Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green (29 page)

A dark feeling seizes me and I wonder if I’ve been directing my fear toward the wrong threat. There may be bigger things to be scared of tonight than La Lava. The volcano is starting to seriously smoke. It’s coming out in huge swelling yellow clumps, which is by
far
the most dramatic it’s been since we arrived.

ONCE THE LAST BIRD DIES, THE VOLCANO WILL BLOW
. The words push their way into my head as yet another billow of smoke rushes upward. And I think of Miss Perfect, limp and weak in Roo’s pouch. Is she the last bird? Are the volcano stories true? Does the volcano have reason to believe the last bird is about to die?

I twist back around, hoping to meet Kyle’s eyes to see if he’s noticed the volcano, but he’s staring solemnly at a piece of papaya on his fork. So I look over at Roo to see if
she’s
noticed, but she’s looking off in the opposite direction, up toward one of the tables closest to the stage—a table with a bouquet larger than any of the others. A woman in a grass-green dress and a woman in a wine-red dress sit at that table, their backs to us.

I stare at Vivi’s back, trying to figure out if it’s the back of someone who’s just read a life-changing—well, if not life-changing, at least very important—letter. But it’s impossible to tell. Her back is strong and hard. And when Vivi turns to say something to Patricia Chevalier, I see the profile of her face. She looks like her normal icequeen self, and my stomach sinks.

Suddenly I feel absolutely positive that I gave the letter to Patricia Chevalier.

Meanwhile, our table continues to be stuck in silence, and man, would I ever like to have some normal chatter to hide beneath. It’s Ken/Neth who finally rescues us by asking Kyle a question about
Spanish grammar, something about how to use articles. I never thought I’d be this grateful for Señor All-Friendliness-All-the-Time. Kyle—who looks even more like he’s drowning in his tuxedo when he’s sitting down—has an excellent answer, I’m sure, but I wouldn’t know because I tune it out and instead focus all my energy on Vivi, willing her to turn around, look at me, and blink three times, as instructed in my letter.

Beside me Roo wiggles restlessly in her seat, and I turn my attention to her.

“You okay?” I mutter under Kyle’s little Spanish-grammar speech.

Roo looks at me, wide-eyed and—I realize—scared, then gives a tiny shrug, staring meaningfully down at the place under her skirt where Miss Perfect is attached, and lets her neck go limp for a second.

Oh
no
! Miss Perfect, fading fast beneath Roo’s dress! But I can’t waste another second on Roo and Miss Perfect—I know Roo can take care of Miss Perfect (far better than I can, at least), plus I
have
to keep my eyes on Vivi and hope for a sign from her.

The gong sounds and the salad plates are cleared. Then it sounds again, and the entrées are served. If I weren’t totally focused on Vivi, I’d fall in love with tilapia in mango sauce, something I’ve (obviously) never had before. But I can’t really enjoy the food, because I’m so super nervous, and because I’m so busy staring at her with all my might.

I notice that yet another awkward silence has fallen over our table. I wish I could say something casual to break the silence, but the weight of all the secrets I have to keep hangs too heavily over me.

Then Ken/Neth saves the day yet again by asking Kyle about the life span of jungle frogs. After Kyle gives a very detailed response, Ken/Neth launches into some funny stories about the problems the
La Lava management has encountered in trying to keep the resort pristine (in the mornings they have to chase monkeys away from the pools, because the monkeys like to sit there staring at their reflections, and if the monkeys are feeling aggressive they’ll try to pee on whoever’s shooing them away). I pretty much tune it all out—except for that funny thing about the monkeys—because I’m still looking at Vivi like there’s no tomorrow. It’s nice to have a bit of chatter going on at the table. It makes me feel more hidden as I stare at Vivi.

I’m getting very, very close to giving up on Vivi when Mom says with a sigh, “Oh, girls, my beautiful, beautiful girls, I wish your father could see you right now.” She almost chokes on those words,
your father
—I hear them getting snagged in her throat—and for a second I wonder why I find that statement so incredibly creepy, until I realize it’s because Mom sounded like she was talking about someone who was dead.

