Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

by Sunniva Dee

  “She is a maxchia woman. As her husband is a maxchio man.”

  “A macho man?”

  I’m ready to correct him, but then I see his smile. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Maybe. What does it mean? Maxchia, maxchio. They sound like female and male, like Silvia and Silvio.”

  “Yes.” He’s making me think. With Troy patiently stroking my arm, waiting for whatever my culturally divergent brain offers up, I want to make him understand.

  “Drago Fuoc.” I breathe my people’s fear out in a shudder. “Different clans have different names for it, but this is ours. It’s our Romani name for the love fire.”

  A quick blink of his eyes. “Dragon. And fuego means fire in Spanish.”

  “Yeah, not the same.” I send him a shy smile for the effort. I appreciate it. “In Romani, dragoste means love, and foc means fire. But we’re a little different. Dialects, you know.” I try for a shrug, but I can’t make it look sincere.

  He bobs his head in that slow, long dance that makes me want to throw myself at him. He’s the rocking chair of peace right now, and I want to be in it. “And your sister and her husband have it, the… Drago Fuoc?”

  He smiles when I enjoy his perfect pronunciation. “Good job. My father would have been proud of you. For a gadjo, you totally pulled that off.”

  “A gadjo, huh?”

  “The Romani version of a gringo,” I say without thinking, and it makes him burst out laughing.

  “You’re calling me a gringo? Me?” he says, making me see what he sees.

  I want to laugh too as I run my stare over dark muscle and the white of his eyes, a breathtaking contrast to his skin.

  “The definitions are different. It has to do with geography, culture, and origin, instead of race and skin color.”

  Gently, nimble fingers massage the muscle between my thumb and forefinger while he waits for me to continue. Troy makes it all about me, while I tend to choose friends who fill the air around them with their own words.

  “They’re no less judgmental,” I puff out.

  “No?”

  “No. For my clan, a gadjo is someone who knows nothing of us, a baby to our culture, someone who looks different and has no trace of Romani in him.”

  “Can I?” Troy’s eyes go to my bed and the soft pillows by my side. “This chair is killing me.”

  I consider it only for a second before I scoot toward the middle of my queen-size and make a show of fluffing the extra set of pillows. Grateful, he sinks down, rocking his dizzyingly perfect ass a few times as he settles in.

  “We’re like that too,” he murmurs as he turns his face toward me. “Most people are, I bet. What we don’t know, we don’t understand, and by huddling together, us against them, we feel more confident. For us, it’s white people.” He says it with a widening of the eyes, the way you’d exclaim, ‘Aliens!’” It makes me laugh.

  “But your sister,” he returns to where we were. “Do they have a different stage of Drago Fuoc that isn’t bruxiante? Like, they’re lovesick but in a good way?”

  The air conditioner blows a gust of frigid air at us. The curtains flutter above it, and I burrow my free arm under my comforter. I see what I’m doing: I might be cold, but not cold enough to remove my other arm from his touch.

  “Yes,” I say. “She was bruxiante. But when the love of your life has the Drago Fuoc for you too, then he’s your medicine.”

  Troy slides lower on the bed, his dreadlocks running along the side of my arm on the way down. His stare meets the ceiling as he says, “So there is a cure for the Drago Fuoc.”

  “No, there isn’t. Once you have it, you have it. There’s only living with it, like HIV.”

  “So your sister doesn’t have AIDS, but she’s living with the Romani love version of HIV?” He’s not laughing, but a tic of mirth triggers his miniature dimples.

  “No.” I pull my hand out of the safety of my duvet and smack him playfully. “But yes. If HIV were nice and AIDS were bad and they were still related. My sister is maxchia, and my brother-in-law is maxchio, right? In English, it’d mean something like ‘always beloved.’”

  “Is it like a promise that they will always be in love?” He rocks on the mattress again, making me have to force my gaze away from him. He’s the one who should cover up under this comforter. A pair of jeans and a t-shirt isn’t enough on him tonight.

