Where I Found You

by Heidi R. Kling

  Occasionally, between chalk drawings, I scanned the path for Deni.

  I didn’t see him.

  Eventually, other kids started to wind down the path toward the meeting hall. A European donor was visiting this morning, and the Acehnese kids had to rearrange their schedules to perform the welcome ceremony to greet her.

  I thought about what Deni said. Was the pesantren owner getting richer off these donors who thought the money was helping the kids? I thought about his golden plates, his golden life. How much was true and how much was rumors?

  I lay in bed for hours after Deni left me behind the building, staring at the broken ceiling fan, urging it to move, wondering what happened at the boys’ group meeting the night before. I was desperate to see him again, wondering why it was he looked at our hands that way. I knew he wanted to spend time with me, to touch me, so it was more than that. His eyes had shadowed with an almost haunted look before he excused himself and rushed off.

  Sigh.

  All I could do was squeeze my eyes shut, count goats, and think about home. I even did the relaxation techniques Dad taught me. First relax your toes, one by one; are they relaxed? Okay, now relax your ankles; are they relaxed? Good, now relax your calves, et cetera, et cetera. Nothing. All I could see was Deni’s face when he stared at our hands. The sadness and frustration in his serious expression. Was it because I was leaving soon? Because I got that. Believe me I did. Sigh.

  The little girls tumbled onto the grass in a heap, playing and scrambling with my chalk. I squinted at them, shielding my eyes from the sun. Dad said I shouldn’t wear my sunglasses here so people could see my eyes. “Only tourists wear sunglasses,” he said on my first day. “Besides, eyes are the windows to the soul, Sienna.”

  True. So they saw into my blinded soul. I grinned to myself, and then suddenly a flash of black and white and gorgeous was standing between the sun and me.

  “Hello,” Deni said, freshly showered. His shirt flapped opened around the collar, and I couldn’t help staring at his smooth skin, already glowing with morning sweat.

  “Hello,” I said back. I couldn’t help but smile. Then I realized the girls watched me watch him, and I needed to fill in the silence. “Do you know where the goat is?” I blurted out. “The girls don’t seem to know.”

  The goat? You think about him all night and then ask about a goat?

  “The goat? The goat was eaten,” he said.

  I gasped. “By who?”

  “Us.” He stretched out his hand to include me and the girls. “Me. You. Us.”

  “We? Me? I ate the sad goat? When did I eat the sad goat?”

  He chuckled. “Last night. You saw meat in the fried noodles? That was goat.”

  My stomach churned. “Oh.”

  He offered me a hand and pulled me to standing. “Better than horse, no?”

  We were eye to eye, and then the girls moved in between us, tugging on Deni, trying to get his attention. He spoke to them in their language, then playfully grabbed the chalk in one hand and hid it behind his back. The delighted girls pointed and guessed which hand.

  “Good drawings,” Deni said, glancing down at the sidewalk art. “I like that one the best.” He pointed to one of Elli’s drawings, an orange stick girl with blue eyes and yellow zigzag hair.

  He grinned. “But your skin does not look that orange in real life.”

  “I’m wearing a peach shirt!” I protested. “And orange shoes.” I pointed to my old Converses. “My skin is not orange.”

  “Ahh. I see.”

  And I was sure, from the way he was looking at me, that Deni felt the same way.

  But the little girls were paying too close attention, so I shook off those kinds of thoughts. “I don’t know if it helps them—the art—to get over their bad memories, but it’s fun.”

  “It is nice of you to come and try to help us.”

  It was the first time he’d mentioned it. He hadn’t asked why I was there with my dad and Team Hope. And I didn’t know what to tell him if he had.

  “I’m happy they like it.”

  “They like you,” Deni said in a low voice. “You bring light where you go.”

  I felt my face flush. I did?

  He grinned and started walking away.

  No way was I letting him disappear again so easily. I fell into step beside him. “Why is everyone so dressed up?”

