Sunscreen & Coconuts

by Eliza Lentzski

  Kate smiled and nodded. “It wasn’t so bad.”

  “You can’t bring fruit into foreign countries,” I continued my stubborn complaint. “Everybody knows that.”

  “Coconuts are actually a fruit, a nut, and a seed,” Kate stated. “It all depends on what part you’re talking about.” She picked up an unpainted coconut and spun it in the palm of her hand. “In its natural state, a coconut has three layers. This outer layer is called the exocarp. Beyond that is the husk, or mesocarp. And the brown thing you typically see at a grocery store is the endocarp.”

  “Wow,” Racy marveled. “Someone actually out-nerded you, Mercy.”

  Kate grinned and tipped an imaginary hat.

  I managed to drag my friend away from Kate and her coconut cart with only a minimal amount of embarrassment. Racy continued to poke and prod me for more details about my night as we walked to a different part of the resort.

  “Are you going to explain yourself?” she demanded.

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “How did that even happen?” she pressed. “What were you thinking?”

  “That I needed a place to sleep. I waited for you at the bar, but then the bar closed. Kate offered to let me stay at her place, so I took her up on the offer. It was either that, or make shelter from palm fronds.”

  “It wasn’t that dire,” Racy dismissed.

  “Oh, really? What would you have done if the situation had been reversed?” I challenged.

  “First, I never would have let that happen; I would have kicked that hotel door in. Second, she’s totally gay, right?”

  “Unless that’s an unfortunate haircut,” I shrugged. “But nothing happened. She gave me her bed, and she slept on the couch.”

  “How chivalrous,” Racy murmured. She twisted her head to look behind us, where we’d left Kate and the mercantile area behind. “There was something there though. She was definitely flirting.”

  “She must really have wanted to sell those coconuts,” I hastily dismissed.

  “More like she wants to get a peek at your coconuts.”

  I swatted Racy’s shoulder, but laughed despite my embarrassment. “You’re ridiculous.”

  She started to hum and then sing: “Mercy’s got a lovely bunch of coconuts …”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning, Racy was on the in-room phone when I exited the bathroom. I had been in the shower and hadn’t heard the phone ring.

  “That sounds amazing. I can’t wait,” she gushed to whomever she was talking. “Yes, looking forward to it, too.”

  She hung up the phone and let out a girlish squeal.

  I leaned to one side and towel-dried my hair. “Looking forward to what?” I asked.

  “That was Mark. He invited me to go ATV-ing at one of the state parks.”

  “Mark from that dating app?” I asked.

  “Uh huh,” she confirmed.

  “I thought you were on this vacation with me?” I couldn’t help my pout.

  “I know. But it sounds like a lot of fun. And when am I going to get this opportunity again?” she tried to reason. “Besides, we both know it’s not really your thing. You’ll have much more fun with your book under a beach umbrella. I’ll be back early, I’ll grab a shower, and then you and I will have the rest of the evening together for dinner and drinks. It’s actually the best scenario,” she beamed. “I found an activity buddy, and you get to read your book by the pool.”

  I couldn’t reasonably be upset with Racy. I’d been dragging my feet about every adventure or excursion she had planned for us. I shouldn’t have been offended that she’d assumed I wanted to be left alone with my book.

  “Yeah, okay,” I muttered.

  We parted ways after grabbing breakfast at the buffet restaurant. I grabbed a beach towel, sunscreen, and my book from the room, and parked myself under an umbrella by the pool. I hadn’t yet gotten to dig into the meat of my novel on this trip because of constant interruptions, but now all of the external distractions had been eliminated.

  The problem remained, however, that I couldn’t shut out the internal distractions. I continued to read the same paragraph over and over. My brain refused to ignore that Racy had ditched me again—even if I only had myself to blame. I snapped my book shut with a disgruntled noise. I needed something to drink.