  “No. It’s nothing like becoming engaged or getting married. Sange Inima is the blissed-out state of the Drago Fuoc. My sister and my brother-in-law have found the Romani version of nirvana—if nirvana had to do with love between lovers, that is.”

  “Another expression, now? Sange Inima?” At this, he turns on his side and leans his cheek into a hand, looking up at me.

  “Yeah.” I smile; there’s nothing better than a reminder of someone you love being set in the bliss department. “If you have become a maxchia and get to live with your maxchio, you have reached the ultimate state of Drago Fuoc, and you live in Sange Inima together for the rest of your lives.”

  I only feel like I’ve overdone my language class until a contented sigh expels from the beautiful man at my side. When I turn my head for a full look, he’s still contemplating the ceiling above us.

  “I think I’ve got it,” he murmurs. “When your people fall in love, it’s called the love fire, or Drago Fuoc. If that love isn’t reciprocated, their hearts are broken, aka bruxiante. But if their love is reciprocated, they can live together and be happy ever after. Maxchia and maxchio are lovers, and if they reach Sange Inima together, they’re in a love relationship.”

  My mouth feels slack. I stare at him, at the easy turn of his lips as he lets out the last sentence. Did he just trivialize one of the most important cornerstones of my being?

  TROY

  Look at her.

  She’s so fucking cute.

  Aishe is mad at me, but not in the guilt-inducing, horrible way of our past. She didn’t turn her back to me at breakfast this morning, and she didn’t reply in monosyllables, thank God. When Hailey came over to ask merch questions I had nothing to do with, Aishe even answered them. That was a relief, except I’ve never seen a girl turn so quickly from sunny skies to thunder clouds as Hailey did then. Her thanks was gritted out between her teeth. Also, stomping on high heels is an interesting look. Loud, for sure. Funny too.

  But as subtle as Aishe’s annoyance with me is, it’s definitely there. I can’t help it—it makes me smile.

  We’re climbing into the sprinter van taking us back to the show in Cleveland. We just had a bite to eat in a secluded restaurant Troll scrounged up for us. The pretties—Elias’ collective name for the four girls—were the only ones with us for this meal.

  Aishe shifts in her seat, and I look away so I don’t stare straight at her boobs. They’re covered. That’s not the issue. But everything she does lately makes me hard. Hell, who am I kidding: everything she is makes me hard. Like now: miffed at me and with her arms pretzeled over her chest. Instead of covering her boobs, she’s unconsciously lifting them up. Combining that with how she’s miffed at me specifically is what has my heart booming.

  “This seat free, Ma’am?” I half-joke. I’m not going to claim the space next to her unless she’s okay being shoulder to shoulder with me for the next twenty-five minutes. It’s like with cats. You think you’ve come far earning their trust, but one night apart, and you wake up to the same distrust as before.

  She shrugs curtly, sending me a side-look. Apparently, it’s the same to her. She confirms this with a nonchalant “Suit yourself.”

  “I thank you for the enthusiasm.” I bow my head just enough for her eyes to flicker with humor before she squelches it.

  “So,” I say. “About last night.”

  “Last night is over.”

  “True, true,” I breathe, watching Troll maneuver the va
n out of the parking lot. “But it happened.”

  “So? It’s not like we… did anything.”

  “No, we didn’t,” I admit, sinking closer to her so the others can’t hear me. “But we talked about some important things if I remember correctly.”

  “Just say it already,” she mutters under her breath, fierce side-glance at me through a curtain of hair and everything. “You think I’m crazy, that my family’s nuts, and maybe even the place I come from as a whole. I’m good with that. It is what it is, and what I told you is the truth. The fact that this country doesn’t believe in anything is not my problem.”

  She leans her head against the window now that she’s blurted out all-the-things. Elias sits next to me with his back to us. He’s sharing earbuds with Waris, cracking up over a podcast. “Man, I wish you weren’t a douche and let me play this over the radio, Troll!” he hollers.

  “Right, because that’d make sense, forcing a whole van full of people to listen to what you want.”

