Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (5 page)

A
part of me wonders if Bishop’s a bad boy in a good boy disguise. Five
percent isn’t much to go off of.

But
he makes no mention of sex the rest of the drive. We the play I Spy until we
hit my house, keeping our contact cordial.

“You
want to come inside?” I say.

“I’d
love to but got an early rise tomorrow. Text me tonight though?”

I
slide out the passenger’s door with reluctance. I glance back, sensing
our magnetism. It’s palpable. If you stood on the corner and threw metal
fillings in the air, they’d cling to every line between us, never
separating even when I step foot in my house and close the front door, close
the mudroom door, close my bedroom door.

God
Bless America rings throughout the house. Piranha picked an opera version
before her bed time.

CHAPTER 4

“You
have to be nice to them. Don’t be your normal bad bitch self.
They’re sensitive.”

“Angola has a machete on their flag. They had a civil war. I bet these girls are more bad
bitch than even I am.”

Caddy
pierces an American omelet with his American fork and drinks from the now
brand-new all-organic all-American orange juice pitcher. Caddy hoards the sole
pitcher in the apartment, leaving the rest of us to use tiny cups.

“You
have to be nice,” Caddy says after a gulp. “You have to coax them a
little, sure. But think internationally. Be a friend to these girls.
This’ll be one of their few interactions with people from
abroad—”

“Americans,”
Piranha says. 

“Right,
Americans. This’ll be an international experience. You want them to come
back to us when they’re done. They’re paying us for answers to
exams, they’re not exactly the most innocent party here. By the
way,” he says, chewing with his mouth open, “we have that website
updated pronto. Get on it today or I’ll send you a billion texts
throughout the day until you deal.”

An
outsider’s analysis of my friendships would probably yield negative
conclusions. Why in the world would I stay with such annoyances? A guy who
chews, open mouthed, and willingly, without any guilt from the get-go, engages
in running a shady business? A girl with an unhealthy American-everything
obsession to the point where I questioned where or not she had mental illness?

As
I leave our apartment, I wonder why too.

If
only you could just up and leave with Prince Charming and live a fabulous
existence elsewhere, no judgment, no shame, no obligations or earthly ties. No
hurt.

I
guess that’s why ultimately I put up with Piranha and Caddy.
They’re not perfect people, but they’re my people. They’re
predictable every morning, afternoon, and night. You know how they’ll be
and what they’ll say. They are the constants in the equation. It’s
me who’s the variable.

“Don’t
mention the war either.” Caddy turns into the university’s parking
lot. I pick out the black girls from the crowd and hone in on which might be
the Angolan duo. Caddy kills the engine and swings his backpack on his
shoulder. He points at the window shield, hovering his finger over two white
girls.

“Them?”

“They’re
Portuguese-Angolan. Fled before the country’s civil war, came back,
family still had leftover wealth in Portugal, took advantage of bad economy in
their ‘old country’, now they’re rich again sending their
kids abroad. Likely story for the Chinese you’ll meet later this
week.” He unlocks our doors and we step out onto the pavement. As we
approach the girls, Caddy hands me their dossiers, and I sift through the
general histories of who they are, goals, and transaction deals.

“Play
nice,” Caddy says, “I’ve got to meet with this dude from South Africa and then head to my intern class.”

“Just
don’t send me a billion texts. Please.”

Caddy
shrugs and marches off, but not before introducing me to the girls. We exchange
pleasantries, though the only thing I can focus on is the fact that this is
what I’m doing as a post-graduate. Acting on behalf of those who are lazy
or dishonest.

But
then it’s not true. They could have their gray reasons as well.

Perhaps
they have…clinical depression and can’t do their work properly and
are too shy to go to their professors?

“There’s
a nice table we can sit at,” I say as we walk. “Can you repeat your
names again? They’re really beautiful the way you say them.”

“Carmella,”
the girl in beige pumps says. “Maria,” the other in a blue blouse
adds.

“Carmella
and Maria. Are you sisters?”

They
nod, heels clicking.

“How
do you like the States so far?”

“Excuse
me?” Carmella says.

“How
do you like the United States so far?”

“Lovely,”
she says, “very lovely. Friendly people everywhere, the streets very
clean. I’m enjoying stay here so far.”

“Yeah,”
Maria says, “nothing bad here.”

How
Piranha would adore these two, if only to torture them over how to correctly
speak American English.. Sometimes I think I should bring her along for business
deals, considering internationals probably won’t slander the U.S. in public.

We
sit down at a concrete table near the school’s library. I lie all the
necessary papers out in front of us, making sure they understand what’s
requested of them up front. A deposit worth fifty bucks each.

“These
papers are too difficult,” Carmella says. “I would do but no time
with my physics classes. I want to do physics not English, you know?”

“Yeah,”
Maria says, “this I don’t get either.”

They
slouch in their chairs, exchanging glances between themselves occasionally. I
ignore them for the most part, but Carmella in particular stares at my face.

“Accident,”
I say. “How do you say that in Portuguese?”

“
Acidente
,”
they say together. I lift my head up from the paperwork and make them say it
again.