  A pleasant sea breeze fluttered through the Thirsty Coconut. Jimmy, the ponytailed bartender, flipped a coaster on the bartop in front of me as I sat down.

  “What can I get you today, senora?” he asked.

  “What’s your favorite drink to make?”

  “Beer,” he said with a laugh.

  His candor made me smile. “Would it annoy you too much if I ordered a piña colada instead?”

  “Of course not. You should get everything you want when you’re on vacation.”

  Jimmy left to make my drink. The noisy blender momentarily drowned out the American surf rock while I marinated on his words. Everything I wanted. What exactly did I want out of this vacation? I was halfway through my trip and so far I’d had to endure small-talk with obnoxious men, I’d gotten sunburned, been on a failed date, and had slept in a stranger’s house. It wasn’t quite what I’d been picturing when Racy had first suggested the trip.

  The blender cut off, jarring me back to reality. Jimmy poured the milky-white blended drink into a tall glass and placed it in front of me. “No straws,” he seemed to apologize. “Think about the sea turtles.”

  Although there were other patrons waiting to place their drink orders, Jimmy seemed to be waiting on my review. My first sip brought a contented smile to my lips.

  “How’s that treating you?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” I approved. “Thank you.”

  Without a straw to stir the contents of my drink, the slushy material collected at the bottom of my glass. When I tipped the glass back to collect the second half of my beverage, a coconut avalanche rushed toward my face. The sloppy, wet slurry piled up on my upper lip before I could react.

  “Careful. I’ve seen people drown that way.”

  The voice came from a familiar source. Kate claimed the stool next to me. Her platinum blonde hair stood on end, but gently folded over like a rooster’s red comb. Her oversized, orange Hawaiian shirt was patterned with erupting volcanoes.

  I hastily wiped at my damp upper lip. Embarrassment about my clumsy drinking was the only thing keeping back an unkind reply.

  “Smile, Mercy. You’re on vacation.”

  “Some vacation,” I huffed. “Racy abandoned me again so she and her new island boyfriend could go ATV-ing.”

  “You’re right; your life sucks,” Kate retorted sharply. “You’re drinking a piña colada on one of the most beautiful islands on the planet. You have the privilege to be on vacation while the majority of the population doesn’t even get weekends off.”

  Kate’s words appropriately shamed me. I searched for a way to apologize.

  “What are you drinking? Can I buy you a drink?”

  I had no idea how that would work. Was I allowed to give my free alcohol to people who weren’t staying at the resort? I didn’t even have any cash on me.

  “No, thanks,” she denied.

  “Can I ask why not?” I worked to keep my voice uninterested. Aloof. Bored, even.

  “Because I’m driving.” She stood up from her stool. “Do you want me to get you a To-Go cup for your drink?”

  “Why? Where am I going?”

  “With me. I’m going to show you the real Curacao.”

  “No you’re not,” I resisted.

  Kate put her hands on her hips. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Then act like it.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Kate sighed. “It means you should lighten up a little, Mercy. Let your hair down.”

  “I’m a teacher,” I said stiffly. “I have responsibilities.”

&
nbsp; She twisted her head as if on a swivel. “I don’t see your students anywhere.”

  “I don’t …” I hesitated. “I don’t know how.”

  Kate offered me her hand and helped me to my feet. “Then let me show you.”

  “You really don’t own a car?” I lamented.

  We stood in front of her banana yellow motorbike, which she’d parked just outside of the Thirsty Coconut.

  “The island is like five miles wide and forty miles from tip to tip. Why would I need a car?”

  “What about when it rains?”

  “Then I get wet,” she said, sliding onto the seat of her scooter.

  Kate started the lawnmower engine and lifted her eyebrows at me. The only thing she was waiting on was me.

  For the second time I eyeballed my potential transportation. I’d felt braver at night—a combination of alcohol and desperation—but now under the full glow of afternoon sunshine, I could hardly believe I’d accepted a ride on the bright yellow scooter.

  With lingering reservations, I grabbed the helmet off the back of her banana seat and climbed on behind her.

