"Probably," said Camille, "What do you think I should do?"
"Well. Let's go back to the beginning. You want to keep the baby."
"I do," said Camille, "I don't wanna give it up."
"That's brave."
"I don't think it's coming from so much bravery as it is that I want something to hold on to," said Camille, "That was the thing with staying at Key Way. I guess I got caught up with David because I was so sure I needed this job. I just wanted to feel like I had a foothold. I don't want my degree to just be hanging on the wall. I wanna be doing something."
"Don't we all. I tell you what. Come over for a sleepover. We'll figure this out."
"I wouldn't wanna impose," said Camille, "I just wanted to pick your brain and ask what you thought I should do."
"Well, let's get you into a permanent role at Key Way, then we'll see what's left to do." She smiled.
"You're just so genuine," said Camille, "We've always gotten along, but you know I've realized there seems to be this survival instinct that forces people to get along when they are in social situation. It's like college. You think people are your friend, until you are SOL and then they bail on you. They turn on a dime."
"I've been on the Island all my life. I didn't go away for college. So I would say I haven't been in flux. What happens here stays here, and I've stayed here. My parents left. My friends left. But I've stayed, somehow."
"I'm glad you did," said Camille. I smiled. Knowing Camille was pregnant changed my plan. At least, it changed my attitude about my plan. I wasn't gonna sit with an alcoholic drink in front of a pregnant woman. So we left. Camille followed me back to my place. The entire drive back, I was thinking how my role had changed. The last time I had my clique--my girls around me--I was in high school. But then it was about being part of the team, being one of the girls. I saw the change. I now felt like den mother. It started with Jessie. When she kissed me it was a shock. But it wasn't my role to be eternally shocked by Jessie. It was my place to welcome my baby girl back home. It was for me to let her know she was still mine. She was my girl, even as a lesbian. She had learned something new about herself. But so did I. I had mad maternal instincts.
It played through with Camille. I didn't just think about her. I thought about the person inside her. I read somewhere that children can experience their mother's emotions in the womb. The more stressed or depressed was Camille, her baby would experience the same. I wasn't gonna let that happen. It felt like maturity. I was always a jealous one. But I guess that was the seed of maternal instinct. It was a protective net. Jealousy was similiar. Jealousy was about boundaries. Being mama bear was about protective boundaries. I guess jealous bitches became protective mothers. It made me feel better about being one. I offered to change the sheets and let Camille sleep on the bed. But once she saw the Rainbow Brite blanket she said she wouldn't mind the couch. She needed to go back in time, like I did. She needed to go grab some girl space. The pressure of being a woman was getting thick--needing a job, having a baby. Curling up on the couch with Rainbow Brite was acknowledging her own vulnerability. It relieved the pressure of being a woman for the next coming hours. She was a college grad. There was a need to hold her head up, start her career. And she was supposed to take whatever came her way, ball it up and throw it back. She had to do all that. She wasn't a kid anymore. She was having a baby of her own. Her childhood was over. She would have to fight for inches and lose them. Then she'd have to fight to get them back. But it could wait. The purple blanket kept that shit at bay. She woke up with a smile on Saturday morning. That smile was something I was trying for, even though I didn't know it. I knew it when I saw it. I don't know why it took so long. Camille was also riding a little wave of her own. We had been desk surfing side-by-side: me with Longboard; she with David.
"Coffee or tea?"
"Coffee," said Camille.
"That's my girl."
"Are you a coffee drinker?" she asked.
"Drinker, would imply I drink coffee. If I had to be honest I would say my blood runs black."
"Damn!" said Camille.
"Some times you just gotta open up and admit shit."
"True," said Camille, "Shit deserves to be admitted."
"That's cool the way you said that."
"Whadda ya mean?" said Camille.
"Deserves to be admitted."
"Well it kinda does, doesn't it?" said Camille, "That's why I wanna have this baby. I think it's like you said. It only takes one time to get knee-deep into something. But I knew I was off the pill and I did what I did anyway. The thing itself, it deserves to be admitted. I didn't get here by any accident."
"None at all."
"I think that's where my anxiety and depression came from," said Camille.
