It Never Rains in Colombia (13 page)

             
He had read a page or two here and there when he first got home, then found his curious fingers beaten back by guilt. Now for some reason he carried the red notebook everywhere he went. When he put it down, it appeared in places when he least expected it; like Poe's Raven—one day on his desk, another on the top of his wardrobe, then perched against his mirror. The flick of the pages like the beating of his tell-tale heart. Christian found himself a slave to the words in the diary; pages  pulled him in and threatened to overwhelm him with her joy, her pain, and the tumult of emotions she felt over everyday occurrences. He would linger on the entries that mentioned him but they were few. He knew he had betrayed some of that great trust she placed in him as a friend.

             
“What am I to do?” he muttered, leaning forward in the chair. An answer was not forthcoming. Reading the diary, Christian realised he had missed so much:

4
th
December

             
“It's silly of me, I know, but I can't help it: I'm still amazed by the arrogance. I hate the way they fall all over him as if he were the King. It's weird, because he seemed so nice before, then BAM, it turned into a nightmare. Sophia says he's not really like that...but I think the evidence speaks for itself. He has the whole world fooled.”

              Christian smiled thinking,
She's so silly.

7
th
December

             
“It's a conspiracy! Today I found out Amy is Roberto's girlfriend. I thought she was just a bitch. Turns out, they've been going out since, well, forever. That's what I call cosmic justice. Now they have to suffer in each other’s company.”

              Christian flicked forward laughing to himself.

2
nd
January

              “I am in a torment every day, assaulted by sights and smells that are unbearably unpleasant. I want to tolerate them, but everything seems to rub me the wrong way. I feel angry every day—angry because I'm embarrassed, then I'm embarrassed to be angry. The one time I made my feelings clear to someone was the one time my heart was broken. I know it's silly, but everyone I like doesn't seem to like me, so that now I'm afraid to like anyone.

             
My confidence has taken a beating; my resolve the victim of a steady chipping-away emphasised by each rejection, the latest being the one that smashed my heart to pieces. Not so much for love as it was for hope, a complete defeat. That youthful optimism, the friend of hope and confidence, has diminished, vanished, so that when I look around me I see only a sea of strangers passing like sharks waiting to bite should I show the slightest bit of blood, of love, or like. I'm sad that it's this way now, when before the whole world was full of beauty and everywhere I walked I knew the love of my life was just around the corner or across the street, on the train waiting for me in the morning.

             
Now I know what fear is, the fear to live, which makes you fear death. Death, that enemy that would bring an end to all opportunities and make you unable to right all the wrongs, fix the mistakes, and leaves you only a brief moment, uses your last thought to contemplate your regrets. A miserable cycle indeed.”

10
th
January

             
“Haven't seen Sophia in a while. I think she's well it seems as if she's avoiding me—not cool enough for her clique, I suppose. What a shame. Rob walked me home : ) ”

              “What?” Christian flicked back a few pages then forwards, in confusion. “Better to find out what the situation is now,” he muttered. Strangely, the diary was largely empty of references to Roberto. There were heart shapes doodled in the corners and sometimes randomly in between sentences.

             
Christian closed the diary,
How can one person have such an effect on another?
he wondered.
Is it wrong of me to be reading this?
he mused. “Yes,” he said aloud,
but I have to, I want to.
He imagined what Harlow would do if she ever found out.

             
The next day, in the girls’ changing room, Christian slipped the red notebook back into Harlow's bag, covering it with her school tie. It was as if he'd never been there. He left the changing room nervously. As he passed the window that looked out onto the field, he saw the sixth form girls playing netball and rushed past. There was no one in the hallway. The garden on the other side of the school was empty. He knew he was alone with only the rose bushes for company. The rest of the school was in class. The knowledge that Harlow was in fourth period PE didn't make him feel any less uneasy. He felt the eyes on him as he walked past the bench where he'd seen her sit and write. Christian realised it was the cruel trick of his own guilt.              

             
Patrick nodded to him as he came over. “Now you're in her head. You can't fail,” he said, giving Christian a congratulatory pat on the back.

             
“Did anyone come past?” Christian asked, looking around.

             
Patrick looked at him as though he were mad. “I would have whistled.”

             
“Are you sure? I felt like someone was watching me.”

             
“No one came past,” Patrick assured him. He paused. “I mean, there was the janitor but he didn't go down to the garden. Look, I don't think he saw you. Besides, so what if he did? I'm sure he's got better things to think about.”

             
They made their way back to class. Patrick had French first. Christian had chosen today, especially, to return the diary because he and Harlow had separate classes. Later on that day, when he waltzed into English class, his eyes involuntarily located Harlow. She was jotting down notes from the board. He drew in a breath of relief as he sat down, pushing aside the unwarranted fears, taking his books out of  his bag. He knew that taking her diary was a crazy thing to do, but he put no faith in fate, so it had to be this way.