  “How did this turn into a problem with all of the United States?” I whisper to Aishe, who rolls her eyes and focuses them out the window again.

  “Now you’re just making stuff up,” she tells me, and that I can’t help but laugh at.

  “Aishe, listen to me. I get it. I believe you. The Drago Fuoc is real, and so are the different stages of it. Okay?”

  She flips her stare to me, eyes scorching with accusation. “That’s exactly the problem with you! You came waltzing into my room, like, ‘O-oh what’s up, Aishe?’ and then you tell me we’ve got it wrong, that really, all it is, is regular crushes, regular heartbreaks, regular people getting together and being happy. It’s. Not. That. Simple.”

  “Ahhh.” I drag out my understanding, nodding. “That’s what this is about.”

  “There’s no ‘this,’ no nothing,” she mutters. “The only thing you need to worry about is to stop deciding what exists or not, and to which extent it’s important or not. Stop waltzing in and telling me what I’ve gotten wrong my entire life, and then we’re good. That’s all!” She tightens her mouth in an anti-smile, eyes rounded with understated anger. Wow, and she’s showing me her palm now?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, leaning back in the seat so that I’m not in her space anymore. I admit I was there, soaking in the scent of her. So much better than Elias’ hardcore aftershave. The one he doesn’t need, because babyface.

  “I was just trying to understand what you went through, and it was the closest I could get. I’m not a Romani, so I could only understand it from the vantage point I have. Love I know. Heartbreak I know. I also know people finding each other and others not finding each other. We don’t look at it as a disease, but maybe it is? Or maybe it’s just bigger and different, a state of mind we don’t have in America. I’m okay with that too. Doesn’t mean I understand it.”

  “Why do you people have to understand everything,” she hisses, causing Elias to turn and stare at us.

  “Are you mad, Aishe?” He blinks between us, and Waris, Bo, Nadia, Zoe, and Emil all turn our way to examine first Aishe, then me.

  “Dude, careful with that, or you’ll get walloped,” Emil says, and as usual, Aishe feels no need to punish him. It’s like shit never happened when it comes to him. She’s been picking her battles for a year, and her main one is with me. I guess I should feel honored.

  “What did you do, Troy?” Zoe asks. “Be nice, okay? Aishe is going through enough right now—you don’t need to get on her nerves. Sweetie, you want to swap seats for the rest of the trip?”

  “Oh man. I didn’t do anything.” I slump my arms open in a can’t-win move.

  “Like hell, you didn’t,” Aishe says.

  “Yeah? Tell them what I did, then,” I say, losing points with her by the bucket-load. “Maybe they can help explain it to me. I’d like to avoid this in the future, for sure.”

  “You said that…” Her gorgeous boobs heave and sink while she thinks. “You said… It was freaking mean, is what it was.”

  “That I didn’t understand?” I ask. “Because I’d like to understand, very much.”

  “What do you wanna know? Ask me, and I won’t even get pissed, dude,” Emil says, causing Elias to chuckle.

  “That’s the whole point! Just let it be, already. There’s no need to understand everything. It is what it is, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “Got it,” Bo says for me. “Leave it as is, man, whatever ‘it’ is. Always the best way to go.”

  “Honey.” Nadia has Selena on her arm and is patting her butt. Subtly admonishing, her stare finds Bo’s in a tacit Leave it alone, okay?

  He arches his brows in mild surprise, forming, What?

  “They’re always right!” Emil says, jostling Zoe in his arms. “That’s all I know!”

  “All you need to know, Cookie.”

  “Yep, you’ll never get laid, Troy, without that basic knowledge.” He grins and waggles his brows at me, and Aishe seriously groans out loud.

  “You’re all a bunch of idiots. The guys. Not you,” she hurries to add, flipping her finger between the pretties. “Just shut up and stop trying to understand shit.”

  AISHE

  The playful, insistent Troy of the van trip disappears as soon as we get to the venue. He sighs, looking me over, tenderness drifting through his gaze like seafoam.