  Kids were a dozen thick surrounding Deni and me now. All the Acehnese kids were wearing their school uniforms: black pleated skirts with a gentle flare at the hem for the girls and black cotton pants for the boys. White button-down shirts for both. The girls’ heads and necks were covered with white hijabs—only their tan faces stuck out. The boys were wearing traditional hats that I’d learned were called song koks.

  Everyone seemed at ease except Deni.

  “Same thing repeatedly. We perform, the pesantren owner gets richer. Do we see any money? No. I got some money from a donor once. He gave me five hundred euros. You know what I did? I passed it out to the children. It is ours. Why should I give it to Bapak? He was very angry I did not give it to him. He is still angry about the five hundred euros. It is like nothing I do can please him.”

  “That must be really frustrating.”

  He glanced at me. “It is. It is almost too much.”

  I waited alone outside the door listening to Bapak’s predictable speech. He was obviously back. I hated the part when he segregated the kids by how their parents died. It was loud when the kids shuffled to stand and quiet when each group sat back down. Finally, I heard the loud beats of the Acehnese drum circle filling the air, and I knew Deni was where he was supposed to be.

  Above me, dark rain clouds gathered. A crack of thunder shook the sky. When heaven split open and rain began to fall, I tilted my chin back, closed my eyes, and let water dance across my face, down my cheeks, neck, chest.

  All around me, wet dirt turned to mud.

  Heavy drops of rain plop, plop, plopped onto the ground.

  After the morning ceremony, the rain ceased and the kids had to go to class.

  Their schoolroom was mostly dried out, and it was back to work studying religion, English, and math.

  I wrote in my journal while they were busy. Took a nap. Went to group with Vera. This time another girl shared. Her story was more hopeful: she managed to get her little brother to safety, and they were both at the pesantren. He was one of the soccer kids I played with.

  “Sienna? Do you have anything you’d like to share?” Vera asked.

  I was sitting cross-legged, picking at my shoelaces. “No.”

  “Maybe someday soon?” she asked.

  I met her eyes. “Maybe,” I said, honestly. It seemed to help the girls. The sharing. I wondered if it might help me.

  After group, I chatted with the older girls for a little while. It wasn’t as easy to talk to them as it was to the younger ones. Maybe because I felt guilty for hiding this secret. For hiding my relationship with Deni.

  “That was an amazing story,” I told the girl who shared. “What’s your name?”

  “Nada.”

  “I’m Sienna. That’s so amazing that you saved your brother. I’m totally in awe.”

  She smiled shyly. She wore a filmy lavender hijab and round-rimmed glasses.

  I asked if I could take her picture. She said yes and smiled when I clicked.

  After another simple dinner of rice (this time, thankfully, with no mystery meat), I joined Dad and the kids at the pesantren on the field for a soccer game.

  Rain long gone, the day had grown scorching, as if the sun was making up for all that time behind the clouds. I couldn’t believe the boys were running around playing soccer, half of them in pants. Even near sunset, it was still broiling. The heat soaked into the grass under my palms.

  I sat next to Dad holding a cold water bottle to my forehead, wishing we had a pool to jump into.

  Deni was goalie, and he was good. I watched him leap into the air, sweat pouring
down his face as he stopped the other team’s ball repeatedly. His black T-shirt stuck to his chest with sweat. After he headed the ball, he grinned my way.

  “How did your art therapy go this morning? And Vera’s group this afternoon?” Dad asked.

  “Huh?” I was still watching Deni play, wondering if anyone else caught his smile in my direction. That was me he was grinning at, right? Blinking, I focused on my dad.

  “The chalk art with the little girls before the ceremony? The therapy?”

  “Oh, yeah. Art was good.”

  “Excellent! The little girls seem receptive to the art? Vera said you gave her some great feedback yesterday, by the way.” He eyed me carefully. “She got a lot out of looking at their pictures.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes. She said you were very perceptive about using art to gauge PTSD.”

