Dr. Bates talks to Deepti how tourists at her father’s restaurant talk to her: slow and smiling. It makes her feel like some pet dog there for amusement. She wants to bite back, to sink her jaws down and show that she understands perfectly fine thank you. But the raft shifts, making her anger slip away. The wind pushes the fabric of her pants to press against skinny legs. She hates the feeling. She pulls at the pants, but they continue to rub. So she focuses instead on the doctor.
"There's a boy in the other..." What should she call the spaces under the tent? She settles with the familiar. "...room. He didn't want to be bothered. So don't. I don't think he'll appreciate it," Deepti says.
She steps back, the shuddering of the fabric snaps and rustles as the morning gets brighter and begins to dissipate the surrounding fog. "But I want to help with the others. Is there another one inside here? I’ll get them.” She turns back to the shelter. Stopping, she purses her lips. The old anger of being underestimated resurfaces with the swelling of the sea. She turns, twisting so her back cracks. It is satisfying and helps her say, “And then we’ll talk” with more confidence.
Deepti looks passed the doctor and sees a young woman standing on the deck of the blue raft. Frail and white, looking as if she will disappear with the morning haze. She reaches out and grabs the inflexible material of the tent. Cringing, she steps inside again to ferret out anyone else. She drags her hand along the wall, feeling the rippling of the fabric. She refuses disappear, to become a memory.
Deepti looks down at the boy with sandy hair. He holds a knife in his hands. It is as if he is getting ready to make an offering of milk or honey to Ganshe. “Are you okay?” she asks. Something about him makes her lips tremble. Maybe it’s because he reminds her of the boy (Shawn, she thinks.) who delivered fresh chicken and lamb to Pita every other morning with his father. He was from central Pennsylvania who got his GED instead of graduating from high school. She didn’t even like him. He was Protestant-America personified. Was. She crouches. Was.
She bows her head and presses her forehead to her knees. “Because I’m not okay either.” The pain of having the jeweled bindi digging into her skin keeps her from crying. “But that’s a good thing. Right? To not be okay? It means that things will get better.” Deepti knows this boy is a stranger. That it is impolite for her to impose on him her worries, but it would be equally impolite to ignore his own distress.
“There’s a woman outside who promises that she will talk to us. But I don’t want to be there alone with her,” she admits. “Will you come with me, please?” She risks touching the boys hand. Deepti still needs to feel skin. To replace the coarse fibers of the tent with warmth and human. According to Mr. Maalouf, using the same strategy multiple times proves you lack the creativity to come up with a new one. But he always points out how using the same strategy in multiple situations is statistically likely to work at some point.
)o(
Maybaleen starts to giggle. It’s the kind of giggle she uses with customers at the clubs when she thinks they’re actually funny, but at the same time can’t understand why she’s laughing. “Well, Mr. Clueless. Meet Mr. Friendly. He has a tendency to puke on your pants. Feels like ya’ll’ve been college roomies, don’t it?” She doesn’t expect Alex to respond. Actually, she doesn’t really want him to respond. She wants to deposit this guy down and give herself a second to orient herself. (Because she was positive that she heard Harrison crying.) So she slips from under the body builder, throwing off both of their balances.
The edge of the entryway crumples as she grips it to steady herself as the sea swells, waking itself from its morning placidity. “You can call me Cherry, darling,” she says, smiling back at him over her shoulder. It’s a lazy curl of her lips. A familiar movement that always puts twenties in her bra when she finally leans down towards the customers. Sauntering out her eyes shift to the girl standing to the side. Her eyebrow lifts. “But you can call me Maybaleen. I don’t do girls.” She focuses on the raft across the way ignoring the skinny suburban goody-two-shoe because there is no way in hell that girl could be of any. The rope tying them together groan with the push and pull of the current.
“Ma’am,” she calls to someone who stands with her shoulders back and feet steady on the raft. That’s the type of person Maybaleen needs to talk to. She licks her lips. She hates how they taste. “You a nurse? PA or—hell—I’ll settle for a stay-at-home-mom if you can make this guy stop from throwing up his stomach because I’m pretty sure that’s coming up next.” She jerks her thumb behind her where Mr. Clueless and Mr. Friendly should be stumbling out of the door. Her stomach lurches as the rafts fall between the small swells. Taking a sharp breath threw her nose, she prevents letting loose whatever she had to drink (probably tequila) and eat (probably Zaxby’s fries) last night, too.