"From where?"
"Well, my parents helped me out a lot when I was studying," said Camille, "So I admit that. But I've got my degree so it's time for me to get out on my own. I've got to do my own thing. I just got anxious about the idea of being out here with no job. Then I'd either have to ask my parents for more money or move back in with them."
"They probably wouldn't mind that."
"No, probably not," said Camille, "But it's time for me to be an adult. It deserves to be admitted. I need to make really good decisions, so I don't have to rely on them as much anymore."
"Don't we all. That actually reminds me of something."
"What?" said Camille.
"Tell me what you think. Like you say, shit deserves to be admitted. Well I hooked up with this guy two weeks ago when he was here in town. I met him when I went with my girlfriend to Kaua'i, for a weekend away. He operates this jet-ski business. He was nice so I gave him my number. He called me up two weekends ago when he was in Honolulu. He took me out. And we hooked up."
"How was it?" asked Camille.
"Superb."
"Damn girl," said Camille.
"What?"
"Do you know how you said that?" said Camille.
"How did I say it?"
"Like you're still wanting it," said Camille.
"I'm pleading the fifth on that."
"Shit deserves to be admitted," said Camille.
"Oh shit! You got me. Check mate."
"So spill it," said Camille, "What's going on with this dude?"
"Well nothing really at the moment. I mean I didn't know if he'd call me when he was on the Island or not. Then he did. And that got me interested. Cuz he was interested. But since he got back to Kaua'i, radio silence. But I called him last week. And it was cool. Nothing lost. But I don't get called. I don't get texts. The only time we've spoken since he's been back to Kaua'i is when I called him last."
"Did you bring it up?" asked Camille.
"Naw. Just talked like what’s going on. That sort of convo."
"Maybe you should bring it up," said Camille, "Call him out."
"It might be too early for that."
"I think you should just set him straight early," said Camille, "People think men are dogs. In reality their like puppies. You train 'em up early, you won't have any problems."
"You're like the dude-whisperer."
"More like the man-whore whisperer," said Camille, "Those are the ones I've had to deal with most often. They cheat on me and I cut 'em loose. They gotta know there are rules and rules apply."
"That's true. You know what?”
“Tell me,” said Camille.
“I haven’t seen my friend Jessie in a few weeks. Lets see if she’s open to meeting up.”
“Is she as cool as you?” said Camille.
“Is anyone?”
“Good point,” said Camille.
“She’s like a Chinese version of Chloe Sevigny.”
“Really,” said Camille, “I thought that girl was one of a kind.”
“She is but she’s not Chinese.”
“Yeah so I guess she’s still one of a kind,” said Camille.
“We all are.” I called Jessie and she was off Sunday,
she said she would be tired by the time she got off Saturday at 10:30 pm but still agreed to come out.
That night, come out meant sitting at the U-shaped bar listening to live electronic violin and piano. We swung by Camille’s apartment to grab her something to wear. The restaurant was called Tin Reef. The name was an ode to the large organic looking reef sculpture that hung, like a chandelier, in what could have been the restaurant’s center. The place was oblong and had no true center. But the reef sculpture could be seen from the four corners of the restaurant. We were at the bar so the reef sculpture hung behind us. The sculpture was made of tin—what else? Camille and I took my car and showed up at 10:30 pm. That was exactly when Jessie got off work. It would take her a good twenty minutes or more. We were ok because we reserved three seats at the bar. Actually, she did. Most places wouldn’t let you reserve seats at the bar. The bar was for those who couldn’t get a seat. Jessie had a member card for everywhere. Members could reserve seats at the bar. It didn’t happen often. But it happened with us. We name-dropped Jessie’s account and she sent me a text with a barcode. They were able to scan it at the bar and put it on her account. I didn’t like always piggybacking on Jessie’s wealth. I got to the point where I didn’t dislike it. But I didn’t want Camille to think that’s how I rolled. It didn’t seem to be an issue. She wanted in. She felt like an outsider on the Island since school. She felt popular again. It had been a while. But the lamps hanging over the bar were like drunk eyes—half open and half closed. They were hallmarks of the nightlife. So were the gathering diners, the pours and the chewing. We weren’t allowed to get stuck in, without Jessie. But I knew her. She was alright with us getting started. I got some chardonnay. Camille went for a Pink Virgin. It was a non-alcoholic version of a Pink Lady. The alcohol was replaced with carbonated water. It fit her. She looked a lot like Barbie. She was wearing a white cami with jeans and tan open toe booties. She always stood on a decent-sized heel. She had to compensate for the inches God didn’t give her or the Devil took.
