Jade (8 page)

I take a deep breath, and decide to suck it up. I’ll think about what I just saw, and I’ll possibly have my own pity party tonight, when I’m by myself in my room. Maybe it will stop raining for just a little while, and I’ll be able to drown my tears in the pond.

“Jade, what’s the matter?”

I need to distract her; the last thing I want right now is for her to walk through my mind and see what a mess it is. So instead of telling her, I raise my water pistol, and spray her face. “Got you!”

“You did not just do that to me!” She squeals as she sprays me back.

Now if I shed a jealous tear or two, no one will be the wiser.

❦

It’s almost night when we get back. We had dinner in one of the small restaurants, just the two of us.

I listened to Agatha’s endless chatter about how fabulously amazing James is. He’s “the one” she’s been waiting all of her life. He loves her, and he tells her so all day long. She’s never going to grow tired of his adoration. She wants to stay in Asia; she hasn’t yet figured out how to but she will. 

I’ve seen this before. Just in the past two years she introduced me to three guys who were “the one.” There was a handsome surgeon, a good-looking attorney and also a stunning construction crew guy. That last one was the one I disliked the least. 

The three of them were tall, blond with blue eyes, and they were built like Greek gods. The three of them were also self centered jerks who left her with a broken heart.

I wish I could ship her away to some Nordic country, where all the guys are built on that model, so she would start making choices based on something else.

But who am I to give her a lecture on her choice of men? I just threw myself at a guy I barely know! Come to think of it, I still don’t know his last name. That’s good, because this way it won’t be hard to forget. 

Right, as if I ever forget anything!

What’s with the other girl? I need to run away to a place where I can really be alone without suffocating from the heat. Maybe next weekend I can fly back to Bangkok, or to Siem Reap and spend a few days being a tourist. 

But for now I do need to continue to suck it up. 

As I close my bedroom door, I can’t even let myself slide down to the floor, as there’s not enough room for that. So I sit on my bed and roll myself into a ball, rocking myself back and forth.

I try to detach my mind from my body so I can observe myself with some sort of scientific detachment, like I would observe an injured animal. It doesn’t work. 

Shit, it hurts. It’s different from any physical pain I’ve ever experienced before. It’s not as bad as a root canal but it’s bad. I feel as if some giant hand has entered my ribcage to crush my heart. I can’t breathe. 

I’m discovering the ugly feeling of jealousy.

I force myself to take a big gulp of air, and I hold it in and when I breathe out, a couple of tears come with it. I will myself to stop; I know from watching Agatha that crying doesn’t help. It’s like a self-sustaining cycle: the more one cries, the more one feels like crying. 

I seriously consider banging my head against the wall to distract myself from this misery. I wonder if it would work. If I inflict a physical pain on myself, will it block out the jealousy stab?

Then I kick myself. I’m getting all worked up again possibly for nothing, and I’m feeling sick because I don’t like it one bit.

❦

CHAPTER TWELVE

IWAKE UP STILL DRESSED on my bed. I’m a sticky mess. I left the door closed so my cell is like a sauna. I catch my sarong and soap and rush out the door. Back at the pond I strip and dive in. I swim to the rock under the waterfall and almost get knocked out. The heavy rains have made the flow much stronger.

I stand in a half daze when a young voice startles me.

“Are you okay?” 

I turn around, and I see her. It’s the pretty girl who rode away with Oliver, yesterday. She’s even more stunning from up close. She walks on one of the large tree branches with the grace of a feline. Her arms are outstretched for balance. She looks at me with curiosity; it’s the red hair, probably.

“My name is Chanlina,” she tells me. 

“Nice to meet you, Chanlina, I’m Jade.”

“Jade, like the stone?” She’s smiling.

“Yes, it seems everyone finds it amusing.”

 “My name means ‘moonlight’ in Cambodian,” she says, “and my classmates find it amusing too.” 

She walks almost to the end of the branch, and then turns around as light as a gymnast on a beam. 

“You’re not going to jump, are you?”

“No, don’t worry. I’m not crazy; it’s not deep enough.”

She takes three light steps, turns around again and flies up in a perfect back flip on the branch. She defies gravity as she runs to the end of the branch before lowering herself in the water by the strength of her arms. Her body slides in so swiftly that there’s almost no wrinkle on the surface of the water.

“Some days I dream that I am a ballerina,” she declares.

“From what I see, you are one, already. The only thing you need is an audience.”

The answer makes her blush. She’s so lovely that I am sure there is not a heterosexual male on the earth who would not be attracted to her. 

She is sweet, too. She tells me about her thoughts on a merger between the classical occidental ballet, and the Asian traditional dancing. Russian ballets could be enhanced, she thinks, by the hand movements, which are the trademark of Cambodian dancers. Her hands fly around her like two graceful birds as she shows me what she means. I fall under the spell of those magical hands, which seem to have a life of their own. Her fingers flex outward with amazing grace.

I think about Oliver, and I want to hate her, but I can’t. How could I? None of my tormented feelings are her fault. She looks so innocent.

“Do you dance?” she asks.

I shake my head no.  I have the grace of the hippos in Disney’s Fantasia. That’s what my dear brother told me when I was twelve, giving the kiss of death to any temptation I could have entertained of giving dancing a try.

“So, what do you do for fun?”

“I listen to music, and study all sorts of things.”

She makes a face at me, “You study for the fun of it?”

“Yes, like you move for the fun it.”

“Why?”

“Because I like to understand why things are as they are.”

She thinks about it and says, “Is that why you are so sad?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look sad, like you need to understand everything and have forgotten how magical life can be.”

She pulls herself out of the water effortlessly. She makes me think of those Chinese movies, those in which the heroes fly above the treetops.

As she dries herself off a bit, she tells me, “You have to let a little magic into your life, otherwise you’ll never be happy.”

