“Probably in his room with friends, playing video games. Mom’ll force them out eventually.”
“How old is he, again?”
“Thirteen.”
Just then, Rory spies us and jogs over, a water balloon in each hand.
“Don’t even think about it,” Rigel warns, holding out his hands.
“But it’s my birthday!”
“Too bad.” He grabs my hand, pulling me forward. “Come meet my friend, Isla.”
I give her a wave. “Happy birthday, Rory. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Thanks!” She grins widely, showing off a missing tooth. With messy curls, round cheeks and eyes like her mother, she’s pretty adorable.
Several of her little girlfriends teeter over, giggling and grass-stained. “Hiii, Rigel,” one of them sighs. I look at him, holding back a laugh.
But he just gives the little brunette an exaggerated wink. “Hiii, Mariely.”
Rory gives me the once over, eyes landing on our joined hands. “So, you’re like his girlfriend now, right?”
And it doesn’t even matter that she’s only seven; her question so catches me off guard that I go red in the face. I’m about to stammer something out when Rigel scoffs, wrinkling his nose. “Man, you’re nosy,” he says, giving one of her pigtails a yank. “Go back to your games, birthday girl.”
“That means she is,” Rory informs her friends.
“We’re gonna go eat,” Rigel says loudly. “Don’t do the piñata without me.”
“We won’t,” she says as we turn to walk back.
I’m about to tease him about his pint-sized admirer when a red water balloon explodes on his back. Freezing, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. I look back just in time to see the girls running away, squealing giddily.
“You did let your guard down.” I chuckle, eyeing his soaked shirt. “She’s got good aim, too.”
“I’ll get her back later.” He shrugs. “It feels good, actually. It’s hot out.”
“You want to talk family resemblance…” I raise my eyebrows. “She looks a lot like you.”
“Yeah? I’ve been thinking about growing my hair out. So I can do pigtails.”
We might all be here to celebrate Aurora’s birthday, but this party is more than that. I’m introduced to so many aunts and uncles and cousins and friends that their faces start to blur. Distant cousin Junie, a Rasta, catches us beneath the mango tree, explaining to me why it’s important to eat ital. “Good for your mind and soul,” he says sagely, nodding. “And for childbearing,” he adds meaningfully, eyeing Rigel.
“Thanks, Junie,” Rigel says. “Not quite there yet, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
“What’s ital?” I whisper, following him to a tiki bar set up on the patio.
“Eating clean. Vegetarian.” He gestures to a nearby table packed with every meat known to mankind. It smells like heaven. “The opposite of that.” On cue, a large woman waddles over, hands on her hips.
“You eat yet, dahlin?” she asks me.
“No, I—”
She clucks disapprovingly, leading me over to the food. “Come.”
“We just reached, Auntie Estelle,” Rigel says, following close behind.
“But you could have still offered her something,” she chides, piling my plate with rice and beans, baked macaroni, potato salad, chicken and coleslaw.
“You like goat?” She pauses, ladle at the ready.
“Oh, no—this is more than enough,” I assure her. “Thank you…”
She peers suspiciously at my plate. “Well.”
“Thanks, Auntie,” Rigel says, kissing her cheek with a loud smack. Weighed down by his own plate, he nods for me to follow, and I do, over to an empty table.
“I can’t get over how many people are here,” I say.
�
��Oh yeah?” he asks through a mouthful of macaroni.
“Well, yeah. Is seven a major birthday or something?”
“All our birthdays are like this.” He shrugs, looking around as if just noticing the crowd. “My parent’s anniversary was like this last year. I don’t know. I guess we don’t need an excuse to party.”
“But you’re related to most of these people!”
“More or less.”
“My mama was telling me about some of the island’s bigger families. It’s not really like that where I’m from.” And it isn’t. Not this big. Families like Rigel’s seem to rule whole parts of the island.
“It has its pros and cons.” He wipes his mouth. “If one person gets in trouble...then, in a way, so does everyone else. It affects everybody. But on the flip side, someone always has your back.”
I consider how Orion’s lifestyle probably affects the rest of the family. Rigel’s attitude toward his brother starts to make sense.
Reggae blends into calypso, salsa and meringue, inspiring a few couples to use the patio as a dancefloor. No one seems to care when Rigel and I switch from soda to beer, although as the day burns on I discover I really, really like passion fruit juice.
“Try this,” Rigel says, handing me a plastic cup filled to the brim. It smells like passion fruit juice, but tastes a little different. It’s got a kick.
“Mmm.” I moan appreciatively. “That is so good.”
“Guava rum,” he says, mixing himself one. “Not that strong compared to regular Cruzan rum, but it has a nice taste. You’d like the mango, too.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a rum connoisseur,” I tease, licking a sticky drop from my hand.
His eyes fall to my mouth. “I’m a connoisseur of tasty things.” I open my mouth to respond, but he grabs my hand and turns me around. “Dad, this is my girl, Isla.”
I stare up at Raymond Thomas. His mouth twitches, probably in amusement. “Hello, Isla. Glad you could make it,” he says, as if we’re old friends. He extends his hand, and I give it a firm shake.
“Hi, Mr. Thomas. Thanks for having me; your home is beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s our little paradise back here,” he says, grinning. “You like the passion fruit juice, eh?”
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