Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

Zara then realized that D’Melo had his hand behind his back the whole time they had been talking. “So what do you have there?”

  “Where?” He played dumb.

  Zara tilted her head. “Ahhh, there,” she said, bemused, pointing around him.

  “Oh this? It’s just a vegan red velvet cupcake. I always carry it with me.”

  “Oh, really?” she smirked. “You’d think I would have noticed something like that. And do you always carry it with a candle in it?”

  “Okay, you got me.” D’Melo grinned. “Happy birthday!”

  “You know, this is the second-best birthday present I’ve gotten this year. A card came in the mail yesterday. I’ll give you one guess who it was from.”

  D’Melo inclined his head, Oh no. Seriously?

  “Yep! Your buddy Kazim. I thought it was really nice,” she said. Then she raised her eyebrows. “Until I opened it. He wrote some crazy thing about running in his mind all day.” They chuckled.

  D’Melo dug a matchbook out of his backpack and snapped up a flame. Zara cupped her hands around it to protect the feeble flicker from the wind. She took a deep breath, her cheeks puffed with air. As she moved to blow out the candle, D’Melo poked his finger into her forehead.

  “Uh uh! What’s up with the wish, dawg?”

  Zara widened her eyes, Come on, dude. Are we six years old? She laid a pensive finger against her puckered lips. “Hmmm . . . let me see.” She gazed fondly at D’Melo and then said softly, “There’s nothing to wish for. This moment is perfect. It doesn’t need anything else.” She quickly blew out the flame before D’Melo could object and insist she do it right. “Can we eat it now? I’m so hungry, I could eat a vegan horse!”

  “Like you need a reason to eat!” D’Melo quipped, as he peeled back one side of the cupcake wrapper. Zara opened wide and chomped down, leaving a coat of red frosting around her lips. D’Melo crammed the rest of the cupcake into his mouth. When the taste registered on their tongues, they grimaced open-mouthed and gawked at each other.

  “Can I?” Zara sputtered, cupcake crumbs shooting from her overstuffed mouth. D’Melo nodded, wild-eyed.

  She dashed to the garbage can by the door to spew it out. As her ponytail swung back and forth with her gait, D’Melo caught a glimpse of something on her neck. They emptied their mouths into the can. “That’s nasty!” D’Melo spat. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known when the recipe called for beet juice to color the frosting!”

  “You made that? Aww, that’s so sweet. Well actually, it wasn’t sweet at all. It tasted like tree bark.”

  “Don’t I get any credit for the effort?” D’Melo said, then remembered Zara’s neck. “Hey, turn around for a sec. I wanna see something.”

  “Dude,” Zara narrowed her eyes. “What kind of credit are you expecting! Are you getting fresh with me?”

  “You wish. Just turn around, dawg. I saw something I never noticed before.” He shifted her ponytail to the side. “It looks like a tiny heart.”

  “It’s a birthmark. It runs in my family. My mother had one and my grandfather has one.”

  D’Melo ran his finger over it. “It’s cute.” His gentle touch sent a titillating ripple down Zara’s spine.

  “Oh, snap.” He gaped at the time. “We gotta go!”

  “Go where? I’m wearing workout clothes, and I’m a messy sweat ball.”

  “Don’t worry, Stinky. You’re dressed perfectly for where we’re headed.”

  D’Melo had borrowed a car from Jeylan’s father. Before long, he and Zara were out of the bustling city and into the tranquil countryside. As the old-growth trees zipped by, Zara felt more and more at home. After a couple hours of shady country roads, D’Melo pulled into a parking lot in the Pocono Mountains. “It’s time to get our hike on.”

  “What! You? Hike?” Zara raised an eyebrow. “I better get going before you change your mind!” She started for the green trail.

  “Hey,” D’Melo called. “That trail’s for amateurs.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Amateurs—like you!”

  “We’re going on this one, dawg.” D’Melo pointed to the sign for the red trail.

  “That trail’s three miles and for ‘Experienced Hikers Only’!”

