Undiscovered Country

by Jennifer Gold

  “I’m going to be sick,” I say suddenly. I break away from Tess and rush for the bushes, my hand over my mouth. I don’t care who sees, as I vomit all over myself and Marianne’s mother’s frozen rose bushes, the ice-covered thorns scratching at my face. I throw up until there is nothing left, until exhaustion hits and I am left lying on the ground, curled into a ball.

  Chapter 8

  After

  “Put some elbow grease into it, Marks!” A girl named Alicia stands over me, hands on hips, barking orders like a gym teacher. Actually, she even looks like a gym teacher: short hair, muscular, eyebrows in major need of a wax. All that’s missing is the whistle around her neck.

  “I’m trying,” I gasp, heaving another shovelful of dirt. My T-shirt is soaked with sweat. I’m not wearing a bra, but the only guy here right now is Taylor, and he’s about as interested in my boobs as I am in digging this well.

  Of the four of us, I seem to be having the most trouble with this particular charitable exercise. For her diminutive size, Margo is freakishly strong, probably from the ballet classes she was forced to take until she rebelled at fourteen and microwaved her toe shoes. Taylor spends hours toiling at the gym, apparently, so his physical prowess in unsurprising. And Melody—well, she’s Melody. It’s possible she’s in agony over there with her hoe, but you’d never know it. She was singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” until Taylor told her he’d kill her in her sleep if she didn’t shut up.

  I feel something in my back twist in a way that I can tell immediately is Not Good, Very Bad, lack of medical training aside. Groaning, I drop my shovel and clutch at my side in agony.

  Alicia sighs. “What is it now, Caitlin? The people of this village need drinking water!”

  I don’t see you doing anything, I think to myself as I reach for my bottle of water. I long for the six-week mark, when we get our final placement. I won’t be applying for anything involving physical labor.

  “I hurt my back,” I manage. “I need a second.”

  She sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t know why girls like you even bother.”

  Taylor sucks in his breath, and even Melody stops her humming. Margo, who is wearing earbuds presumably cranked to a high level to block out Melody, doesn’t react.

  “What exactly is that supposed to mean?” My tone has dipped into sub-zero. Girls like me?

  Alicia shrugs, not looking particularly sorry. “Suburban princess types. Never encountered a day of adversity in your life other than a bad-hair day. Here so you can get into Yale law school or whatever.” She spits on the ground. “Coming here should be for people who really want to help and work hard.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” My voice trembles. “You know nothing about me. Nothing.”

  “You put on makeup to dig a well,” she retorts, disgusted. “That speaks volumes.”

  Margo, by now, has noticed something’s up and turns down her iPod, glancing between the two of us.

  “You want to talk about adversity?” I’m shouting now. “My mom had metastatic breast cancer. I was there when we got the news it had spread to her brain. I was also there when she died. Oh, and I made the funeral arrangements because my dad spends most of his time now wandering around in the dark with a bag of chips.” I stare at my hands and realize I’m holding the shovel again and the others are all backing unsteadily away.

  “I’m sorry,” says Alicia, her face ashen. “I’m sorry, okay? Can you put the shovel down?”

  I toss the shovel back to the ground and give it a furious kick. My toe promptly begins to throb, but I ignore it. “I wear makeup because I feel better about myself when I look nice,” I add, glaring at Alicia. “And since about ninety percent of the time I feel like downing a bottle of pills, I’d say some lipstick isn’t such a big fucking deal, would you?”

  “I get it. I’m sorry,” she repeats, watching me warily, her eyes flicking back and forth between me and the shovel.

  “That was awesome,” says Margo, swinging her shovel over her shoulder. She narrows her eyes at Alicia. “I’m wearing mascara, too, bitch. You want to take me next?”

  Alicia is about to say something else when I cut her off. “Oh, and another thing. I’m from a small town, not the suburbs. So, if you’re going to try to stereotype me, at least get it right.”

  “If we’re on the topic of stereotyping, I’d like to point out that Asians and Jews are not known for their strengths in manual labor.” Margo fans herself with her hands. “My dad has to call a guy to change a light bulb. I could use a nap.”