  “I’m gonna go play now,” he says.

  “I’m aware.” My response is laconic though I understand what he’s really saying.

  He chuckles, shoulders rocking as if he’s mostly made to laugh. “That too. But I’ll be warming up first.” He snaps a pair of drumsticks together, causing a short, wooden click to sound in the air between us.

  “Right.” I smirk now that I’m not as annoyed with him anymore. Last night, I politely asked him to get off my bed and out of my room as soon as he was done with his Average-Joe love versus Drago-Fuoc comparison.

  “You’ll be watching the show?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be with the girls.”

  He does a one-handed twirl of a drumstick. “Good, all the pretties will be onstage.”

  “The what?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugs. Then he changes his mind. “We call you the pretties.”

  “Sexist, much?” That’s what I say, but subtle approval is thick in my voice. Who doesn’t want to be one of the pretties?

  “Yeah, we need to work on that,” he says. “So… what do you pretties call us when we’re not around?”

  We’re entering into the backstage labyrinth that sucked up the rest of our group.

  “The orchestra,” I say, and he bursts out laughing.

  “No, that’s not true. We always, always refer to you as Bo, Emil, Elias, and Troy. Always in that order too.”

  “Handy. Does anyone ever leave before you’ve gotten to your point?”

  I suppress a smile. “Naw. Just kidding. We call you ‘that piece of ass.’ And if we’re talking about more than one of you, it’s of course plural: ‘those pieces of ass.’ Easy.”

  “Interesting. Do you ever do ‘the ass pieces’ for short if you’re in a hurry?”

  A snort slinks out of me. “Wow, that’s crazy lame, and definitely sexist.”

  “Reverse sexism.” He twists his lips, making them plump in the middle. “Think I’d be okay with you objectifying me.”

  I shake my head, staring him down like I can’t believe this kid. “You’re so bad.”

  “For sure. I’m a very bad boy.” He juts his lower lip out. It’s pink, fleshy, juicy, with a hint of moisture that makes a girl want to—

  “That’s a thing, I hear. Girls dig it.” He taps his chin with a drumstick, turning to face me, and I realize we’re already at his dressing room. Wow. That was fast.

  I do a little eye-roll, Troy-style: slow, lazy, and not all the way there.
>
  His smile is breathtaking. Then, his mouth relaxes, gaze darkening. “Aishe. So I usually do this alone. The warm-up. The getting-in-the-zone part.”

  “Oh yeah, I won’t interrupt! Even if you bang on every surface in there. I know the drill now. I’m not going to barge in like I did.”

  I back away. My cheeks heat a little, thinking I’ve already intruded on his pre-show ritual by lagging behind with him, joking around.

  Then again… No. I don’t have anything to feel bad about. Slowing someone’s pace is a bit different than coercing people’s bodies into deeds their minds never approved of. Troy stoked my love fire and reaped my misplacement of it.

  Was it though?

  Was it misplacement?

  My brain! Wretched, dumb, lame, stupid, a mess of nerves short-circuiting. Enough with the questions, enough with complicating everything!

  Of course my love fire was misplaced; if you think you love one person—Emil in my case—and you end up making love to someone else…?

  Okay: what I need is to remember that whatever I do to Troy, no matter how sweet he is, I have nothing to feel bad for.

  He went through with it.

  He did.

  All the way.

  “No, I was going to say I’d love to have you with me, in there. If you’d like to,” he says, cutting into my swirl of reasonings. He lifts his shoulders, and for a second, I let their deep luster lick at me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I just want to check out the merch stand since I’m here anyway,” I say.

  “Please don’t work.” He runs his stare down the wide silk skirt I’m wearing. It’s decidedly me and reaches the tips of my toes. “We’ll figure out a salary for you either way. I just would really like to know that you’re not meeting customers face to face upstairs. I don’t want you hurt again.”

  He sends a quick look behind him, and I know he’s torn between his worry for me and the warm-up he needs. Drumsticks ticking along his thigh, he bores his stare back into me, hoping for the right answer.