Not a Chance

by Michelle Mulder

  My face burns.

  “You don’t give up, do you?” Her voice is like a slap. “You come here to apologize, but then you go right back to pushing for what you want. You’re still trying to convince me to go to your country, aren’t you?”

  I take a step back. Onto a tomato plant. I jump forward and scuttle out of Aracely’s way. “I just thought it might be useful—”

  “Useful if I go to Canada, but not here, Dian.” She bats a wisp of her hair out of her face. “Why don’t you get that I’m happy here? Why is it so hard to understand that I want to keep living right here, not in some foreign place where I’ll never fit in? Just because you travel in airplanes and live in a big house and own your own bicycle doesn’t give you the right to tell me how to live my life.” She waves a hand at the scar across her cheek. “This is me, and this is what I want. You have no right to tell me it’s wrong.”

  She pushes past me into the house. I know better than to follow.

  Eight

  I spend the next day feeling like someone stuck my brain in a washing machine. My thoughts are spinning too fast to make any sense. Most of the time, I know Aracely’s being totally unfair, but then a sharp question pelts me out of nowhere: Is there any part of me that’s as stuck-up as she says?

  Nerick hasn’t come today, so I’m caught in this spin cycle right up until suppertime, when my parents yank my attention in another direction.

  “We’d like you to move the bike lessons,” Dad says as he ladles out the soup. “Patients can hear you and Nerick talking through the window.”

  I look up from my bowl. “Does that matter? They can probably hear everyone who’s talking on the front steps too.”

  “Yes, but they’ve walked past those people already. They know they’re there. They don’t expect people to be listening in from the outhouses.”

  “We’re not listening in!” I say. “If you ever took two seconds to watch us out there, you’d know that Nerick’s busy memorizing every adjustment I make. What difference would it make if I were listening in anyway? You talk about all your patients at every meal.”

  My parents give each other those serious looks they don’t think I can read. Oh crap! She’s on to us! What do we do now? They might as well be saying the words out loud.

  Dad places his spoon in his bowl and leans his forearms on the desk. “What we talk about is always confidential, Dian. You know that, and we trust you.”

  “But you don’t trust Nerick?”

  Mom jumps in to help with the defense. “This isn’t a question of us trusting you or him. It’s about how the patients feel.”

  “Bull.” I’m tempted to say much worse, but that’ll divert the conversation into a parental tirade against swearing, and I want them to listen to what I have to say. I’m calling my parents’ bluff. People here talk about everything from their fertility to their bowel functions. Bodies and how they work—or don’t—are just part of life. And they’ll talk about that stuff to anyone. Or almost anyone. “It’s the whole Haitian thing again, isn’t it?” I ask. “If it were any other kid back there, no one would care, but they don’t want Nerick and his family around.”

  Dad sighs. “I wish people were different, but this is another big cultural issue that we can’t change. Please just help us out on this one, and find somewhere else to work on the bikes.”

  “Help you out?” I ask. “Help you out? Like coming here isn’t enough? Like working in your garden and running your errands doesn’t cut it? Now you want me to give up the one thing I like doing? Because you’ve got a bunch of racist patients?”

  “Who said anything about giving up the bikes?” Mom asks.

  “You did!” I’m shouting now. It’s only the second week of July. What am I going to do the rest of the summer without the bikes? “You know the back is the only place we can work on them without being seen. So if you don’t want us back there, and you don’t want people to see us, you don’t want me working on the bikes!”

  “Please calm down.” Dad looks pained.

  “You’re afraid the neighbors will hear, aren’t you?” I ask. “Why are you so worried about what the neighbors think all of a sudden? Couldn’t you care about that when we’re home, when it would actually be useful?”

  I dump my cup and spoon into my empty bowl and slam out of the room.

  * * *

  That night I dream about the hideout, and I’m still thinking about it when I wake up. I wonder what it’s like now, covered with vines again. How much do vines grow in a year? And could I clear them myself and use the house just for me? Could I ever get a bike there, and what would Aracely say if she found out I was sharing our secret spot with Nerick?