“That’s
a beautiful language, I have to say.”

“Thank
you,” Carmella says. “Sorry for watching you.”

“No,
lots of people do. I’m okay with the questions.”

“You’re
beautiful even with scar,” she says, “I guess I stare more because
I have friend like you in Angola. War girl from satellite town. Big deep one
across her back and neck. But all the men love her.”

I
sort of resent that the beauty of a woman is still reliant on physicality. As
if that’s what humans have to offer. But then I’m culpable too,
being attracted to men like Bishop by virtue of his muscles first and not by
the size of his brain. Would I still be interested in Bishop if he didn’t
take care of himself? If he dressed in ripped, oily sweats and had greasy hair
from not bathing?

 “Is
she smart?” I ask.

“So
much more than us,” Carmella says. “So much more. She had hard life
in Angola. She lives easy now easier now in the capital city, Luanda.”

“How
is life there?”

“It’s
gotten better. Much violence has ended. The government is very corrupt though.
Civil war broke out before, our families had to leave. The government still
takes so much from the average person—most are very poor.”

“So
much corruption,” Maria says, “it’s bad. Like you can feel
the pressure from those above coming down. It’s like the rain. You see
the clouds and know what’s next. Predictable.”

“Are
your parents okay?”

Carmella
stutters, then clears her throat. “They are dead,” she says.
“Murder.”

“So
sorry! I’m so sorry.”

“You
didn’t know,” Carmella says. “It’s okay.”

“Besides,
they passed a long time ago,” Maria says.

“Still,
I should’ve known better than to say something bad like that. I really
apologize.”

“It’s
okay, beautiful girl, think nothing,” Carmella says. She adjusts her
chiffon shirt and cranes her neck towards me. “You didn’t
know,” she says.

Carmella
and Maria exchange a quip in Portuguese. The sounds uttered from their mouths
ionize the air with lustful allure. Too bad for Piranha, Americans don’t
have sexy accents. We’re too ubiquitous for that.

Carmella unzips her Chanel purse.
After digging through for five
minutes, she finally produces the one-hundred fifty bucks down payment we
agreed on. “We take up your time though didn’t mean to. Here is the
assignment we have to do.”

Carmella
passes a sheet off. Their report has strict guidelines, though nothing crazy
for an intro English class, just a general paper where the students are to
learn how to argue, logos and pathos, that kind of stuff. The page comes with a
rubric, proper punctuation, grammar, spelling. Easy.

“When
will you be done?” Maria says.

“Within
the week. We’ll send it to you or we can meet up or whatever.”

We
all get up from the table. As we depart at the parking lot, Carmella says,
“You’re beautiful, don’t look down so much.”

CHAPTER 5

“Why
didn’t you tell me their parents died?”

“I
don’t know everything about people. I’m not Jesus here.”

“You
knew everything else.”

“General,
basic info. I don’t know what goes on in the deepest part of a
person’s life.” Caddy stirs his coffee and pours sugar from the
sides. “That would be snooping,” he says.

“As
if. You’re the king of that. I bet you even know what brand of tampons I
and Piranha use.”

“I
wouldn’t need to snoop far for that info. The garbage can’s always
leaking anyways.”

I
rise from the table and sigh. “How do you find all that stuff on people
then? Like knowing that their family’s fled Angola?”

Caddy
taps his forehead. “International Studies. And you thought it was a joke
major when we started. ‘Ew, what’re you gonna do with that,
Caddy?’”

“Okay,
fine, color me wrong.” The coffee pot gurgles out a thick stream. I cup
my hands around the steamy air it makes.

“How’s
your fling with Bishop going by the way?”

“We
haven’t scheduled date three yet.”

“And
why not?” I don’t answer immediately, so Caddy interjects with a,
“Are you scaaareddd?”

“I’m
never scared of anything. No. I’m waiting on him.” I pour coffee
into a mug stamped with an American flag. The edges of the flag have faded, so
what does Piranha do? Color them in, making sure to use permanent American
markers.

“Why
wait? You’re supposed to be the assertive one.”

“If
I seem needy, he’ll run. There’s nothing worse than a desperate or
needy person.”

“You’re
not needy for expressing interest.”

“I
will be. I can feel the Spadeness coming on.”

During
my senior year, Spade had grown quite attached to me. He enjoyed many nights of
fanciful fucking in exchange for several history and chemistry test banks that
year.

This
was until he decided to stalk me. Really stalk me.

Imagine
sleeping in your dorm room, your five-hundred square-foot cubicle—if
that—and resting on your back. You’re reading a magazine, thinking
about life. What kinds of places you’ll see in the future. The
post-college lifestyle where kids and marriage leave your mind’s
periphery and enter your life as concrete possibilities.

So
I was resting and a knock rapped at the door. My roommate was too lazy to get
up (she barely did anything ever) and I answered, plucking my ear buds out.

Spade,
on the other side, split apart his fingers, greeting me Star Trek style.

“What’s
up, Violet?”

Cue
endless interruptions from Sir Star Trek. Spade would show up at the most
inappropriate times. After stressful exams, before stressful exams. In the parking
lot, where I would struggle to find space for Caddy’s station
wagon—he would stand in empty spaces and wave at me.