  I shrugged. “It just makes a lot of sense, using art to describe emotion, like a story or a song. I mean, it’s all sort of the same.” Like the stories on the stone carvings at the temple. Everyone has a story.

  Dad nodded. “Yeah, it is. Same tools, different mediums. How is the teen group?”

  I shrugged again. “I don’t know. It’s sad. The stories are awful. I don’t feel like I’m helping.”

  “Well, I can talk to Vera, have her give you something more to do—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “It’s fine. I take pictures when they let me. Vera needs some for her research project and asked me if I could.”

  He was smiling at me.

  “What?” I wiggled around in the grass.

  “So you’re okay with joining the teen group?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine.”

  He seemed way too happy for something that was not a big deal. “That’s great, honey.”

  Yeah, okay. Anyway. We sat quietly for a few minutes, me watching Deni while pretending not to be watching Deni, which was kind of hard when your dad was a psychiatrist.

  “He seems like a nice kid,” Dad said, glancing at me sidelong.

  Caught.

  “Yeah, he is. I can’t believe he can move like that in this weather,” I said. “In pants, even. I’d be crawling across the grass. I mean, I haven’t even done anything physical today and look at me.” I lifted my arms to show him they were glistening with sweat.

  “They’re used to it. They don’t know anything different.”

  “They would probably think Angel Miguel was cold. Especially the foggy mornings.”

  “Probably. Speaking of home, you can call Bev and Spider with the international cell phone if you want.”

  Just then, Deni caught my eye. I was thinking his smile might melt me right into the muddy grass if Dad’s words hadn’t soaked me back up.

  I wouldn’t mind telling Bev about Deni. “Sure, maybe later. They’re probably sleeping now, right?”

  He rambled on about time differences and what we were going to do tomorrow, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything except Deni.

  When the game ended and the soccer crowd and Dad slowly migrated toward the dorms, I hung out on the grass, absently studying my phrase book, waiting. When everyone was gone, Deni finally wandered over.

  I handed him my bottle of water, which he drained in one long gulp.

  “Good game,” I said.

  “Terima kasih.” He wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “Thanks for watching.”

  “Why were you making fun of me at the first greeting ceremony when I thanked you? You know, when I said terima kasih and you sort of laughed?”

  His brows knitted. “Making fun? I did not make fun. I thought it was a sweet thing, that you learned our words of thank you and tried to use them. I was also very nervous. It is not common a beautiful stranger appears at the pesantren.”

  Oh. The butterflies in my stomach swooped and soared.

  “I was nervous, too,” I confessed before adding shyly, “but mostly excited. I don’t usually do things like this. Travel to places I’ve never been. Meet new people…”

  People like you.

  “But that is the fun of it, no? Seeing new things with new eyes,” he said, the tone of voice giving the words a different meaning. “Would you like to go with me someplace tomorrow night?”

  Like a real date?

  “Where?” I asked, twirling a piece of hair around my finger.

  “Someplace. Do not worry. I will not be so dirty when we go,” he said.

  His forearms glistened in the rosy twilight. I didn’t care if he was dirty, clean, or what. I’d go now if that was what he was offering.

  I lowered my voice, looking around for spies. “How will we sneak out?”

  He shrugged like details, details. “You will come to the gate before dinner. I will take care of the rest.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He grinned. How was I supposed to say no to that?

  “I will see you then,” he said.

  “See you,” I replied.

  When he was out of my sight, I fell back onto the prickly grass, hummingbirds zipping around in my stomach. I watched the silver clouds above me, full and ready to burst.

  I knew exactly how they felt.

  I sighed. Oh, man. I was in so much trouble.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After a painfully tedious day of waiting and waiting and waiting some more for dinnertime, I told Dad that I was tired and headachy. That I’d had a long day, what with the art and the teen therapy and the soccer game, etc. That I needed a hot shower, and no, I wouldn’t drink any of the water. The old wash and spit. Game on.