  I shake the thoughts out of my head. Someone would see me bringing the bike there, for sure. And they’d definitely see Nerick going onto Aracely’s uncle’s land, which would cause problems. I’d still like to go back there myself, though, to see what it’s like. I could use a dose of privacy right now.

  I watch my parents roll out of bed before sunrise. It takes me a few seconds to figure out why they’re up so early. It’s Saturday. They’re going to the finca. I’m supposed to be going to the market. I haven’t told my parents that Aracely and I fought again.

  I get up and pretend I need to be at Aracely’s place by six. My parents and I are silent at breakfast, and when they wish me a good day at the market, I thank them and give nothing away. They’d be horrified at the thought of me on my own all day. When I’m running errands, they at least know where I am at any given moment. They’re convinced that if I don’t have a set schedule of things to do, I’ll wind up walking off a cliff or getting poisoned in a cloud of pesticide as someone sprays tomato crops. No, my parents would postpone their day trip for sure if they knew I wasn’t going to the market. No way am I going to risk the luxury of an entire day to myself.

  The second they disappear over the hill, I throw some things in a bag and hop over the fence into the coffee trees of Rafael’s cafetál. The best way to get to the hideout is from a trail up the road, but that would mean walking right past the Eye, and I don’t want people talking.

  The coffee trees are dense beneath the taller trees, and every few meters a banana tree nestles up to the narrow path between the plants. The sun filters down in dancing wisps, and the only sound is the breeze among the leaves and my flip-flops clapping against the ground. It feels weird to be alone—it hardly ever happens here, and no one on earth has any idea where I’m going—but it feels good too. Aracely and I came through here a million times last summer, and I’ll be careful.

  I follow the trail down a slope, and when the coffee trees end, I’m in José’s beet field. On the other side is a big rock that Aracely and I used to climb to see the entire valley down below. If the wind picked up and we spread our arms wide, we felt like we could fly.

  Down the hill, almost hanging on the edge of a cliff, is an orange house where Aracely’s cousin Julia lives. She’s nineteen, and from here I can see her two little kids playing in front of the house. Her husband is probably working, and I know that if she sees me, she’ll invite me in. I hurry across the field without looking up. The last person I want to see right now is Aracely’s favorite cousin, who adores her kids and is probably thrilled that she got married at fifteen.

  If anyone has spotted me, I don’t notice. I duck into the shade of the banana trees at the end of the field before anyone can call my name. The trees are tall again here, and the underbrush is thick, but the trail to the hideout is much more obvious than I’d expected. When Aracely and I came here for the first time last summer, we spent an entire afternoon just whacking out a trail. No need to do that this time. Someone’s been here very recently.

  Aracely would have mentioned someone having taken over the house again, wouldn’t she? I know it’s supposed to belong to her youngest uncle now, but he l
ives with her family because he never got married.

  Whoever’s living there, I’m sure they won’t mind a visit, I reason. People here never seem to, which is something I love. The times I’ve dropped in on friends in Canada, people come to the door and stare at me like they don’t understand why I’m there, and after a few minutes of conversation, they disappear inside their houses again. Here, people pull out their best plates and put together a big snack and something to drink. It doesn’t matter how busy they are, they always seem to have time for visitors.

  The house looks exactly as it did when I left it last summer. The door is shut, but not a vine or plant is climbing any part of the wall or the grass roof.

  “Hola,” I call with a loud clap. I don’t expect an answer, because if the door is closed, it’s unlikey anyone’s inside. Electricity doesn’t reach this far, and the house has no windows. I knock on one wall, call again and push open the door.

  The dirt floor is swept clean. A small homemade altar stands in one corner, and a little table in the opposite corner is the only furniture. Rows and rows of drying plants hang upside down from the ceiling. Herbs. Herbs that will probably be going to market next Saturday. Why didn’t she say anything?