  “We aren’t close to finishing,” pipes up Melody. “The villagers need the water.”

  “Anyone else sick of Sister Mary Sunshine over here?” asks Margo loudly. “Because I’ve just about had it.”

  “I vote break,” chimes in Taylor. “We’ve been at this for three hours.”

  “We’ll take a break,” concedes Alicia. “I think everyone could benefit from a half hour off and some protein. Meet back here at fourteen hundred.”

  I make an effort not to snort at her use of military time. We’re a student volunteer organization, not the freaking army.

  “I’m going to get a granola bar,” says Margo. “You guys coming?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Losing it always makes me hungry.” I turn to follow Margo, who’s headed in the direction of the tuck shop.

  “That was awesome,” says Taylor. “I really thought you were going to hit her with the shovel.”

  “Strangling her with that whistle would have been easier and less messy.” Margo makes a face. “Every time she blows that thing I want to punch her in her chapped mouth.”

  Melody opens her mouth to say something, but Taylor cuts her off. “Don’t bother, Scarlett. We don’t want to hear it. We know we’re going to hell and we’re cool with it.”

  Sometimes I wonder why she bothers hanging out with us, since she seems to enjoy us about as much as we enjoy her. Though I guess she isn’t exactly spoiled for choice around here. Even Gavin the Ultimate Survival Guy isn’t keen on Jesus—or, at least, on Melody’s take on Him.

  “Four granola bars,” says Margo to Sari, who is working the tuck counter. She looks over her shoulder at the rest of us. “Anyone want anything else?”

  “I’ll have a bag of pretzels,” says Taylor. “And a pack of gum.”

  “I’ll take a Diet Coke, please,” says Melody.

  Sari passes out the goods. I take a bite out of my granola bar and make a face. I hate granola—the dry, grainy texture makes me gag; it tastes like getting popcorn kernels stuck in your throat, except on purpose—but I learned quickly that, when you’re working hard, a KitKat doesn’t quite cut it.

  “You know,” comments Margo, watching Melody crack open her Coke with a hiss, “I wouldn’t have guessed you for a Diet Coke junkie.” Melody, who drinks about a half-dozen cans of the stuff a day, swallows a mouthful.

  “Why?” she asks warily.

  Margo shrugs. “It doesn’t seem very Christian.”

  Taylor shoves a handful of pretzels in his mouth and nods enthusiastically. “Totally,” he says, crunching loudly. “Like, Jesus wouldn’t drink Diet Coke.”

  “There was no Diet Coke in Biblical times,” points out Melody, her voice frosty. “There is nothing un-Christian about Diet Coke.”

  “I don’t know about that,” says Taylor. “Jesus wouldn’t have a vice like that.”

  Melody bristles. “It’s not a vice.”

  “It’s a vice when you have six a day,” says Margo, sounding bored. “Trust me. I’m an expert on vices.”

  “Really,” Taylor continues, his voice deadpan. “You need to ask yourself. What would Jesus drink?”

  Melody glares at him and stalks off.

  “Maybe we’re too hard on her,” I say. I watch her as she walks away, stopping to take a swig of soda. My mom
liked Diet Coke. It was her vice, too. I wonder how many she would have had to drink a day to cope with Calantes. I feel the usual pang, the hollowed-out feeling of loss that winds me when I think of my mother. The advantage of being here, of spending hours digging in the mud, is that the pangs come less often. There’s simply no time to feel anything but exhaustion and hunger.

  Margo cocks her head at me, surprised. “You can’t mean that,” she says. “She told me she would pray for my heathen soul.”

  “She has nightmares,” I say quietly. “She cries.” Night after night, when the hum of the insects and my memories conspire to keep me awake, I listen to Melody pleading with someone in the dark. It’s always the same dream. “No,” she shouts, thrashing. “Don’t touch her! Leave us alone!”

  “It’s probably the mefloquine,” says Margo dismissively, referring to the malaria pills we all take. “It’s a common side effect. Nightmares, I mean.”

  “I guess,” I say, though I’m not sure. Drugs or no drugs, the ghost of Melody’s tormentor feels real enough to her—and to me.