We cheers and sipped. Jessie showed at four minutes past eleven.
“Parking is my excuse,” said Jessie, “I need a drink.” She fiddle in her purse and produced her member card.
“Their on me,” said Jessie.
“Jess.”
“Just the drinks,” said Jessie, “It makes it easier to close it all out.”
“Cool.”
“I’m Camille,” said Camille, “Nice to meet you. I work with Dawn.”
“You like it?” asked Jessie.
“Yeah,” said Camille, “I like it enough to stay. I’m a temp right now but I wish I could get a permanent position.”
“Maybe Dawn can help with that,” said Jessie.
“She’ll get in. I’m gonna do everything I can.”
“Yeah when Dawn commits to something she really commits to it,” said Jessie.
“Oh yeah.”
“Gin tonic,” said Jessie.
“Classy.”
“I try to be,” said Jessie, “Whatcha got there?”
“This is a Pink Virgin,” said Camille.
“What’s in it?” asked Jessie.
“It’s basically a Pink Lady with no alcohol,” said Camille.
“Are you religious or…” said Jessie. Camille looked at me. It was odd how abrupt Jessie was being with Camille. It wasn’t like her. Not on a first meeting, the girl worked in hospitality. I would’ve told Jessie that Camille was pregnant but not how she was acting.
“She’s sick. Just started feeling better.”
“Then she can drink then,” said Jessie, “What is she underage?”
“Why make her jinx it?”
“Yeah,” said Camille, “It’s probably not the best idea.”
“OK,” said Jessie, “But just so you know we get stuck in. So next time you come out drinking with us you gotta ride the liquid bull, capisce?”
“I will,” said Camille, “Just don’t let me drink you guys under the table. Keep up.”
“Oh wow,” said Jessie finishing her drink, “Street cred. You’ll have to show me how it’s done then.”
“Next time,” said Camille.
“Next time it is,” said Jessie. It almost seemed like Jessie was drinking before she got to the restaurant. Camille was on my left and Jessie was on my right. It was good that I was between them. The hostility was humid. I had never seen Jessie meet up with someone and start acting like that. But I thought about it and realized the last person she met from my work was Malia. And Malia was dead. But she didn’t die before telling me about the sex tape in her friend’s possession. Now, Jessie was making me wish I had friends like that. But I didn’t worry about it much until that point because I felt like I had Jessie backing me up. But now I wasn’t so sure. She was just acting narky. And narky isn’t a word I used often. But she wasn’t that way often. It was awkward, not just given Camille’s situation. It was awkward in general. We had three rounds and Jessie went to pay. As she stuck her hand out, I grabbed her wrist and squeezed it hard. I couldn’t think of any other way to let her now I wasn’t cool with her attitude.
“Let me get it.”
“OK,” said Jessie. The fact that she just said one word let me know she got the point. We ordered food just from the bar. Jessie got frosty. Camille was warm. I had never seen her otherwise. But the rest of the evening wasn’t about the climate. I was worried about Jessie. I had never seen her act like that before. Something was up. I had to get her to fess up. When we left the Tin Reef, Jessie gave Camille a big hug. It shocked Camille more than me, not that it didn’t shock me. It seemed Jessie was resigned to be a bitch toward Camille. The situation was more complicated than that, clearly. I learned something. I had to check up on Jessie more often. I just assumed she was good. Her family had money. She worked to get her own cash. But Jessie losing her job wasn’t the same as me losing mine. She could get her dad to hook her up. Me, well, desk surfing was invented for people like me. But just because Jessie had resources didn’t mean she didn’t get overwhelmed. We all do. We all did.