  It’s still there, but I’d rather go to the river, Aracely said when I asked her about this place two weeks ago. I assumed she felt guilty for letting vines grow over our hideout, but I guess she just didn’t want me here. Why? Did she think I’d be mad at her for using this place for herself? Why would I care? She’s the one who lives here all year round.

  I step inside. It smells of dust and ruda, a stinky plant that people here burn to chase away evil spirits. A fallen leaf crunches under my feet. I can hear birds singing outside, and the wind rustling the vines. I walk across the room to the table. On top is one of the zippable sandwich bags that we bring from Canada every year. Inside it is the notebook Aracely and I started last summer.

  Writing in it was more something to do than anything else. We wrote about who we’d be when we grew up. I was going to be an honest politician, and she was going to be a doctor like my mom, except that she’d use traditional herbs, too, like her abuela does. We wrote about the vacations we’d take together with our kids, and how they would speak both English and Spanish and would feel just as at home in Canada as in the Dominican Republic. Aracely had drawn pictures of the fancy clothes we’d wear when we were grown-up and glamorous. She’s always been an amazing artist. I’m better with words, so I’d written lists of the kinds of changes we’d make in the world.

  This was all before I decided not to grow up to be exactly like my parents, and Aracely decided she would be exactly like hers.

  I unzip the bag and slide out the notebook. It doesn’t have that crackling new feeling anymore. The edges of the page are wiggly, not bookstore flat. I open the first page, but someone’s ripped out our stories. In their place, a drawing of Aracely’s abuela stares back at me, unsmiling. It’s as if Aracely has frozen her in time. Every shadow in her skin is shaded with pencil, and her eyes meet mine—steady, unwavering and waiting for answers, exactly as they do in real life. The next page is Aracely’s mother sleeping, her eyes scrunched shut and one arm over her head, like she’s blocking out the noise of daily life. On another page, Aracely’s sister laughs up at me from the paper, and on the flipside, I recognize the cousin whose house on the hill I just walked past.

  I turn the pages and see the meadow in a stream of sunshine, kids laughing as they swim in the river, people dancing at the colmado and fireflies flitting between the hands of children. She’s drawn all the things she loves best about Cucubano—the things I love too.

  For an instant, I wonder what it feels like to love a place and be so sure about it that you never want to explore any other.

  She’s afraid, I remind myself. It’s not the same thing.

  I turn another page and see a young man I’ve only met a few times. The last time I saw him, he was a skinny teenager who wore clothes that were too big for him. In these pictures, though, he’s grown into his clothes. He’s smiling, and his eyes meet mine, content. It’s Vin. Vin dancing in the colmado. Vin talking with Aracely’s father. A pair of hands. (Vin’s, I’m sure.) Vin. Vin. Vin. He fills at least half the book. He’s dark and slender. He wears his hair short, and the corners of his eyes scrunch up when he smiles, which he does a lot, according to the drawings. His hands look strong and work-roughened, and I can imagine Aracely’s smaller hands in his.

  I know that hand holding probably hasn’t happened in real life yet. All dating here is chaperoned, and I’d bet all my bike tools that Aracely and Vin have never even been alone together. Emily couldn’t believe it when I told her that this is how things are here.

  “But what about the spark?” she asked. “What if you marry someone, and when he kisses you on your wedding night, you don’t feel any passion whatsoever?”

  I shrugged. “I guess it’s just a risk you have to take.”

  “Oh my god,” she said. “No way would I marry a guy I’d never even kissed before.”

  At the time, what she had said made sense. I’ve never even kissed a guy, so I don’t know anything about spark. Looking down at Aracely’s drawings, though, I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t have spark. The way she’s drawn him, I can see why she fell in love. I can imagine his soft touch, his whispers, how he might stroke the hair away from her face and she would smile up at him. I flip another page. Vin and Aracely stand smiling in front of a house. This house. The one I’m standing in right now.

  Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me. She wanted it to be a surprise. She wanted to bring me here later and show me how well she’s doing—her own business, a future husband and, one day, this house. She wanted me to be happy for her, and instead I shouted. I feel a flicker of guilt, and this time when I remind myself that I have to stop this underage marriage, I’m not so sure of myself anymore.