I watch her go, and think that I’m not sure I’ve ever believed in magic. I’m really sorry about that. My life would probably be more fun if I did.

❦

While every one else goes about their day, Chanlina stays by herself in the main room. She’s turned one of the tables into a study desk; books are scattered around. As I walk by, I glance at them. Despite the fact that the titles are in French, it’s obvious that they are school-books with titles such as “Littérature du 19ème,” and “Physique - Chimie” or “Mathématiques.” 

Looking at the books it hits me: she doesn’t just look young, she is young. Young enough to still be in high school. I pray that my fit of jealousy was totally unwarranted; Oliver couldn’t possibly be having an affair with such a young girl, could he? If he is I’m truly a poor judge of character and I’m glad that I found out in time.

I get back to work, thankful that the dull tasks that I have to carry out require my full attention. I get a reprieve and stop obsessing about the nature of their relationship.

She’s still at it when I’m done. The French Literature book is tucked away in her bag, as well as that of Math. I look over her shoulder, and I admire her handwriting: it’s as light and as elegant as she is. 

Even though I just meant to pass by, I can’t help but see where she’s gone astray in her chemistry exercise. With her pen in mouth, she’s absorbed in her work, and hasn’t even noticed me.

She’s startled when I ask, “Would you care for some help?”

“You can? You would?” she asks back, looking up incredulously at me. 

“Sure, let me show you.” I sit next to her and start at the beginning of the exercise. I fly over the part that she got right, congratulating her for it, and then I slow down to show her where she went wrong. I understand why she made her mistake, and explain to her the reason she’s wrong. 

Even though it’s in French, I browse her Chemistry book for a similar exercise, but there are none, so I make one up for her. 

I ask her to do it for me, and to speak out loud her thought process, as if she were speaking to a very slow person. She does it, and, this time, she gets it right. 

She looks up at me, and says, “Wow, you should be a teacher!” 

“Nah, I have no patience in a classroom,” I tell her. “I can do tutoring, because it’s one-on-one and it’s easy to figure out where the other is stuck. Dealing with twenty or thirty students at a time is not for me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh yes, I’ve tried. After a few hours, I felt like taking a baseball bat and cracking a few skulls open to check if there was even a brain inside.”

She laughs, and admits that, in that case, I’d better stick to research or lab work. 

“I can help with Math, Physics and Biology,” I tell her. “But I’m clueless about French.”

“Oh, right,” she says. “You noticed all my books are in French. I go to school at the Lycée Français of Vientiane. I’m in ‘Terminale.’”

I remember, that the French go backwards. The first year is the 12
^th
  year, and, from there, you countdown to graduation. The ‘terminale’ is the last year, the final one. 

“So High School is almost over,” I say. 

“Yes and next year I’ll be going to college.”

“Where will you go?”

“Most likely Florida. That’s where my grandmother just moved. I’ll have to stay with her, because my father travels most of the time, and he says that I’m too young to live by myself.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure,” she says.

Her eyes cloud, and, suddenly, the carefree teenager is replaced by an ancient and lost soul. Even her voice is not the same when she speaks again.

“I’ve lived alone before… I was ten at the time. I’m not sure I’m ready to do it again.”

She’s staring into the distance with so much pain in her eyes, that my heart goes to her. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say more, but she doesn’t. I wish I could do something to make her feel better, but I can’t think of anything. 

I know if I chance to say something it would probably be inappropriate. I can’t even pat her hand because in this part of the world I’m not certain that type of physical contact is acceptable. So I just stay put next to her for a while and hope that a presence helps.

I wonder what she had to do to survive, all alone, at ten.

❦

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHANLINA AND I HAVE BEEN spending a lot of time together. She gets to the cascade shortly after me. With her cell being next to mine, it seems that no matter how quiet I try to be, I wake her up when I go. 

After our swim, she sits at the breakfast table with Agatha and me. When we’re done talking about the progress of Agatha’s study, Chanlina asks us about life at home, and what it’s like to be a college student. 

Under her brave facade, there’s a lot of anxiety.

I thought that, having survived alone in the streets, she would not fear anything, but it’s the opposite. 

Chanlina is scared about living with her grandmother next year. She’s terrified that she won’t fit in with the other college students, and she’s afraid that she won’t find her place in this world. 

Agatha and I try to help her with those fears, because they are the same as a lot of girls her age. We promise her all her questions about her student life are healthy. She’s going to have to make choices without knowing for sure if they’re the right ones. Except for a few chosen ones who have a calling, we’re all in the same boat when the time comes for those choices. 

Agatha jokes that, even though I’m the most accomplished student she’s ever met, I still have no idea what I’m going to do when I grow up. 

I correct Agatha and say that I’m not sure that I ever want to grow up. I may stay in school all my life. That seems to amuse Chanlina.

But then she hints about her biggest fear, and I understand it’s eating her alive. Chanlina lives as if she’s walking on the edge of a cliff that can crumble at any second. 

All the people she loved when she was a kid have died; her entire family. Today she only has one anchor left, her “new” father. He works in the mines, which is a dangerous place to work, she knows, and every single day she fears for his life.

That’s a fear that can’t be brushed away; it’s a perfectly reasonable fear.

“When I’m in school, there are long periods of time each day that I don’t think about him,” she says, “but this week, I can’t help myself. I’m here, waiting for him to come back. We were supposed to spend some time together before the New Year festival is over, and I return to school. I’m sure something bad has happened at the mine, otherwise he would be back, already.”

It’s true that, with all the pouring rain, there could be landslides. Fear can be contagious, but I will not let myself be contaminated.

I shake my head to chase away the images of lifeless bodies drowned in mud, or crushed under enormous boulders that her fear has conjured up in my brain, and I try to keep her occupied.