  “Glad I’m a sound sleeper,” says Taylor. He offers us some pretzels. “She annoys me enough during the day.”

  “Me, too.” Margo grabs a handful of pretzels and eats them slowly, first delicately scraping the salt off with her perfect teeth; she likes the salt as much as I do. I take a pretzel to rid myself of the lingering taste of granola, but manage only two bites before I’m reminded again of my mother. Mom eating pretzels in the kitchen, leaning up against the breakfast bar; in her bed, even though the crumbs made my dad crazy; in the movie theater, smuggled in her purse, because she preferred them to popcorn. I drop the pretzel to the ground, discreetly crushing it beneath my sneaker. The bugs are upon it in seconds, a swarm of them. I can’t decide if it’s revolting or fascinating.

  “Our break’s almost over,” announces Taylor, polishing off the last of his granola bar. “Field Marshal Alicia will be waiting for us.” He takes off his cap and fans his face, exposing his recently shorn head. He buzzed it about a week ago, unable to cope with the heat. It’s growing back quickly, though at this point he’s sprouting a headful of porcupine quills.

  “Ugh,” says Margo. She grabs Taylor’s hat and fans herself. “I think for my placement I’m going to apply to teach kids’ art classes.”

  “I thought you hated kids.” Taylor looks surprised.

  “I just want a job where you sit down. That all right with you?”

  I wonder idly what I will apply for. Working with kids? Bossing people around with a whistle? Cooking? None of them sound all that appealing, though all are better options than digging wells.

  Melody is already back at the well site, digging away, even though Alicia has yet to return. Her empty Coke can rests under a nearby tree. Taylor stares at it pointedly, while Melody studiously avoids his gaze.

  “I’m not doing a thing until the dictator gets back,” declares Taylor. He sits down on some gnarled old tree roots, hands dangling between his legs. “Let Scarlett work herself to death.”

  Melody doesn’t take the bait, though her shovel hits the ground with slightly more force.

  “What time is it?” Margo sounds irritated. She doesn’t have a watch—she always relied on her phone, which is useless out here. She never knows what time it is, which drives the rest of us crazy.

  “Can’t you just write your parents for a freaking watch?” Taylor snaps.

  “Can’t you just stop being a total jerk?” Margo retorts. “I asked for the time, not, like, a bank loan.”

  I’m about to interject when I hear the deafening rattle of gunfire somewhere close by and drop to the ground. It’s funny; I’ve never heard gunfire before—not in real life, anyway—and yet there was no mistaking what the sound was. Not for a moment did I even consider the possibility it was anything else. They prepped us for this in orientation, but the academic description of a raid and gunfire is not quite like experiencing it firsthand.

  “Get down!” I shout, following the protocol we’ve been taught. “Someone is shooting!”

  The others drop to the ground and freeze like pets rolling over and playing dead. In the not-too-far distance, we hear shrieking and more shots. I hide behind my shovel, my teeth rattling as if I’ve been shoved unclothed into a freezer. I guess this is what “frozen with fear” means.

  “What the—” begins Taylor, but the rest of us cut him off.

  “SSSSH!” we all hiss in unison.

  More shouting, more gunfire. I curl into a small ball, still clutching my shovel like it’s some kind life preserver. A shovel isn’t a match for a rifle, the little voice at the back of my head reminds me. I feel a familiar pain spread across my abdomen and clench my jaw as my intestines cramp violently.

  “What are you doing?” Margo whispers, her eyes wide as I slither across the dirt towards the trees.

  “Stomach,” I grunt, doing a pathetic and increasingly urgent military crawl, my shovel dragging behind me.

  “Oh, shit,” says Taylor.

  Literally, I think grimly. The others are familiar with my IBS, but this is the first time they’ll have to witness it. I find a decent-sized tree and yank down my SWB standard-issue shorts, sighing with relief. I wonder if this is how I will die, my pants down, in a South American country no one has heard of. Trying not to make too much noise, I reach for some toilet paper. I stuff my pockets with the sandpaper-like tissue they stock in the bathrooms here before we leave each morning. From my shirt pocket, I retrieve some hand sanitizer. Overwhelmed with self-pity, I grab my shovel and belly-crawl my way back, a slow process. They watch me, wide-eyed, as I drag myself back on my forearms. The gunfire has quieted, for now.