Chapter Seven
Camille decided to go back to her place that night. It was her own suggestion. I didn’t want to seem needy. But I wanted her to stay. I liked having her around. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t sleep Saturday night, too much to think about. That was always the deal with sleepless nights. My mind started to go everywhere. I started thinking about Malia. I started thinking about Longboard. I knew things the world at large didn’t. Maybe it was the alcohol in Malia’s system. But alcohol hit most chicks like truth serum. She was being as honest as she could, when she said she was blackmailing Longboard. Blackmail is pissing off. It had to be related to her death. Blackmail didn’t let either side rest easy. It was mutually beneficial, money for silence. But at the same time it wasn’t. If you needed someone to be silent, you could buy their silence. But money wasn’t the same as silence. Silence was the same as silence. Dead chicks tell no tales. I burnt out thinking about it. I brained out. But I had to get it right in my head. So I decide to decide. Malia was blackmailing Longboard. And Longboard had her killed. That was final. There was no point in thinking about it anymore. As for my sex tape, there wasn’t anything I could do. I could go to the police. Instinctively, that didn’t make sense. The Honolulu Police Department was like all others. It was mostly dudes. I didn’t go to dudes. I let dudes come to me. If they found video footage of me and Longboard doing the deed on his desk, then I’m sure they would track me down eventually. For me, that was the ideal scenario. They had more resources than I did. It didn’t make sense to exhaust myself trying to figure out someone like Malia and how to get her video files. If anything, I saw myself as being smarter than her. I was still alive. That was a harsh way to look at it. But my jealous streak had a way of twisting things to protect me. She seemed so superior when she walked off on the beach. Now she was pushing up daisies. Or more likely, she was pushing up hibiscus flowers. She was from the Island. Her family would m
ost likely bury her on the Island. I had my own life to worry about.
Come Monday morning, I remembered my life. With the info in my head, I was pretty sure Longboard wasn’t coming back to Key Way. I felt sad, even though I had him pegged as a murderer. I didn’t know if he pulled the trigger. Knowing how business-like he was, he probably hired a professional. Still, it was sad to think a guy who was responsible for over a hundred jobs in and around Honolulu had to crash out of the game of life like that. The ins-and-outs were always governed by our own decisions. He decided his way in and out. In reality, there was nothing to be sad about. As I parked, I remembered my own life strategy. The management structure at Key Way was choppy. But the one employee who was directly under me was Romy, the office receptionist. I made a point to say hi to her always but I had to really work on my charm offensive. If shit went down, I needed the one person in the office who was directly under me to support me, Jerry Maguire-style. I bought coffee at the coffee shop in the building and I bought two pineapple scones. But the excuse was free-of-charge. As I came off the elevator and saw Romy sitting behind the front desk, I went through the line one more time in my head. Then I spit it.
“Morning Romy.”
“Good morning Dawn,” she said with the usual smile.
“Hey, I bought two scones downstairs but my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I don’t think I can finish two. You want one? They’re fresh. I just bought ‘em.”
“Sure,” said Romy, “Thanks so much.”
“Calories.”
“In the morning,” said Romy.
“That’s true. Don’t save it for the evening.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Romy.
“Have a good one, Romy.”
“I’ll give it my best,” said Romy, “If you do.”
“Deal.” I proceeded to my office and opened my Outlook. There were two messages that I was interested in. One was from Tori Metz, the Director of Claims Processing Department. She sent a preliminary claims report. It was the second week of July. We had just wrapped up our second fiscal quarter for the year. I was single-handedly responsible for compiling the company reports and disseminating them. I spent the better part of the morning searching for old copies of the Key Way quarterly report. The question I wrestled with was whether to do a carbon copy of Brianna’s reports or follow her format but add my own style. Brianna used a lot of footnotes. As a former marketing assistant, I was familiar with the function of footnotes. We always had to protect our marketing material by dropping a footnote to say something was forward-looking. At the same time, marketing was more conservative with footnotes. I counted eleven pages out of forty-two that didn’t have footnotes. But that was Brianna’s last report. Prior reports had a few less footnotes. I guess as she got more familiar, the more she wanted to add. But business remained business.
Choppy (Desk Surfing Series Book 2) Page 8