             
Maria.
It was during the silent moments in conversations with her brother that Sophia would think about her mother, wonder how things might have been if she had been ordinary. She would feel the bitterness well up in her cascading over the memories of those lost years. The only parent she knew was her stepfather;
mother
was an empty word. They used to call her to the phone when her “mother” called once in a while from Mexico City, L.A., Buenos Aires, Tokyo—an endless list of unfamiliar locations. By the age of eight, she had grown so used to the woman's absence that when Maria returned to the house for short visits, Sophia felt uncomfortable. She was forced to wear her nicest dresses, which felt tight around the collar and lacked the easy familiarity of her jeans and T-shirt. She couldn't play outside or sit on the floor and colour with her nice dress on. Manuela, the au pair, would chastise her when she did anything other than sit on the sofa with her hands in her lap and listen to the strained conversation between her parents. Sophia had become used to answering Maria's questions interrogation-style:

             
“How's school?”

              “Good.”

             
“Have you missed me?”

             
“Yes.”

             
“Have you been taking care of your brother?”

             
“Yes.”

             
The only thing Sophia asked Maria was, “Did you bring me anything?” When she said “no,” the light would fade from Sophia's eyes faster than the passing of a comet. She didn't mind Maria when she was eight. Sophia even, almost, liked the idea of her when she didn't understand the significance of the visits and the reason for the tight smile that Maria always wore. By the age of eleven, Sophia could no longer restrain herself from rolling her eyes at the questions and waited impatiently to excuse herself from the torture of a woman who was doing her best imitation of being a mother, once every three-hundred-and-sixty-five days. Every year, Sophia left with a handful of presents that gradually became a suitcase of new dresses wheeled in by the servants. Now, as Roberto spoke, Sophia remembered her dead mother and reflected on those days with a feeling of anger. For the first time ever she was angry with herself.

             
“I'm tired of your ridiculous schemes,” her brother said slowly in Spanish.

             
“So you're not coming then? Claire's coming,” Sophia replied. “This is a big day for me.”

             
Roberto snorted, “Yes, for
you
,” he said pointedly, “but not for me or Claire.”

             
“I need you there.” 

             
Roberto sat motionless in the armchair. The rat-tat-tat of gunfire blasted through the speakers; only his hands moved rapidly over the console's controller. The multicoloured lights of the TV flickering on his frowning face, he jerked his head to one side to avoid a stray bullet flying toward him through the screen. “Where were you when I needed you?” he muttered.

             
Sophia twisted the ends of her hair between her fingers, something she always did when she was nervous, “I didn't know it was that bad. You think that I didn't care?” she paused, “but I wanted to go.”

             
Roberto didn't even look up at Sophia. “Shut the door when you go,” he said, moving his head forwards as the soldier on the screen began to run. “In case you change your mind…” Sophia said, placing the ticket on the table before quietly closing the door. She wasn't a quiet person but she had spoken so softly that she wasn't sure he had heard above the din of the game. Walking back to her room, there was an odd silence in the hallway for just a second then the gunfire started again. Sophia made an effort to forget the conversation. She watched Manuela pack, then said, “It's ok, I'll do it myself,” dismissing Manuela. “Tell Paul to bring the car round.” Sophia began packing the small case she took with her before a big show and didn't notice the way Manuela smiled brightly at her, her eyes dull, happy to leave Sophia alone.

              The next day, Christian was walking quickly through the packed hallway, hurrying away from the questions that Harlow might throw at him, questions he didn't want to answer. He saw them in the look she gave him as he packed up. She wielded them, in her hurried movements to catch up with him, like the spears of a hunter ready to fly through the air and fell him at any moment.

             
Christian didn't know if Harlow had found the diary but reasoned that she must have uncovered it by now and was perhaps suspicious of him. The pressure of this knowledge on top of the threats he'd received from Razak Boxer's gang unnerved him. He broke free of the crowd, turning into the canteen. Suddenly he felt the painful karate chop of Razak Boxer on his neck. His stomach leapt and he turned swiftly to find himself face to face with Patrick, who quickly removed his burly hand when he saw Christian's face.

             
“What's with you?” Patrick asked.

             
“Huh, nothing. Why?” Christian asked suspiciously, seeing his friend with new eyes.

             
“You seem kind of jumpy, that's all. I've been trying to catch up with you. I need a favour,” Patrick said seriously, escorting Christian to the canteen.

             
Patrick tapped the fork against the plate. “So what do you think?” he asked impatiently.

             
“I think she's not your type.”

             
Patrick frowned.

             
“She's too nice,” Christian clarified.

             
Patrick laughed loudly, throwing his head back in mirth. “I'm a nice guy.”

             
Christian snorted, “Yes, but you're complete opposites. You'll get bored of her, and,” he said slowly, “she will get stuck on you. She'll start to like you just when you've grown tired of her face.”

             
“So you won't help?” Patrick asked with an edge of irritation. “I helped you with Harlow.”

             
“How,” Christian asked, “by stealing her diary? Now I feel awful every time I see her, and she's still obsessed with Roberto. You weren't much use.”

             
“I think she likes me,” Patrick said jovially.

             
“She can't stand you,” Christian corrected.

             
“Not Harlow,” Patrick told him.

             
“Oh, Mei,” Christian said softly. “Look, just let her be.”

             
“No, I want her,” Patrick said with a smile.