  “Please,” I say quietly, closing my eyes. “I don’t want to hear anything about it. Okay?”

  “I’m impressed, frankly,” says Taylor, propping himself up slightly. “I would have just crapped my pants, I think.”

  “Stop talking!” Margo’s harsh whisper cuts him off. Beside her, Melody prays under her breath, her shoulders rocking back and forth slightly. Briefly, I think of joining her, but I turn away. I gave up on God when He gave up on Mom.

  Red-faced, Taylor falls silent. We lie there, waiting. I don’t know how much time passes—five minutes, maybe? Ten?—before a pair of Spanish-speaking voices draw closer. Much closer.

  “Is anyone there?”

  I freeze again as I realize the lightly accented voice is addressing us. It’s as if someone has taken an egg and cracked it against the back of my skull, letting the cold yolk trickle down my back. Slowly, I turn around, my arms raised above my head the way I’ve seen people do on television.

  Two guys about my own age hover over us. One looks grim but tough; he is tall and dressed only in faded khakis and a green shirt with the sleeves torn off, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder like a messenger bag. The other looks as if he might have to go take his own turn at the tree. He has the look of an IT nerd, the kind they send to fix the computers when they’re down at school. He pushes his glasses back up with his index finger as they repeatedly slide down his nose, and stares at us warily.

  “You may get up,” he says, addressing us hesitantly. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Margo makes a sound that conveys what presumably we are all thinking: that we are very afraid, and that simple reassurances are unlikely to sway us. Shakily, I rise, helping a white-faced Taylor to his feet. We are both covered in thick layers of mud. I scratch without thinking at a mosquito bite on my arm, and watch the black slime take residence under my fingernails. Margo stands next to us, her arms folded protectively across her chest. She has a stripe of mud down the side of her face that looks almost like war paint, making her seem fierce despite her diminutive size. Instinctively, we all put our hands in the air. I guess I’m not the only one who’s seen a lot of Law and Order.

  “There’s no need for th
at,” says the tall boy. He looks almost offended. “It wasn’t us who was firing.”

  Margo eyes the pair shrewdly, her hands gracefully descending to her sides like a pair of wings.

  “Who are you?”

  “Good question,” he answers, smiling at her. She doesn’t smile back, but it doesn’t faze him. We wait, expectant.

  “I’m from the village,” he continues. “We’re doing a perimeter check. We just had a raid. That was the gunfire.”

  I try to remember if I’ve seen him before, but whenever I’ve been down to the village, I’ve stuck to my task, whether it’s digging or cooking or painting walls. Some of the volunteers have integrated more with the locals—Margo sometimes engages people in conversation—but I’ve hung back, figuring we can’t have anything in common. Their living conditions both sadden and repel me, and I find relating difficult. It doesn’t just feel as though we are from different countries, but different planets.

  “I’ve seen you,” says Margo slowly, frowning. “You’re the one they call the Politico.”

  “My name is Rafael,” he answers, avoiding replying directly. “The raiders have been dealt with.”

  “Are they dead?” I blurt out. I don’t know why I ask. I’m not sure I care.

  “No,” says Rafael shortly. “We exchanged gunfire and they left. It happens every few weeks.”

  Exchanged. I feel an odd, hysterical urge to laugh. As if gunfire is like Pokemon cards on the playground.

  “Is anyone dead?” Taylor now, his voice cracking slightly. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and leaves behind a trail of mud. The knees to his jeans are torn, and his left leg is cut from his sudden drop to the ground.

  “No.” Rafael shakes his head. “Everyone is fine.” He looks over at his friend, and the two of them revert to quiet Spanish. Again, it seems as if they are speaking at double-speed, and I wonder if people here actually speak faster, or whether it’s just that everything sounds faster when you can’t understand it. I wonder what they are saying.

  The second boy speaks up, his voice much more heavily accented than Rafael’s.