  “I sprint around a basketball court for forty minutes! How hard can it be to walk along a trail?”

  “All right,” Zara shrugged dubiously. “If you insist.”

  D’Melo dashed off. “Come on, Stinky. You gonna let me embarrass you at your own sport?”

  Thirty minutes later, D’Melo felt the pain. “This trail is hella steep.”

  “Well,” Zara said. “Did you think the mountain was going to be flat?”

  D’Melo puffed heavily.

  “Maybe you should rest with those little old ladies over there,” she gibed, gesturing to a bench. “You can exchange cupcake recipes.”

  “I’m dying over here, and you got jokes.”

  A bent, elderly woman in a shiny light blue sweat suit tottered past. “What’s wrong, kiddo?” she said. “No more gas in the tank?”

  Zara burst into red-faced laughter. The old lady then wobbled up to Zara. “Oh, dear,” she said, very motherly. She dribbled water from her bottle onto a napkin. “You have something caked on your face.” She rubbed around Zara’s mouth. “You really should take better care of yourself, dear.”

  Zara glared at D’Melo, Unbelievable! “Dude, I’m just wondering, were you ever planning to let me know that I had beet-juice frosting all over my face?”

  He laughed.

  When they reached the end of the trail, they gazed for a long moment at the mountain peak across the river valley. “This is . . .” Zara searched for the right words, “just perfect.” She slid her arm under D’Melo’s and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but we’re just getting started.” D’Melo signaled the guys in the sports equipment store in the cluster of shops at the peak. They lugged over hang gliders.

  “No way, dude!” Zara’s mouth dropped open.

  After some exhaustive safety instructions, they strapped in. D’Melo gawked into the valley, which suddenly struck him as an awfully long way down, and a horrible way to die. He swiveled his head toward the instructor strapped in above him. “You know what you’re doing, right?”

  “I guess,” the instructor said facetiously. “It’s my first time, too.”

  “What? Get me off this thing!” D’Melo wriggled, trying to unstrap himself.

  Zara guffawed. “He’s joking, dude.” She turned to her instructor. “You guys have done this before, right?”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” he smirked, then shoved off the side of the mountain. They floated out over the valley.

  After the initial shock of soaring two thousand feet above the ground, D’Melo settled in. He heard Zara scream, “This is AWESOME!”

  They drifted weightlessly in the salubrious air, reveling in the serenity of utter silence. D’Melo pointed toward the waterfall. The instructors redirected the gliders. Mist tickled their faces with hundreds of tiny wet kisses. They swooped gradually, riding gentle winds all the way down. The river glinted tangerine, as the soft sun flickered tinsel across the water.

  “Woooo!” Zara exclaimed, as her feet rejoined the earth. “Let’s go again!”

  “If we could take an elevator up, I’d be game,” D’Melo said. “But now, it’s time for your favorite activity: eating.”

  D’Melo drove into town. He had reserved a table at the only Eastern European restaurant in the area, Bistro Nadia.

  “I really appreciate you doing all this for me,” Zara raved. “I’ve had such a great time.”

  A smile twinkled in D’Melo’s eyes.

  “But,” she jabbed, “you still owe me a movie, punk!”

  “Dang, girl
, what does a brotha gotta do? I take you hiking, hang gliding, and even feed you, and you’re still talking about that movie!”

  They turned a blissful gaze to the sun, which had just dipped below the horizon between the mountains. “Did you know that the name ‘Pocono’ comes from the Munsee Indian word, Pokawachne?” D’Melo said. “It means, ‘Creek Between Two Hills.’”

  Zara smirked. “You’re such a show-off.”

  On the ride back to Philadelphia, Zara was unusually quiet. D’Melo knew this meant one of two things: either she had super-glued her lips together by accident or she was wallowing in self-pity. He much preferred the former, because when Zara sank into that dark place in her mind, he had learned she could be a bit of a handful.

  Zara stared out her window into the swiftly passing woods. She sniffled, then rubbed a finger under her eye, wiping away a tear. “I’m just thinking about how amazing today was. I don’t deserve your friendship,” she said sadly.

