An Infidel in Paradise (6 page)

I
sit at my desk after school, staring at my laptop screen. Fifty-two unanswered e-mails. That’s got to be some kind of record. I reread the most recent from Cassie, my best friend in Manila, and wonder how long my friends will keep writing before they catch on that I’m not writing back. Cassie’s worried about me. I want to reassure her, but just thinking of the extravagant lies I would have to weave to convince her I’m okay exhausts me before I even begin. She’s managed to call here twice, which is impressive because I didn’t give her our new numbers. I made Vince lie and say I wasn’t home. She’ll figure it out eventually, but that won’t necessarily stop her. Cassie’s loyal to a fault. She’ll keep trying to rescue me as long as there’s breath left in her body. I used to think I’d do the same for her.

Now I’m not sure I even have what it takes to be her friend. She wants me to tell her whether she should go after a new boy at school. Marc, her current boyfriend, cheated on her over the summer. No
shocker there. I always said he wasn’t worthy of her. She says he’s history, but I can tell she’s still into him. I don’t know what to tell her.
Should she give Marc a second chance because all guys are faithless dogs, or should she recognize Marc for the worm he is and cut him out of her life, like I did Dad?
I want to help her, but I’m not the one she should be asking.
What do I know about relationships?

Her e-mail goes on about a Dolce & Gabbana dress she picked up on sale. Manila is the best place in the world for designer shopping. I close my eyes and imagine Cassie and me trolling through Power Plant, our favorite mall. We take a break at the French café that opened just before I left. I order an iced cappuccino, and Cassie gets amaretto cheesecake and milk. She doesn’t care about calories or being cool, which is only a small part of what made us inseparable. I cared way too much about both, but when I was with Cassie, I always felt like I could be totally myself.

I return to reality with a jolt when I read on to discover that all of my Manila friends, plus Marc and the new boy, are going clubbing next weekend. This is a first for our group. We drank a bit at parties last year, but none of us looked old enough to get into clubs. I can’t believe that the first time my friends go clubbing, I won’t be there; even worse, they’ll do it while I live in a country where alcohol is illegal and clubs are nonexistent.

Cassie’s going to wear the new dress. Her big question
is whether to wear it braless. I try to picture it, spaghetti-strapped and shimmery, draped over Cassie’s flat chest and wide hips. My most recent clothing dilemma was whether I could get away with wearing a sleeveless shirt outside the house. I learned it was against both local and school dress codes, but I don’t think that tidbit of fashion wisdom is going to help with Cassie’s decision.

For three paragraphs, she complains about our friend Livi giggling during the sex scene of a recent chick flick. Instead of commiserating, I get distracted trying to remember the last time I saw a chick flick, or any movie, for that matter. Mom whisked us out of Manila so fast I hardly had time to say good-bye to friends, much less see a movie or shop or eat a burger for the last time.
Would Cassie commiserate if I told her I’m living in a city that doesn’t even have a movie theater and where public kissing is a criminal offense?

I’m used to losing friends. I’ve moved enough times to know that long-distance relationships are hard to hang on to; the calls and e-mails dwindle over time; and people change and get closer to the friends they see every day. That’s normal.

But this is different. It’s not just that these e-mails are time capsules, talking about people and places I’ve left behind, it’s as if they’re talking about a completely different reality, one I can barely remember. I sift through the words, trying to find some common ground, some experience I can share that would shore up my connection to that world, but I come up empty.

Finally, I highlight the page full of messages from people who used to be my closest friends, and I hit “delete.” I get a prompt asking if I really want to delete everything. Even the computer can’t believe it. I confirm the command and shut it down before I can change my mind.

“H
e’s in your theater class?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said.” It’s Monday evening, and, as promised, Angie has come over to my compound to talk strategy about Mustapha. I swat a mosquito.
Do the evening ones carry malaria or dengue fever?
I always forget.

“And you’re in his group.”

“Yes.”

“For the entire week.”

“Would you please stop repeating everything? I don’t need an instant replay. I lived it. Remember?”

“Sorry. It’s just that it’s such incredibly bad luck.”

“You think?”

Angie walks back on her swing and lets go, whizzing up, rocking the whole swing set dangerously. I’m sitting on the swing beside her, but I keep my feet sensibly anchored to the ground. We’re alone in the little kid playground between the Canadian staff housing and the servants’ quarters. It’s a perfect vantage point for
babysitting, which is what I’ve been doing since our bearer, Guul (a.k.a. The Ghoul), our cook-nanny-roach-killer, went home an hour ago. Mandy and the other compound kids are playing a raucous game of hide-and-seek. The servants’ quarters are out of bounds, but I’m sick of mediating their boundary disputes, so when Mandy races past us, obviously headed in that direction, I don’t say anything.

Angie continues rocking us both with the power of her swinging. This equipment has got to be older than I am. I’m sure it would be illegal in Canada, but here, the parents are just grateful to have somewhere they can send their kids to get them out of the house. It’s not a bad setup. There aren’t many places in the world where you can let your kids play unsupervised, knowing that they’re never more than a few feet from armed guards – not to mention dozens of servants and groundskeepers.

“Maybe we should look at this as a good thing,” says Angie.

“What?”