  I’m standing in the house where one day they will make babies. And this is where their children will be born, while I’m at home fixing bikes and reading fashion blogs with Emily. I still don’t like it, but I’m not so sure that matters anymore.

  Nine

  Two days later, I’m standing in front of Nerick’s house. The roof is metal, the jagged wooden boards of the walls are painted turquoise, the door is wide open, and inside, a girl is sweeping out clouds of orange dust while two kids play behind her. I wave, and three young faces stare at me. The girls are all wearing their hair in two short, stiff braids sticking out from the sides of their heads, a playful hairstyle that doesn’t match their serious, unsmiling faces.

  “Hola,” I call to them. They wave back but still don’t smile, like they’re not sure what to make of me. I’m used to kids here running up to me to show off the cucuyos they’ve caught in a jar, or the soccer move they’ve been practicing with a balled-up newspaper, or the mud pie they’ve made for their dolls. My little friends accompanied me halfway down the hill and only headed back home when I told them I was visiting Nerick. They’d heard about his brother’s injury and assumed my father had sent me, but no way were they going with me to a Haitian’s house. Seven years old and already they can’t stand people with dark skin. It makes me sad.

  And maybe the three little girls frown at me because they’re used to people having nothing to do with them. I smile even wider at them, but their shyness makes me feel like an intruder. “Is Nerick home?” I ask.

  The oldest girl whispers a barely audible no. I ask if their mother is around. They point to the cookshack a few meters away.

  I step between aloe-vera plants and skirt a few pecking chickens. The walk down the hill has turned my feet and flip-flops orange, but the rest of me is presentable for once. I’m tired of Nerick seeing me in polka dots and tie-dye smeared with grease, so today I’ve chosen khaki shorts and a fluorescent pink blouse. It’s totally not my style. (Why doesn’t a
nyone ever donate tight capris and cute tank tops before we come here?) But at least this outfit passes for style of some sort, which is an improvement over everything else I’ve worn this summer.

  The cookshack is made of poles, with potato-sack walls and a grass roof. “Hola!” I call again, and Nerick’s mother sticks her head out of the opening.

  In the split second before she sees me, her face is slack and tired. She’s thin and her hair is pulled back in a hasty ponytail, but once her eyes meet mine, she grins and immediately looks ten years younger. “Dian! Bienvenida!” she welcomes me awkwardly in Spanish. She’s lived here longer than I’ve been alive, but she speaks Creole with her kids, and I guess if none of her neighbors ever talk to her, she doesn’t have much chance to practice Spanish.

  “Thank you for coming,” she says, probably thinking my father has sent me to ask after her oldest son.

  I smile like she’s right. I wish she were. That would be much better than coming to tell her younger son that I can’t teach him bike mechanics anymore. I’ve tried for two days now to think of another place to continue the lessons, but every one of them is too visible or too far from the clinic. At some point, I decided to hell with my parents, grabbed the green bike and rode it partway down the hill to Nerick’s place. But then Dad appeared out of nowhere and said that if I didn’t get the bike back to the clinic within three minutes, he wouldn’t let me touch the bikes again for the rest of the summer. I haven’t ridden either bike since. “How is Wilkens?” I ask Nerick’s mother.

  “Better, gracias.” She kisses me on both cheeks, beckons me into the cookshack and calls to one of her daughters to bring me a chair. “Sorry. I keep stirring or lunch will burn. You stay for lunch? No? Okay. Yes, Wilkens much better. He works again, gracias a Diós. Gracias to your father too!”

  We stumble through a conversation about the dangers of farmwork and how great it would be to have a medical clinic all year long, not just in the summer when my parents are here. She says that Aracely’s abuela is getting old and can’t travel to heal people as much as she used to. “And Aracely sells herbs at the market. Doesn’t give them. Different from her grandmother. My sons say this is the future. No more old ways.”