Secrets We Kept

by Krystal A. Sital

  She spotted her father unloading something from the back of his mud-splattered jeep. It caught the light of the sun and beamed in her eyes. She rubbed at them and tried to figure out what he was doing and whether or not she could circumnavigate him, maybe skulk around the pomegranate tree and slip in through the kitchen, where her mother was no doubt clanging pots and pans together in preparation for dinner. Arya, he called to her, his back still turned. She froze for a moment, not sure if she should sprint or answer. Yeah, Pappy? she answered.

  Is yes. Nevah anyting else, yuh hear meh? She nodded at him and walked closer with hesitant steps, afraid he’d slap her round the head for not answering him the way he expected her to.

  Look wah ah geh foh yuh. He held a bicycle by its shiny new handlebars. The silver gleamed in the sunlight. Foh yuh toh go toh de new school.

  There had been rumors about Cunaripo Presbyterian having too many failures in the past couple of years, but with Guaico Presbyterian three times further away, Arya didn’t think she had a chance of going to a better school.

  —Ah doh know how e geh we een dah school, Krys, my mother tells me. Avinash too eh. Yuh see it like up here een America how everyting is accordin toh distrik, is de same way it was back den—yuh hah toh go toh school een yuh own village, and Guaico was de nex one ovah.

  Education, as well as status, was important to Shiva, and he would not tolerate having his children attend a failing school.

  —Yuh see, Krys, my mother tells me, meh di hah to walk toh school bout ah mile and ah half ahready, plenty time ah walkin barefoot, so toh make it to Guaico ah needed something like dis.

  Arya’s fingers reached up into her curls and twirled a spiral along her index finger. Foh me, Pappy? Never before had she owned something new. Being the fourth child of seven, things were always passed down no matter the gender.

  Yuh wahn it oh not? Meh goan return it if yeh eh wahn it! She dodged forward and snatched it from his grasp, darting backward just as fast with the bike, not wanting to stay within reach of him in case he felt like clouting her across the head for her previous lapse.

  —Krys, my mother says, ah din know if ah was dreamin . . .

  They stood together for a few seconds, a thank you pregnant between them but neither knowing how to deal with it until he said in his gruff voice, Goan an make yuhself useful. Clean up dem chicken pen. Arya teetered her schoolbooks on the bike seat and steadied them with her hand. She wheeled it into the ground floor, ignoring their vicious hunting dogs as she passed by.

  He continued to clank around in the back of his jeep. As soon as she was out of sight, she stopped, dropped her books, and ran her hands along the body of her new bike. This one item would instigate jealousy in her siblings. The metal was smooth and cool. Already she wanted to spray the hose on the tires to wash off the dirt it had collected in the ridges while she wheeled it from the front to the back of the house—that urge to keep something prized new for as long as she could.

  Her mother was rolling and pinching dough in the sweltering kitchen. Mammy ah hwome, Arya hollered as she parked her bike just outside the kitchen door. Who dey chile? Rebecca stuck her head outside. Oh Arya chile, is you, come come come and help meh quick toh chunkay de tomahto choka. Arya showed off her bike. Wah is dat? Whey yuh geh dat from? Rebecca asked. Pappy buy it foh meh. E say is foh de new school ah startin tomorrow. Me eh hah toh walk no moh. Is ah bettah school yuh know, Mammy.

  Huh! Her mother huffed and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving behind a puff of flour. Chile, fohget bi-sick-cle and come help meh wid de food. Yuh done ten yeahs and still kyant make ah propah tomahto choka. How yuh goan find ah husband me eh know. Arya trudged behind her mother, reluctant to leave her bike behind unguarded. Me know how toh cook, Ma. Since six yuh teachin meh. Ah go find ah husband juss fine, Arya said but thought to herself that whoever she decided to marry would have to haul ass and get her out of this godforsaken bush. The thought of escape was so sweet it felt like fresh cream in her mouth.

  Arya went through the motions of the afternoon, helping her mother cook, cleaning the chicken pens, tying the goats, toting sacks of oranges up and down the hill, collecting water from the well; she did these things with the image of her shiny bike printed behind her eyelids and closed her eyes often, lingering in the darkness of that picture she preserved, the anxiety of using it tomorrow building within her.