  She revved the engine. “Hold on to something,” she said in brief warning before the scooter jolted forward. I had just enough time to throw my arms around her midsection to avoid falling off the back of the bike.

  “I think you do that on purpose,” I complained into her ear.

  She didn’t verbally respond, but I could feel the laughter vibrate down her torso.

  Unlike the previous night, I could now see where we were going, but also unlike the last time, Kate seemed less concerned about our safety or at least it came across that way as we zigzagged between pedestrians and slower moving vehicles on the hard-packed dirt roads beyond the gated confines of my resort.

  I yelled over the sound of the bike’s whiney engine. “Where are we going?”

  “Trust me!” she hollered back.

  I couldn’t pretend to be enjoying myself. I could feel every bump and pothole against my tailbone. I stuck my tongue between my upper and lower rows of teeth to keep my molars from grinding together with each jarring jolt. Normally, I liked to see my death coming, but the surrounding environment rushed by in a blur, leaving me queasy if I stared at any one thing for too long. Instead of enjoying the view, my motion sickness had me shutting my eyes and holding onto Kate even tighter.

  I hazarded a quick peek just in time to see us nearly hit another motorist. The small pickup truck swerved out of the way to avoid colliding with us. Kate didn’t slow down. Her scooter’s horn was high-pitched and ineffective, yet it did the job of masking the audible gasp I’d let loose.

  I could have been sitting on the beach with my book. Someone could have been bringing me drinks all day. Instead, I was clinging onto a stranger like a backpack, desperately trying not to fall off the back of her scooter. If I died on the back of this bike in a strange country, I was never going to forgive Racy. My ghost would haunt her until the day she died, and then I would continue to annoy her even after then in the Afterlife.

  Just as I’d begun to mentally prepare my Last Will and Testament, I felt the scooter begin to slow and come to an eventual stop.

  Kate cut the engine, and I pried my eyes open. Every part of my body had tensed on the short ride.

  “Not so bad, right?” she asked if waiting for me to compliment her driving.

  I slowly exhaled the anxious breath I’d been holding and let my body unclench all over. “Not so good either.”

  Kate dropped the kickstand and hopped off the bike. “I can teach you to drive,” she offered. “You’d probably like it better if you were in control.”

  “That’s okay,” I rejected.

  “I’m a good teacher,” she smiled.

  “Ask me again when my legs don’t feel like Jell-o,” I quipped.

  I managed to remove the helmet on my own while I took in my new surroundings. The road upon which we’d been traveling hugged the island’s shoreline. The landscape was a surprising contrast between the scrub grasses and tall, skinny cacti that crowded the edge of the road and the turquoise water in the distance. Aqua-blue ocean crashed a few hundred feet below. It was beautiful, but the lack of guardrail terrified me.

  Along the opposite shoulder, where we’d parked, was a standalone restaurant. It was the only structure as far as the eye could see. Restaurant might not have been the right word to describe the business. There was no indoor seating; there wasn’t even an indoor kitchen. A smattering of wooden picnic tables were positioned a few yards away from the road. Yellowing weeds sprouted up through the hard packed dirt. To one side of the picnic tables, an older woman with clay-colored skin cooked hunks of meat on a large charcoal grill. A stew-like mixture bubbled inside of a large silver pot.

  I walked closer to the woman and the large grill, but my timidity kept Kate’s body between us.

  “What is she cooking?” I lifted myself to my tiptoes and peered over Kate’s shoulder.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say iguana.”

  “No!” I gasped, horrified at the thought.

  “It tastes like chicken,” Kate insisted, not understanding the source of my displeasure.

  “I don’t care if it tastes like strawberry shortcake, I’m not eating an iguana.”

  She held up her hands and laughed. “Okay. No iguanas. Come on. Let’s get a table.”

  We didn’t have to fight the crowds, and no reservations were needed for this meal. With the exception of two men playing cards, all of the picnic tables were vacant.