“Well, you need to smooth things out with Mustapha, and now you have the perfect opportunity.”

“Would that be before or after Faarooq lynches me?”

“You’re having problems with Faarooq? Tahira’s brother?”

“Is that who he is? He told me to stay away from his sister but forgot the small detail of telling me who she is.”

“Don’t mind him. Tahira’s brothers don’t approve of many people. They hate Leela.”

The pretty girl at lunch with the bangle mania?
She seemed nice enough. “Why do they hate Leela?”

“I don’t know. It may be the whole India and Pakistan thing, the war and everything. And they probably think Leela has too much freedom for a girl who is sort of from their culture, if you know what I mean. I don’t think they approve of any of us, but Leela’s the only one I’ve seen them actually be rude to.”

“How many brothers does Tahira have?”

“Three.”

“No sisters?”

“No. That’s part of the problem. They think the entire honor of their family rests on Tahira. She has to stay a virgin for, like, forever, and she can’t do anything fun. If she even looks at a guy, it’s a capital offense. They’re always watching her.”

“Huh.” I don’t know what to say. Obviously, I’m not the only one with problems.

One of the little kids runs up to us. “Have you seen Mandy?” he asks as he wipes the snot dripping from his nose with the back of his hand and scans the area.

“Haven’t seen her,” I lie.

“She didn’t go in the servants’ part again, did she?”

“Don’t think so,” I say.

He looks at me for a minute, but I continue to smile pleasantly. Finally, he heads back up to the Canadian housing.

“I think we should practice what you’re going to say to Mustapha the next time you see him,” says Angie.

“I think you should stop swinging before I hurl.”

“Sorry. You sure have some lame-ass equipment here. You should come to the American compound. It’s like state of the art. We even have three baseball diamonds.”

I sigh.

“So I’ll be Mustapha.” She stands up and faces me. “You be you.”

“Great casting. Now, what are my lines?”

“Just say it was your first day and you were nervous and you said some things you didn’t mean and you’re sorry.”

“I don’t know how I’d say that to him. Maybe you should be me,” I say. “I’ll play Mustapha.”

“But you need to practice your part.”

“That’s why you should demonstrate it. So I get it right.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “Stand up.”

We square off in front of the swings.

“Mustapha,” Angie begins, giving me an earnest look. “I’m really sorry if I offended you the other day when I made those comments about your country. I was really nervous, it being my first day and all, and I really didn’t mean what I said. I hope you can forgive me.” She gives me this fake smile that is shockingly convincing.

“Okay, now you go,” she says.

“I’m Mustapha?”

“Right.”

“Okay,” I drop my voice to a low snarl. “You’re dead, bitch.”

“Emma! Mustapha would not say that.”

“I just did.”

“Emma.”

“I’m not Emma, I’m Mustapha.”

“Okay, I think you should play yourself now. I’ll be Mustapha.”

“But I’m just getting into it.” I smile innocently.

“I can see that.” She gives me a reproving look. “Which is why now it’s my turn.”

“You’re too short to play him.” I plop back down on my swing and begin rocking, not taking my feet off the ground.

Angie walks over to the rusted metal monkey bars – another throwback to the last decade – climbs up a couple of rungs, and swivels round to face me, wrapping her arms around the ladder for support.

“Okay, now I’m taller. Go for it,” she says.

I give her a look, but she waits patiently.

Finally, I clump over to the monkey bars. Even halfway up, she’s only inches above my head. “Mustapha,” I say a little more forcefully than I intended. “Do you remember the other day when we were by the fishpond, and I was feeding the fish, and it was my first day of school, and you were on the other side of the compound, and the fish were really hungry, and it was crazy hot and –”

“Emma,” Angie interrupts, “are you planning to get to the apology before the class ends?”

I glare at her.

She smiles back.

I heave a self-pitying sigh that only makes her smile harder, and I feel my own lips twitch as I take one last shot at it. “Mustapha, do you remember when your heinous girlfriend harassed me for giving the poor starving goldfish a tiny bit of bread, and then you grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go and dug your fingers into my arm, and –”

“Emma.”

“And then your heinous girlfriend said I didn’t have any friends and –”

“Emma!”

I look down at her in surprise.
When did she climb down from the monkey bars?

“What?” I snap in a voice known to mothers the world over, but it doesn’t faze her a bit.

“I think maybe you should write him a note.”

“I don’t know what I’d say.”

“Not a problem,” she says way too quickly. “I’ll dictate.”

“Okay, but I think I was really getting the hang of the role-playing.” I say this just to bug her, but she gives me such an encouraging smile that I feel almost guilty. “We better find Mandy first. It’s past her bedtime.”

W
e head into the servants’ area. It’s actually the first time I’ve been in this part of the compound. It’s inside the same high walls as our own housing, the two sections separated by an iron fence, but it’s like walking into a different world. Long rows of tiny one- and two-room dwellings are separated only by narrow corridors. Every door is open, probably for light as much in welcome because each gloomy room has a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I try not to openly gawk, feeling badly that we’re intruding on the little privacy that must exist in this crowded warren, but the inhabitants don’t share my reserve. Adults and children spill out of doorways to watch our progress. The braver ones shout phrases of English – “How are you?” and “What is your name?”