Raven's Flight

by Chrys Cymri - BooksGoSocial Fantasy P

  The restaurant we went to was in the Gallery Place area. It was one that I had been to before. It was really nice, and quite busy on Saturday night.

  Our waiter, like an inordinate amount of waiters in this town, was Hispanic. I chatted with him briefly. He was from El Salvador. He asked me where I was from and I told him, “Barcelona.” I also told him that Tarek was from Miami, at which point he looked at Tarek curiously.

  He took our order and left.

  Tarek looked at me. “You like doing that, don’t you?”

  I was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You like discombobulating people by telling them I’m from Miami, like with your coworker on the metro.”

  “Hey, you told him you were from Miami,” I countered. But I was amused that he had used the word discombobulated, since I had taught it to him.

  “Touche. But you didn’t correct me.”

  “Who am I to correct you? If you want to say you’re from Miami, you can say that. Technically, it’s the truth. You’ve been living there for a long time, right?”

  “True.”

  But he was right about something. I did like causing confusion in people. By that I mean, I liked making people think about things. He knew me a little bit. We hadn’t known each other that long but we were figuring each other out. The thing that bothered me was, I was showing my cards before he was showing his. I felt like he knew more about me than I knew about him. I made a decision then to try to work on that.

  “So,” I said then, trying to read his face, “if people ask me where you’re from, what do you want me to say?”

  He smiled, leaning his elbows on the table. I was leaning forward with my arms folded. It was noisy (almost every restaurant in DC is noisy) and I leaned forward a little more to hear him.

  “You can say whatever you want.”

  That was no answer.

  I knew what his issue was with answering the question where he was from. It was the same issue I had. If someone whom I barely knew casually asked me where I was from, to tell the entire truth I would have to give them this long explanation. My mother is from Argentina. To which they would ask, “Then why do you speak Spanish with a Castilian accent?” To which I would answer, “My father is from Spain.” To which they would say, “But why don’t you speak English with a Spanish accent?” As if the fact that my parents are non-native English speakers means that, by definition, I’m unable to speak English without a foreign accent.

  Or they would say, “So are you from Spain or Argentina?” It was annoying and I didn’t like to play twenty questions with people who were practically strangers.

  I was starting to get lost in my thoughts. Then Tarek said, “So you consider yourself from Barcelona?”

  I looked at him. “Where do you think I should say I’m from?”

  “Can’t you answer a question directly?” He didn’t miss a beat.

  “Sure, when you answer one directly,” I said a bit accusingly. I huffed and then leaned more closely toward him. “Tarek,” I explained, “I asked you where you think you’re from and you didn’t answer me. So why should I answer your question any differently?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “You’re right. I guess I don’t know how to answer the question.”

  I softened a little bit. I had been right. “Look, I feel the same way. It’s easier to say I’m from Barcelona because of my accent. That way people don’t keep asking questions like, how come I speak with a peninsular accent if my mom is from Argentina?”

  “So you answer the question in a way that requires no further interrogatories?”

  “Yes, pretty much. It’s for efficiency’s sake.”

  “You’re very logical.”

  “Yes, I’m the consummate rational actor.” Indeed, it was the only way I knew how to be. But there was something else. “But it’s also—” I hesitated.

  Tarek was listening intently. Then he said, “You don’t necessarily want people to know your whole story.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded.

  If he wondered about that, he didn’t say anything to the effect.

  “But where do you really feel that you’re from?” he asked me. From his eyes, I had the impression he was trying to figure it out for himself.

  “From here.”

  “The U.S.?”

  “Yes, I was born here. It’s the best place I know of to live. But—” I paused, wondering how to say this. “I have the impression that many people don’t consider me American. And when I go to Spain, I have the impression that they don’t really consider me Spanish either. And in Argentina they don’t consider that I’m Argentine because of my accent. So it’s like I told you the other day, it’s a loaded question. But I’m American, with a little Spanish and Argentine thrown in. That’s how I feel.”

  Tarek smiled. “That’s how I feel too. From here but with some other cultural influences.”

  “A lot of people don’t understand that,” I told him.

  “For example, if I tell people that I’m from Miami, they ask me where I’m ‘really’ from.”

  I laughed. He had used air quotes for ‘really.’

  “What’s so funny?” Tarek asked me, curious.

  I was trying to hide my smile with my hand, but wasn’t doing a good job of it. “You did this,” I said as I mimicked the air quotes.

  He smiled. “I usually don’t do that. You must be rubbing off on me.”

  “The next thing you know, you’ll be dropping F-bombs.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I can do that.” He smiled.

  “Anyway,” I continued with our conversation, “Sorry about the detour. You were saying that people ask you where you’re really from.” I didn’t use air quotes because I was afraid I would start laughing again. “It’s because of your looks.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “People tell me all the time, ‘Oh, you’re not Hispanic,’ or ‘You don’t look like you speak Spanish,’ like Hispanic only means dark-skinned. Whatever.” I sighed, and relaxed a little. “I think that you can kind of absorb the best of all places, and to do that it doesn’t really matter where you’re technically from, if you’re technically from anywhere at all.”