  Without the watchful eyes of their father boring into them, the siblings all piled around the bike, caressing it with their dirty hands. Why you geh dis foh? was the resounding question among them. Arya, too scared to say anything to them, especially her elders, waited for them to disperse before wiping it down with a rag. They walked away cutting her evil looks while she smiled inside because of this extravagant gift that none of them received. She kept asking the same question herself and found it hard to believe too.

  At the end of the day, they were exhausted. Their books remained untouched, the pages never ruffled. Instead the wooden boards of the house absorbed the snores of their tired bodies exhaling for the night. School was a place where only privileged, pampered children succeeded, for they did not have to tend a farm.

  In the morning, Arya dashed downstairs to wipe down the bike again. Everyone was only just stirring from the cock’s crow, and sunlight had just begun spilling its sticky heat onto the world. She tried to swing herself up onto the seat but, having never ridden one before, it proved trickier than she imagined. Several tries later, with no luck at even getting her thigh over the seat, she realized this thing was much too big for her. She leaned it against the wall and stepped back. The bars and seat ran almost the same height—above her waist.

  —Krys gyul, my mother says, laughing, yuh grandfaddah geh meh a rheal big bike, so big ah couldn’t ride de ting, boh if ah din take it toh school dat day e sure take it from meh and gih it toh somebody else.

  Arya waited for her siblings to scamper on ahead of her after their morning duties were completed; she couldn’t bear the thought of their jeering if they realized she couldn’t ride the bike. Once on the main road, the house and path a speck in the distance, no cars careening around the bend, Arya hoisted herself over the seat. She crashed both left and right, landing hard on her knees, gravel embedding itself in her skin. Determined to learn, she tottered from side to side, her schoolbooks getting banged up in the process. With school now over three miles away, she arrived decorated with cuts and scrapes but having learned to stay on a couple of seconds at a time.

  After winding the metal chain around her bike, she snapped the lock into place and tugged hard to test its security, ensuring it wouldn’t budge, lest someone attempt to steal it while she was in class. Patting the key into the pocket sewn into her uniform blouse, she smiled and shook dust out of her hair before heading to the morning lineup. Arya tucked her chin shyly into her chest, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else.

  This one-floor school looked the same as her last. Each classroom was separated from the next by a wall, the patterned cement blocks permitting breezes to ruffle the pages of their copybooks throughout the day, cooling the thin film of sweat on their brown bodies.

  The teacher to whose class she was assigned had three items on his desk: a leather belt soaked in water, an old-school grater, and a guava branch he stripped and wielded as a whip.

  E does try and use at lease one ah dem everyday, a girl with an opulent plait leaned over and informed Arya when she noticed her fixated on the grater. Arya just looked at the girl’s black braid dangling at her waist and said nothing. Because of her constant tardiness, she’d been subjected to each of these punishments before, and while they were all painful, kneeling on punctured steel was the worst of the three.

  Several times throughout the day—lunch, recess, and quite a few bathroom breaks—Arya hustled to the back of the school compound to check on her most prized possession. Her heart rested when she saw the red, black, and silver bicycle, lumped with a handful of others, pristine, against the r
usty chain fence.

  During her last class of the day, giggles erupted around her, passing like a stringed explosion from one person to the next. Students put their heads down on their desks to gaze at their laps, and when they looked up, they gave one another knowing grins. Arya glanced at the teacher, and her eyes shifted from his moving lips to his three weapons. As more laughter punctuated the silence their teacher demanded when he spoke, Arya hoped that whatever was happening didn’t end up on her. Because of her ragged appearance in tattered seconds too large or too small, her mud-splattered legs, and the chicken feathers waving from her curls, she’d often been chosen by the wealthy groups of girls in class as their scapegoat. They thought her a joke, and often jeered at those who worked on farms before coming to school: Why allyuh even bodderin comin toh school? Is on de fahm yuh goh end up anyway. Arya longed for uniforms like theirs, pleated and pressed, made by the hands of an expert seamstress, not shoddily slapped together like hers. Their hair smelled of citrus and coconut; their braids were looped behind their earlobes and fastened with silk ribbons.