  Kate claimed one of the tables, and I took a seat on the bench across from her. Plastic menus stuck out of the little metal bucket on the table that also contained napkins and eating utensils.

  I didn’t have the opportunity to explore the menu before the woman who’d been tending to the grill came to our table. Her white apron matched the color of her hair which she wore in a thick bun at the nape of her neck. She smiled and looked between our faces. “Kon ta bai?”

  The unfamiliar words took me by surprise. Everyone at the resort had only spoken English. The change in language didn’t appear to fluster Kate, however.

  “Mi ta bon, danki,” she replied.

  The two continued to converse while I kept a smile plastered to my face. I knew a little Spanish, but none of the words they spoke were remotely familiar.

  “What language is that?” I asked in a lowered tone.

  “Papiamentu. It’s the local dialect,” Kate said, “but most everyone on Curaçao speaks Dutch, English, Spanish, and a little Portuguese, too.”

  “Geez, I feel like an underachiever,” I lamented. I picked up my menu, which—thankfully—was in English. “What do you recommend?” I asked.

  Kate grinned. “Besides iguana?”

  I dropped my menu flat on the table. “Do you really eat iguana?” I frowned with displeasure.

  “I don’t, but a lot of locals do. They’re plentiful on the island, and they cook up nice on the grill.”

  “Iguanas are pets,” I stated with finality, “not food.”

  Kate addressed the older woman. “Can we get two servings of Keshi Yena?”

  I scanned the menu, but I couldn’t determine what she’d ordered for us. My fruitless search might have resembled panic.

  “It’s traditional Curaçaoan cuisine,” Kate said. “Trust me.”

  For the second time that day, she implored me to put down my guard and go with the flow.

  Our waitress-chef left our tableside, leaving me alone with Kate.

  She rubbed her hands together. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “You didn’t have to take me all the way out here. There’s unlimited free food back at the resort,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but there’s nothing local or authentic to the island,” she noted. “They don’t even serve pastechi for breakfast.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a fried pastry with fillings like cheese, ham, tuna, or ground beef.”


  Her familiarity with the island’s language and cuisine reminded me of just how long she’d been a resident of Curaçao.

  “You’ve really lived here for seven years?” I questioned.

  “Yep. Ever since I graduated college.” Kate grabbed a paper napkin from the metal bucket and laid it across her lap.

  “Why? How did you decide on this place?” I’d never even known of the island’s existence until Racy had suggested the vacation.

  “Curaçao is Portuguese for ‘Island of Healing.’ In the 16th and 17th centuries, sick Portuguese sailors were left on the island; they were probably suffering from scurvy. They ate the fruit on the island, and when their ships returned they had healed—probably from all of that vitamin C.”

  “Were you …?” I didn’t know how to ask my question without it sounding like I was prying. “Were you hurting when you came here?” I finally asked.

  Kate lifted her shoulders beneath her oversized floral shirt. “Maybe.”

  I thinned my lips. “That’s not very forthcoming.”

  Her mouth curved into a half smile. “I’m kidding. I just thought it was cool that the island had a liquor named after it.”

  I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “Did you make up that ‘Healing Island’ thing?”

  “No—that’s the real deal. But enough about me—I feel like I’m the one doing all the talking. It’s your turn to share.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, I, uh, I’m not very interesting.”

  Kate leaned forward on the picnic bench and interlaced her fingers. “Let me be the judge of that. Remind me: what grade do you teach?”

  “First.”

  “And what kinds of things do first graders learn?”

  “Addition. Subtraction. How to read.”

  Kate exhaled. “That’s pretty heavy. Do you feel a lot of pressure? Like, if you don’t do a good job little Bobby will never learn how to read?”

  “No. Reading is a different kind of skill,” I explained. “It’s different from math or other subjects. A student could fall behind a few grades in reading, but then maybe in third grade some mental switch is flipped and they suddenly get it.”