  “Ooo, Isabel, be careful.”

  “Why?” I felt my brows furrow.

  “You’re starting to sound a little like an optimist.” His smile was broad.

  I scoffed. ”Oh, please.”

  Our waiter brought our salads. He also asked us if we wanted anything else to drink. We ordered wine. I ordered a Cabernet.

  “Feeling bitter?” Tarek asked me jokingly.

  I chuckled. “I always feel bitter.”

  Then he was serious. “I told you before, I don’t believe you’re really like that.”

  “Well, you haven’t known me for that long.”

  He didn’t respond to that. I had the feeling he was choosing his words carefully. I had the feeling that he always chose his words carefully. I wanted to see him ruffled. I thought back to the first few days of this semester, when we kept running into each other, but hadn’t really talked yet. A couple of times he had been a little uneasy, when I had caught him looking at me. Now, however, he was much more collected. I wondered if I would see him a little “ruffled” tonight.

  The waiter brought our drinks. I took a sip of wine. It was tasty. I had to pace myself since I was a cheap drunk. I usually didn’t drink that much.

  “Speaking of where you’re from, did you learn English in France? I’m guessing that you took English in school but weren’t really fluent until after you moved there.”

  “That’s right.” He was looking at me in a way that I didn’t fully register. It was like he was a bit impressed, but also, interested somehow. I was spending a lot of energy on trying to read him. “But the English classes you take in France aren’t really that great,” he continued. “I mean, besides, to be really fluent you have to maintain the language outside the classroom.”

  “It
’s similar in Spain. People who speak English well are the exception, usually.”

  “I wish I could lose my accent,” Tarek said then.

  “Oh, God no,” I said. The thought was horrifying.

  Tarek smiled. “Why, you like it?”

  “Very much.” I regained my composure a little. “But more important than whether I like it or not, it’s part of who you are. Like I can’t lose my Castilian accent when I speak Spanish. I can try an Argentine accent but it sounds forced.”

  “For the record,” Tarek leaned forward, “I love your Spanish accent.” He emphasized the word ‘love’ in a way that made my pulse race a little bit.

  I was speechless for a few moments. I picked at my salad and took another sip of wine. Then I thought of something to say.

  “So in Miami you hang around with a lot of Spanish-speaking people?” I was remembering his earlier comment about Latin women. He must have had a basis for saying that. I wanted to ask him how many Latin women he had dated in the past, but I didn’t have the guts.

  “Yes, a fair amount,” Tarek answered.

  “So how much Spanish do you really know?” I had the feeling he had been holding out on me.

  “I can get by,” he said. Then he added, “I know enough to have recognized your accent as being from Spain.” He smiled.

  He likes Latin women. And there’s something he’s not telling me. I didn’t really look Latin, though, except for the dark hair and eyes. But I was assuming that he liked me. Did he like me?

  Our entrees arrived. I had ordered pasta. I figured the carbs would give me the energy to dance later, and it was fairly innocuous to eat.

  I was thinking. I looked down at my hands for a minute, gathering courage. There was something I was dying to know. But I knew he wouldn’t answer it if I asked him directly. I considered that perhaps the question could wait. But wait until when? Once we were in the club, Josh and Eric would be there. It would also be way too noisy. I didn’t know when I would have the opportunity to ask it again.

  I would start with a seemingly unrelated question. My tactic was not to address it head on, but to find a way around it. Maybe this would work.

  “So how were your grades at the school where you went in Miami?” I asked.

  He looked at me, his interest piqued.

  “They were good.”

  “Like, top ten percent good?”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “You asked me what my grades were.” I was bluffing.

  But he called it. “And you didn’t answer, or you said something evasive.”

  I was about to put him on the spot. “As of now, I’m in the top ten percent of the class. What about you?” I reached for my wine glass and looked at him.

  Checkmate. You have to answer now, and I already know what the answer is.

  “I am too.” He was looking at me a bit suspiciously. He hadn’t seen this coming. I felt kind of bad blindsiding him, but not bad enough to stop. After all, he had hardly played any of his cards. In fact, I didn’t think he had actually played any, if indeed he had any cards to play.

  His look was questioning. I decided to get to the point. There was no time like the present. I put my utensils down and leaned forward across the table, folding my hands.

  “Tarek,” I began, a little nervously, “I’m a little curious. Your grades are excellent. So—why did you insist on studying with me?”

  He was definitely surprised. He also looked like I had just beaten him at some competition. It was the look my sisters gave me whenever I crushed them in chess, which had been often when we were younger. Neither of them had had any patience for it.

  He didn’t say anything at first. I was looking right into his eyes and I could see him thinking about what to say. I immediately felt like I shouldn’t have asked the question. He was new to the city, new to the school. I should be nicer to him. He had been so nice to me.

  That last thought echoed in my head. There was something about the way he treated me. I felt like I didn’t always deserve how he treated me.

  Without thinking about it, I reached my hand across the table but then I came out of my reverie just in time and I started to control myself. I ended up touching the back of his hand with my index finger. I left it there for a second. At the contact with his skin, I felt electric. His skin was so smooth. He still hadn’t said anything.