  In his head, D’Melo lamented, Why couldn’t it have been the super glue?

  “You’ve been so good to me, and I just haven’t been able to—” she whispered, “you know, open myself up to you, fully. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

  With Zara, any number of things could have been upsetting her. But this took D’Melo by surprise. “Yeah, but it’s cool. We’re just friends. I’m good with that. When we got into that fight last week, I realized that I just want you in my life. I don’t care in what way. But,” D’Melo said, confused. “What about Brandon?”

  “Brandon? You think my relationship with him has anything to do with this? Brandon and I are really just friends.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said that we became more than friends when my mom was sick. I needed someone to lean on. It was never physical with him. It was emotional. So actually,” Zara continued, suddenly shy, “I’ve never actually had a boyfriend. It’s not easy for me to give my heart to someone, let alone anything else.”

  “So you never, uh . . .” D’Melo swirled his finger around, looking a lot like he was trying to conjure a mini tornado.

  “No. I haven’t,” Zara replied firmly. “And what exactly is that you’re doing with your finger?”

  D’Melo lowered his hand, embarrassed. “Well,” he divulged, “I haven’t either.”

  “Really?” she said. “How is that possible? You have girls swooning all over you.”

  “It makes more sense than you might think. I was raised with traditional and strict Kipaji values.” His eyes widened for emphasis. “If I ever even thought about it, I’d see my mom’s face. She’d be glaring at me like the time I tried to steal a candy bar when I was five. She swooped down on me like a hawk on a poor little mouse. Her face was so tight, like an overblown balloon. I thought it was gonna burst into shreds right there in the Wawa. My whole body was numb with fear. I never ever want to see that face again,” he chortled.

  “You’re so different than anyone I’ve ever met,” Zara said fondly. Then her melancholy quickly returned. “I wish I wasn’t so closed off with my feelings,” she said. “But I’m always so scared.”

  “Scared? But you seem so fearless.”

  “I have to be that way so the fear doesn’t swallow me whole. I hate that I’m like this.” She burst into tears.

  D’Melo pulled over on the shoulder of the highway. He took her hand in his.

  Zara’s eyes rose, then dropped again. “I’ve never told anyone this.”

  D’Melo’s heartbeat quickened. He sensed something devastating in her secret.

  “When my mom—” Zara’s breathing became choppy. “When my mom was sick, I kept asking her about my father. I thought that if he knew, he’d help. My mom would just shrug off the questions. But I kept hounding her.” Zara wiped her moist cheeks. “I couldn’t just watch her die when all we needed was money. Finally, my mom couldn’t take my pestering anymore, and one day she yelled at me, ‘He doesn’t care about me—or you!’

  “She had never raised her voice at me before.” Zara sobbed. “I ran to my room. My grandfather came in after me, sat down, and started telling me about my father. My grandmother tried to stop him, but he said that I was old enough and that I needed to know.”

  Zara then recounted a story about her mother, Tereza. Tereza decided to go to college in Nečzia to reconnect with her roots. During her first week, the dean of the school invited her to his house for a group luncheon. The dean personally met with the foreign students every year to give them an orientation on Eastern Europe. When she arrived at his house, no one else was there yet. The dean offered to give her a tour. He took her to his study, where photos of him buddying up with Eastern European leaders hung on the walls. Tereza started to feel uncomfortable. She asked what time everyone else was coming. He told her that he had decided to make this a special orientation just for her. She insisted that she come back when the other students had their orientation.

  “My mom started for the door.” Zara’s voice trembled. “But he closed it before she could get out. She begged him to let her leave.” Zara began to weep heavily. “He threw her down and assaulted her.”

  “Oh, my God.” D’Melo wrapped Zara tightly in his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice quavering.

  Zara burst into a full-blown cry. She pulled out of the hug and stared at him, apparently deciding whether to continue. D’Melo was crying now, too.