"There's a boy in the other..." What should she call the spaces under the tent? She settles with the familiar. "...room. He didn't want to be bothered. So don't. I don't think he'll appreciate it," Deepti says.
She steps back, the shuddering of the fabric snaps and rustles as the morning gets brighter and begins to dissipate the surrounding fog. "But I want to help with the others. Is there another one inside here? I’ll get them.” She turns back to the shelter. Stopping, she purses her lips. The old anger of being underestimated resurfaces with the swelling of the sea. She turns, twisting so her back cracks. It is satisfying and helps her say, “And then we’ll talk” with more confidence.
Deepti looks passed the doctor and sees a young woman standing on the deck of the blue raft. Frail and white, looking as if she will disappear with the morning haze. She reaches out and grabs the inflexible material of the tent. Cringing, she steps inside again to ferret out anyone else. She drags her hand along the wall, feeling the rippling of the fabric. She refuses disappear, to become a memory.
Deepti looks down at the boy with sandy hair. He holds a knife in his hands. It is as if he is getting ready to make an offering of milk or honey to Ganshe. “Are you okay?” she asks. Something about him makes her lips tremble. Maybe it’s because he reminds her of the boy (Shawn, she thinks.) who delivered fresh chicken and lamb to Pita every other morning with his father. He was from central Pennsylvania who got his GED instead of graduating from high school. She didn’t even like him. He was Protestant-America personified. Was. She crouches. Was.
She bows her head and presses her forehead to her knees. “Because I’m not okay either.” The pain of having the jeweled bindi digging into her skin keeps her from crying. “But that’s a good thing. Right? To not be okay? It means that things will get better.” Deepti knows this boy is a stranger. That it is impolite for her to impose on him her worries, but it would be equally impolite to ignore his own distress.
“There’s a woman outside who promises that she will talk to us. But I don’t want to be there alone with her,” she admits. “Will you come with me, please?” She risks touching the boys hand. Deepti still needs to feel skin. To replace the coarse fibers of the tent with warmth and human. According to Mr. Maalouf, using the same strategy multiple times proves you lack the creativity to come up with a new one. But he always points out how using the same strategy in multiple situations is statistically likely to work at some point.
Maybaleen starts to giggle. It’s the kind of giggle she uses with customers at the clubs when she thinks they’re actually funny, but at the same time can’t understand why she’s laughing. “Well, Mr. Clueless. Meet Mr. Friendly. He has a tendency to puke on your pants. Feels like ya’ll’ve been college roomies, don’t it?” She doesn’t expect Alex to respond. Actually, she doesn’t really want him to respond. She wants to deposit this guy down and give herself a second to orient herself. (Because she was positive that she heard Harrison crying.) So she slips from under the body builder, throwing off both of their balances.
The edge of the entryway crumples as she grips it to steady herself as the sea swells, waking itself from its morning placidity. “You can call me Cherry, darling,” she says, smiling back at him over her shoulder. It’s a lazy curl of her lips. A familiar movement that always puts twenties in her bra when she finally leans down towards the customers. Sauntering out her eyes shift to the girl standing to the side. Her eyebrow lifts. “But you can call me Maybaleen. I don’t do girls.” She focuses on the raft across the way ignoring the skinny suburban goody-two-shoe because there is no way in hell that girl could be of any. The rope tying them together groan with the push and pull of the current.
“Ma’am,” she calls to someone who stands with her shoulders back and feet steady on the raft. That’s the type of person Maybaleen needs to talk to. She licks her lips. She hates how they taste. “You a nurse? PA or—hell—I’ll settle for a stay-at-home-mom if you can make this guy stop from throwing up his stomach because I’m pretty sure that’s coming up next.” She jerks her thumb behind her where Mr. Clueless and Mr. Friendly should be stumbling out of the door. Her stomach lurches as the rafts fall between the small swells. Taking a sharp breath threw her nose, she prevents letting loose whatever she had to drink (probably tequila) and eat (probably Zaxby’s fries) last night, too.