  Rising from his desk, their teacher cleared his throat, giving them all fair warning that he knew something was going on and intended to figure out what it was. His eyes scanned their desks and faces, searching for a culprit. The girl with the thick hair next to Arya slid a book in her direction. Without thinking Arya reached for it and gasped as she looked down. Before her was a pornographic magazine. On the cover was a picture of a nude woman with her legs wide open, her fingers dangling nonchalantly before her privates. Her breasts appeared engorged, her nipples flat and round like fried bake. Never had Arya seen anything like this. Uncomfortable with even her own body, she never lingered on her womanly parts but showered and changed as fast as she could, covering these bits she thought offensive.

  The flurry of movement and sound from her direction drew the teacher’s attention to her, and he started walking down her aisle. Not knowing what to do, Arya slipped the magazine into her textbook, folded her trembling hands in her lap, and looked down.

  Singh? he said, to which she had to answer, Yes suh? But he said nothing else, sweeping her desk for a telltale sign. All the giggles had gone now as he rapped the edge of his ruler on her desk. He tapped her book, then slid the ruler between the pages and flipped it open to the magazine. Arya shut her eyes and felt her neck and face flush heat. No amount of saying it was not hers would convince him, she was sure of this.

  He slid his ruler beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. In his face, she found a look of puzzlement. It told her that of all the things he expected, this was not it. There was a chance he’d believe her. No words passed between them as he tucked the magazine into his armpit and carried on class for the rest of the allotted time. Never had this happened. Corporal punishment was freely doled out for students talking too much. For this he could flog her in front of the whole school and everyone, including her parents, would pat him on the back and tell him he did the right thing.

  Someone rang the brass bell with exaggerated arm flaps. Last bell of the day. Singh? Arya looked up as she was beckoned by her last name. Everyone else scurried out of the room; no one looked at her. The teacher rapped her report book with a ruler. Arya’s attention strayed to the courtyard. Through the latticework of cement blocks, Arya looked for her chained bike. If she was to endure punishment, then at least she had something to look ­forward to.

  Make sure yuh muddah sign hyah and hyah, the teacher said. Okay, Miss Singh? Singh? Yuh hah someting bettah toh do dan listen toh meh? Arya shook her head. He said nothing of the magazine. Mundane words about parental signatures and her marks and that was all. There was more talking, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words her teacher was forming with his lips. To everything she replied, Yessuh, yessuh, and when he was done, she slipped the thin report book into her hands and dashed out the door.

  —Krys gyul, my mother says, laughing, e eh say nutten and me eh say nutten eiddah. Who know, maybe e keep de book for hisself.

  In the ten minutes or so it took to listen to her teacher, almost the entire school had dispersed, save a few troublemakers, the same factions everyone tried to avoid. Arya unwound the chain lock, lifting and threading gingerly, but it clanged against the metal poles. She hopped on the bike and tried to kick off but ended up wobbling away, the wheel bucking under her like a donkey. They looked up at her, but no one budged.

  A steady trickle echoed from the ravine alongside her. About a quarter of a mile down the road Arya felt someone’s presence. A tall Creole boy was lumbering behind her, the look of malice bursting like stardust from his eyes. By the span of his shoulders and his height, Arya could tell he was easily four or five years her elder. She’d seen him around before, knew of him even though she was a village over.

  —E din go toh school anymoh, Krys, says my mother. E di fail e Common Entrance exam too many times, and e family was poor, dut poor so plenty times we see him beggin all ovah de place.

  Arya hopped off her bicycle and jogged beside it, the spinning of the wheels click-clicking next to her. His footsteps quickened behind her, thumped the pitch. Then everything went black and she heard the ringing in her head before she felt the pain. Her right temple throbbed where he’d punched her in the head. No words came from him, just his thick fingers snapping around the handlebars and yanking the bike from her.