  Zara took a deep, shuddering breath. “After he assaulted my mom—” She covered her face, slashed with agony. Unable to catch her breath, she paused for a long moment. “I—I,” she tried, her voice breaking between sobs. The words hurt so much she could barely squeeze them out. “I was born nine months later.” She screamed and erupted into uncontrollable tears. She buried her face in D’Melo’s chest. “No! No!” she wailed in anguish, pounding his shoulder. She began to hyperventilate, struggling to breath, but managed to let out an occasional woeful gasp.

  D’Melo’s mind searched for something, anything, to take her pain away. But in this moment, all he could do was sit numbly, his brain wading through agonizing fog. He wiped the tears streaming down his face. “I wish I could say something to make this better.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” Zara choked out. She abruptly pulled away again. She grasped his shoulders firmly. “Promise me,” she said, shaking him, her green eyes wet with tears. “Promise that you won’t be different with me now. That this won’t change our relationship.”

  Although D’Melo had been at a loss for words, he had absolutely no problem expressing his heart about this. He leaned toward her, his eyes fixed reassuringly on hers. “Never, Zar. Never!” His heart felt like it was about to explode. Now he truly understood why Zara said her ability to feel other people’s suffering was a curse. She had enough pain of her own to deal with, more than anyone should ever have to endure.

  Other than the occasional whipping sound of passing cars, they sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Zara tentatively dragged her eyes up to D’Melo’s. She looked at him searchingly.

  D’Melo hoped she could see all the warmth he felt for her in his eyes. But she wilted in clear dismay, her body wracked from intense sobbing.

  D’Melo lifted strands of hair pasted to her sweaty forehead. He tucked them behind her ear. He removed a handkerchief from his backpack and wiped her face. Zara closed her eyes, absorbing his tenderness, a tenderness she couldn’t give to herself.

  “Is there anything that’s not in that bag of yours?” she sniffled.

  “Yeah,” D’Melo quipped, “a change of shirt. So it would be nice if you stopped wiping your snot all over me.”

  “Oh, my God! You’re such a jerk!” She chased him with her drippy nose acting like she was going to slather him with it. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “Even during the worst times, you can make me laugh.”

  D’Melo set off fo
r home. They rode wordlessly, allowing each other the space they needed to process the moment.

  They arrived at the drugstore. Zara lifted her weary body out of the car. She poked her head back in. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to be alone?”

  Zara raised a cheek, doubtfully. “Trust me, when I go in there, I will definitely not be alone.”

  D’Melo followed her up the stairs to the apartment. Zara’s open palm appeared behind her. D’Melo slipped his hand into hers. When she opened the door, her grandparents and their friends belted out, “Happy birthday!” Zara did her best to act surprised, like she always had at her “surprise” birthday parties.

  She smirked at D’Melo and whispered, “Told you, dude.”

  Although Zara never wanted to make a big deal of her birthday, she had to admit that her grandparents and their Nečzian friends looked awfully cute in their party hats, blowing tinsel horns. They snapped hats stingingly onto Zara and D’Melo as they entered.

  The apartment was vibrantly decorated in the colors of the Nečzian flag—red, green, and yellow streamers were looped around the ceiling and balloons floated off the floor at each step. Tall bouquets of cheery flowers embellished every corner. And, there was no such thing as a Nečzian birthday without enough food to feed a small country. A long table brimmed with chlebíčky, open sandwiches; jednohubky, small pieces of bread garnished with egg, cheese, or vegetables; and an assortment of Eastern European baked goodies, including Zara’s favorite—kolaczki, a crispy vegan cream cheese cookie.

  Uneasy about holding Zara’s hand in front of her grandparents, D’Melo loosened his grip. But Zara latched on. Tomáš’ eyes dropped to their clasped hands. He smiled and gave D’Melo a fist bump.

  When Zara ambled off to mingle with the guests, Tomáš whispered to D’Melo, “Thanks for bringing her back.”

  “It was the best and the hardest day of my life,” D’Melo sighed.

  “She told you?”

  D’Melo nodded.

  “She’s been debating for a while. She treasures your relationship and was afraid something would change between you.”