After
I’d just had a period and was still “leaking”. Dribbling
blood seemed to attract him like flies to a pitcher plant.

“Maybe
I should contact him for some drugs,” I say. Spade would blitz himself
out on ecstasy. If you don’t know, ecstasy makes boners last, like,
forever. Seriously.

“Zone
out, that’s what you need to do,” Caddy says. “Either that or
pick up that phone and give him a call. You both seem really into each
other.”

“How
would you know?”

“The
first time you two spoke…” Caddy clicks his tongue.
“You’re getting married. And having kids. And a dog.”

“Him
settling for me would the biggest travesty in history.” I plop myself down
on the couch and curl my legs up, sipping from the mug. Coffee runs hot down my
throat and I enjoy measurable heat flowing through my chest. “Or maybe
I’m selling myself short. Maybe he’s wrong for me.”

The
doorbell trumpets. Yes, Piranha rigged our apartment to play trumpets instead
of a normal ding-dong. And they’re trumpets they’d play at a
Marine’s funeral, too. We’re supposed to remember the losses.
“Guests are as sporadic as them dying,” her bizarre way of saying
that guests are meaningful. 

Piranha
marches into the living room carrying bags full of groceries. Tomato cans,
corn, beats, rice.

“We’re
having American paella,” she says smugly. “I’m going to start
this weekend, so everybody get ready. We’re going to have a grand
American stew.”

I
sigh. Caddy sighs.

“The
boss was mean today,” she says, “almost didn’t give me all
these discounts.” Caddy and I help Piranha put away all the groceries.
“You’re crazy,” I say to her, “but super
resourceful.”

For
dinner, Piranha fixes up chicken soup. I suggest to her a recipe from China, one that’s called congie, but she won’t have any foreign main dishes.

“One
day we should gun a man for Piranha here,” Caddy says. “A good
American boy.”

Piranha
slurps loudly, digging her spoon beneath a floating patch of noodle. She digs
into her ear with a pinky and shrugs. “I think Violet’s boyfriend
sounds perfect.”

“Violet’s
got competition now. You better get on him for a ring!”

I
slush around the carrots and peas and look at my reflection in the fatty water.

“I’ll
call him tonight.”

“That’s
our girl.”

Piranha
ladles more soup into my bowl. “When you do marry him, can you hire me as
a chef? Or caterer? I know all the singles you should play.”

“I’ll…contemplate
that offer,” I say, finishing off my soup.

Caddy
just closes his eyes. He imagines bells playing God Bless America. I know because I am too.        
                                   

The
song plays even through my locked door. Whenever Piranha gets in the patriotic
mood, she fires all sorts of songs up. You can hear them through the paper thin
apartment walls. And despite persistent complaints from neighbors, she refuses
to tone down the music. We’ve been fined five times already—the
damned girl never quits.

I
dial his number with the music blaring in the background. He picks up, and
speaks, barely audible against the patriotic roar.

“What’s
that?”

“I
think it’s time you save me from my roommates.”

“I’d
love to. Where do you want to go?”

“You
pick. I pick. Doesn’t matter.”

“Tomorrow
afternoon. Let’s go to the park. We can have a quiet day.”

“Christ.”
I turn around and glare at Piranha through the walls. If I had lasers for eyes,
she would be done over, laser-made calamari, Japanese style. “I just want
to be with you.”

“I
miss you too,” he says. “You’re a ton of fun.”

The
blaring amps up. Bishop’s voice distorts. I glare at Piranha again. I
shouldn’t have to take calls in the parking lot because my
roommate’s being an ass.

“Can
I pick you up this time?”

“I
wouldn’t mind. You have a car?”

“Not
as nice as yours.”

“Doubtful.
Hey, I’ve got guys coming over in a bit. Talk to you soon?”

“Sure,
sorry if I was interrupting,” I say.

“You
weren’t. And if you were, you’re the best interruption.”

“Are
you going to hang up first?”

“Not
unless you are.”

We
dawdle on the phone but can’t hear well that I eventually just pound my
thumb against the END CALL button.

Even
after we hang up, I hold the phone close to my lips. I mouth the conversation
over again. The entire conversation from beginning to end.

As
a child, I would rehearse what to say to Mom and Dad. If they threatened to
beat me, I had all sorts of outs. The worst thing you could say though was
“sorry”. Sorry was for wimps and those unable to utter real
apologizes. Sorry was weak and unreal.

But
now I mouth the conversation with Bishop over as if producing gold from my
saliva ducts. I cup my mouth and gasp, no longer annoyed by Piranha’s
music or Caddy’s yelling outside my door. They all disappear. The sounds
I hear are only Bishop’s tinny voice on the phone.

I
so rarely say sorry in normal contexts like that. But with Bishop, it’s
so natural to.

I’m
natural around Bishop. Just a girl. He’s just a guy.

And
we’re going on our third date.

And
he doesn’t know about my job yet.

I
put the phone down, then grab a pillow from my bed. I swathe myself in blankets
and try to sleep, wondering how long I can hide Educate from him.