  No! Arya screamed, pulling it right back, her bookbag swinging from the front of the bike. Grunting, the boy shoved her back with both arms, and Arya toppled over, the bike crashing down on top of her.

  —Krys, yuh muss be mad foh me toh leggo and run, my mother says. And let Mistah Shiva ketch meh comin hwome widdout dat bike? E go keel meh foh sure if e see dat. Wah ah take from dat boi eh nutten toh what e goh gimmeh if I reach hwome widdout dat bike.

  He stood on top of the bike forcing the pedal into Arya’s stomach. She screamed and retched but never let go. Stooping down next to her, he unhooked her backpack from around the handlebars and flung it across a ravine as thin as a serpent’s tongue next to them. She watched it sail across the strip, landing with a soft thud. Thinking she’d scamper after it, he pulled the bike up, bringing Arya standing with it, her hands still fastened around her gift. The boy sneered and growled in her face, Fockin leh it go. Arya butted her head into his. He slapped her across the face before walloping her on the back, hoping to break her enough to make her release her hold. But she never did.

  After thrashing her and then yanking at the bike until he was spent, the boy gave up and sauntered away. Her body ached with each step, blood matted to her head, bruises forming along her arms and legs.

  —Ah cuss dat boi all de way hwome Krys, my mother tells me. Boh ah wasn’t lettin go. Is hit foh hit whenevah ah could leggo one een e ass.

  Her body throbbed and burned in different areas, but a feeling of triumph surged her forward as she trudged the rest of the way home, that bicycle still in her grip. By the time she crawled through the bushes at the side of the house and scoped out the front to make sure there was no one around, she’d incurred more cuts and scratches in crosshatches along her face, back, and arms. Uncovering one of the barrels of rainwater at the side of the house, she scooped water out with a bucket and doused the burning all over her body. For a few seconds coolness prevailed before her injuries screamed out again.

  Red padded Velcro parts protecting the bike were ruined. They’d been shredded and pounded into the dirt. She ripped them off and stuffed them into a bag to add to their heap of garbage. Now it was all a garish silver, the only other color the black rubber tires that she’d cleaned for the second day in a row. She stashed it away and limped down the hill to catch up on her work for the day.

  Her siblings noticed her wounds, but they each had their own scuffles to deal with, and the only way they could help was to hasten their duties to help her finish hers.

  —Dey di jealous meh foh gettin dat bike, eh Krys, my mother tells me, boh if one ah we slack off like dat den al
l ah we geh lix, so is help dey helpin meh foh dey own skin.

  Just for a moment Arya considered telling Avinash. They’d grown incredibly close over the years, closer than she was to her own siblings, and she wondered if he and his brother Jagger would retaliate for her. But she knew Avinash would be jealous of the bike too, and rather than risk all they’d cultivated, Arya let it go, leaving her to wonder if this boy would attack her again.

  Then, with genuine concern, her elder brother Rahul reached across the abyss between herself and her siblings and asked ever so tenderly, Arya gyul yuh ahright, wah appen? And Arya, broken and exhausted, told him everything.

  And ah leff de bookbag right dey, Rahul. It still dey, she said. Meh eh know wah Pappy go do if ah go back tomorrow an it gone. All meh school books and supplies.

  The softness his features had taken on transformed before her. His eyes grew stony, and his brows knitted together as one. Whey im now, Arya? Whey de bookbag. Come wid meh, lewwe go.

  Now? Wah bout Pappy?

  Dey go covah foh we, he said, gesturing at the rest of their tribe, but she was doubtful they could get everything done before their father returned. Rahul dragged her back toward the school, but on the way he veered off the path to ask one of his friends for a ride.

  Oh Gawd Rahul boy, his friend said, ah kyant wait foh yuh toh geh yuh own cah de way yuh does ordah meh ahrung, “Drive meh hyah, drive meh dey nah boi.”

  Mahn, dis eh no time foh foul speech, said Rahul. Some muddahcunt done gone and beat up meh sistah. Lewwe go.

  Driving, the trip was painless, and they reached their destination in minutes. The boy was there with a few cronies digging through Arya’s school bag.