  We’d worked that afternoon on setting up the Family System and matching older kids with younger ones. I told Dad I had the perfect girl for our bunk, and he said she could try tonight.

  With my teen friend in the dorm, he said I was off duty. No worrying about being back in time to tuck in Elli and the other girls.

  And voila! I was free. As long as I didn’t get caught sneaking out.

  Biting my lip and looking around to make sure no one was watching me, I slipped easily through the open crack of the white wooden gate. When Deni spotted me, I felt his eyes running over me, seemingly surprised at my new and improved appearance.

  He and the gatekeeper were chatting as the Indonesian sunset—pink, yellow, orange—shone on their faces. The gatekeeper was smoking but Deni’s cigarette was unlit.

  “Those things will kill you, you know,” I said to Deni, shyness creeping into my voice. “You look nice.”

  Deni was dressed up, too. Blue button-down shirt tucked into tan chinos, his thick wavy hair wet and combed. Even his partial goatee was shaved off, leaving nothing but smooth chin. His hands were shoved in his pockets in a meaningful way. How could putting your hands in your pockets look meaningful? But somehow he pulled it off.

  I lifted my ankle-length skirt, careful not to let the eyelet bottom drag in the dirt. My hair was clean, shining, loose down my back. And that was no small effort. Washing and conditioning with Elli as my sidekick, pouring bucket after bucket of fresh water on my hair, then running the comb through it over and over, untangling the knots, had taken ages.

  But now here I was. Here we were.

  Me smelling like buttercups, and Deni like soap and cigarettes and opportunity.

  Deni said something to the gatekeeper, who threw his head back, laughing. Then Deni shot me a sweet look. “You look beautiful.”

  “So do you,” I said. “How did you get out of here without anyone noticing your nice clothes?”

  “I change here,” he said, gesturing toward the gatekeeper’s booth.

  “Smooth.”

  “And you?”

  “I have my ways,” I said with a grin. Basically, I snuck out the same way we snuck out back home: fast and when no one is looking, after ensuring the excuse is solid.

  I hopped on the back of his waiting bike, and we took off toward town. He found a place to park, and again, helped me off the bike.

  “Ready?” he asked, excit
edly.

  “Ready.”

  Deni held my arm protectively as we pushed our way through the crowded, busy city streets. “Men will try to sell you things and may say things to you. Ignore them. Stay with me. Right by my side.”

  “Okay.” Absolutely. No problem at all.

  I grinned to myself as he pulled me along, darting across the streets wild with traffic. As predicted, shop owners stood in front of booths trying to persuade us to buy their wares, just like in Borobudur.

  Come here, angel. Three American dollars for this real gold necklace.

  Deni waved them away. “No, no, no. Come on with me,” he said to me.

  Everywhere I looked was a new sight, a burst of color, a splash of noise—foreign chatter, blaring pop music, and air of exotic danger being in a strange city with a strange boy who made me wake up in places previously on pause, and there was nowhere else I’d rather be.

  “Here’s a good place,” he said, pulling me into an open-air restaurant. Tapestries and smoke and several TVs filled the spice-scented room.

  After checking us out curiously, the hostess led us to a low table that hovered just inches above the ground. We sat on fluffy orange pillows on the floor.

  “Makasih,” Deni said to the waitress.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked, squirming to get comfortable.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not terima kasih?”

  “Not as formal. That is more for tourists. Like you.”

  “See? You were laughing at me.”

  “No. I was not,” he said, his eyes shiny and earnest.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, my voice smiling. Vibrant singing and dancing blasted from the TV screen in the corner. I squinted, looking closer. Young Indonesians dressed in flashy clothes and wearing tons of makeup performed on a colorful stage in front of an audience. It looked like some sort of talent competition. “What is this show?”

  “Indonesian Idol.”

  I spit out some of the ice orange soda the waitress had brought over and had to wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “Sorry. Oh my God, like American Idol?”