  “Tarek, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s OK. I—you know, I didn’t know anyone here.” He seemed hesitant, so I continued.

  “The truth is—I don’t care what the reason was.” Wait, what? “I—I’m really enjoying spending time with you.” The words had tumbled through my lips. The worst part was, it was the truth. Then I felt embarrassed, like I had played a major card I hadn’t intended on playing.

  I took my hand back as he was turning his over. Wait, was he going to touch mine? I couldn’t tell.

  I smiled nervously and could feel myself blushing. I looked down.

  “Isabel.”

  I looked up again. I couldn’t believe that I had played that card. The way things were going, I was going to be left standing with an empty deck by the end of the night.

  “Why do you think I wanted to study with you?” A Socratic-type question. But he wasn’t trying to trick me, I could tell, not like I had tried to trick him. He looked—a little anxious.

  I shook my head and my brows furrowed. “I don’t know, Tarek.” That was a true statement.

  He smiled hesitantly, and his eyes were charged, full of emotion. “Yes, you do.”

  He had finally played one card.

  We lingered over coffee and tea because I knew that Josh was usually late, and I didn’t want to wait for him on the street. He could wait for us.

  Well, I had wanted to see Tarek a little ruffled, and I had. It was only a glimpse, though. But it was enough.

  After our exchange we had sat in silence for a couple of moments. Then I had spoken.

  “Tarek?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m sorry I was such a jerk to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we first met, when we first talked, I wasn’t the nicest person.”

  He had smiled in a way that told me that that was an understatement.

  “It’s OK.”

  “It’s easier that way. If I’m a jackass all the time then people don’t talk to me.”

  “And you don’t want to talk to people?”

  “Not usually. People in this town usually disappoint me. And I always think the worst of people.”

  “So that you’re not disappointed?” How did he know that?

  “Right.”

  “Are you frequently disappointed?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding.

  “Were you disappointed with me?”

  His question surprised me. I looked at his eyes. It was an honest question.

  I answered immediately, without thinking about it. “No.” It was almost a whisper. “Au contraire.”

  His smile was genuine.

  Now, while having our coffee and tea, we were talking about law school and classes and the students.

  “Why don’t you like Alyssa?” Tarek asked me then.

  “Tarek, I don’t like anyone,” I said, somewhat resignedly. Then I qualified the statement. “I mean, the number of people that I actually like, I could count on one hand. My sisters, you, Josh, Melanie, Dinesh and Eric.” I paused. “OK, so I guess that’s more than five, but I don’t like Josh and Eric all the time.” I smiled.

  “You don’t like her because she’s intellectually beneath you.” He raised one eyebrow.

  “Not exactly. I don’t necessarily care about that. It’s—she doesn’t take anything seriously. She’s a typical Millennial. For her, and people like her, it’s all about planning nights out and shit.”

  “And you think everyone should take everything seriously all the time?”<
br />
  “Don’t you?” Now I raised one eyebrow.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes.” Then I qualified again. “Well, I think that everyone should take most things seriously all the time.”

  “You take everything seriously, down to the clothes you wear.” I ignored the reference to my clothes, or to the fact that his statement meant that he paid attention to what I wore.

  My voice got quiet. “Life is too short not to take things seriously.” I was thinking about my father. “Your life could change in a second. You know that.”

  Tarek’s expression softened. “I can’t argue with that.”

  My mood was getting too dark. I would try to lighten it a little. “Even having fun, that should also be taken seriously. I mean, that’s why I schedule it in my calendar.” I smiled.

  He grinned broadly.

  I looked at my watch. “We can get going whenever you want. It’ll take about fifteen minutes to walk over to the club.”

  His grin was playful. What was he going to say? I suddenly got nervous. “What if I don’t want to get going?”

  “Then we’ll stay. I’m easy.” Wait, what? “I mean, I’m—I’m not easy—” My face felt flush. I started rambling. “I’m easygoing, as in, I don’t care either way. Easygoing, that’s what I meant. I swear to God.”

  Tarek appeared amused by my discombobulation. “I knew what you meant.” His eyes were bright and smiling.

  I exhaled.

  Our waiter appeared then. “I’ll take this when you’re ready.” He placed our check on the edge of the small table, so that it was equidistant from both of us. It made me smile inwardly.

  As soon as the waiter turned his back, I firmly put my hand on the bill. Tarek did the same but I had planned ahead and was faster.

  His hand ended up on top of mine, but mine didn’t move. I was determined.

  We were looking at each other. I could tell that he was a little exasperated with me.

  “Isabel, I’m paying.” He had a serious look on his face.

  “Tarek, please let me pay.” I was thinking again about the fact that he wasn’t working.

  “Look, I know you’re a feminist—” he started to say.

  “It has nothing to do with that.” That was a true statement. In my mind, a woman should never assume that a man would pay for her. But I also thought, and Melanie agreed with me, that if the man asked the woman out, that the man should pay. Tarek had asked me to dinner so, following that logic, he should pay. But he had paid for me on other occasions, when the rules didn’t require him to, and besides, this wasn’t a date, like he said.