Somehow that feeling of creepiness makes me want to believe even more that Vivi got my letter, and I stare at her twice as hard as before, if that’s even possible.

I stare as the waiters move among the tables, clearing dinner plates. And I stare as the gong sounds again and the waiters wheel out golden carts piled high with desserts.

“Coconut flan with lime foam?” Roo repeats after a waiter announces the dessert, first in Spanish and then in English. “YAY, YAY, YAY!” I honestly can’t tell if Roo is playing the role of Excited Innocent Little Girl At Big Party or if she’s truly able to get excited about dessert even with everything that’s going on.

Ken/Neth asks Kyle another question—this one about poisonous snakes. Amazingly, Ken/Neth seems fascinated by all the million things Kyle has to say on the topic, and Kyle responds energetically to Ken/Neth’s in-depth inquiries. As with Roo, I’m not sure if Kyle
is pretending to be the passionate teenage naturalist or if he’s genuinely getting swept up in his conversation with Ken/Neth. Either Roo and Kyle are phenomenal actors or they know how to compartmentalize their fear big-time. Jeez, I have a lot to learn from those two. But now’s not the time to learn it, because I’m keeping most of my focus on Vivi, whose back still looks just as perfect and serene as it has this whole time.

The band is winding down, the last notes of a slow, romantic song washing away into the violet evening. The band members in their white tuxedos leave the stage and the only music now is the sound of forks clinking against golden dessert plates. The gleaming dance floor stretches out from the raised stage, reflecting the rising moon.

The gong sounds yet again and now there’s new activity on the stage: Patricia Chevalier is walking up the stairs that lead to the elevated platform, followed by five men in dark tuxedos. I strain to catch a glimpse of her shoes as she steps upward, but her dress is too long. She marches over to the microphone while the men sit in five chairs that have been placed in a row behind her.

But as they all take their seats, it strikes me that one of the tuxedoed men is very familiar. And then I realize that it’s Dad! He was paraded out right in the middle of those other guys. I look around and notice a table on the opposite side of the dining area with five now-empty seats. And my stomach goes all funny from the strangeness of it. He’s been there all along, sitting at that table, while we’ve been over here missing him? And why is La Lava putting their prisoner on the stage, in a tuxedo no less? It’s really, really, really weird to see Dad in a tuxedo. He’s not even wearing a tuxedo in his wedding photos! I glance at Roo and Kyle, who are grinning at the sight of the Bird Guy.

It takes me a second to realize what’s actually weird, way weirder
than seeing Dad in a tuxedo: What
really
makes him unrecognizable is that he looks happy and peaceful and calm. I haven’t seen him so happy and peaceful and calm since he left Denver. Happy and peaceful and calm even though he’s sitting on the stage that belongs to the people who are holding him hostage and threatening his wife and daughters. Happy and peaceful and calm even though Volcán Pájaro de Lava is billowing smoke on the horizon.

The sight of Dad up there alongside those other tuxedos, looking completely unworried, is seriously the scariest thing I’ve seen since our plane landed, and there’s been a lot of competition for that distinction. What I suddenly understand, seeing Dad now, is that he
is
crazy. He’s gone off the deep end. La Lava has driven him insane, or maybe it’s the curse of the volcano, but anyway, I can tell he’s crazy because he doesn’t look the least bit concerned. He looks as if everything’s fine. As if no one’s in danger. Kind of the way Mom always looks nowadays. If Dad were himself right now, he’d be up there looking furious, plotting an attack on whoever was trying to harm us.

Right then, Roo kicks me hard under the table. I mean,
hard
. I’m about to yelp when I realize she was just helping Kyle get my attention. They’re both looking at me, eyebrows raised with the silent question:
So, is Vivi on board?

I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything except shrug at them.
I … don’t know
. I glance over at Vivi’s strong back.

Okay then.

Plan B, right?

But we have no Plan B. Why didn’t we assume that Vivi wouldn’t help us (or, that I might fail to give her the letter)? We are
such
idiots.

Desperate, I try to think. Maybe, if we moved fast enough, the three of us could stampede up onto the stage. I look over at the
staircases on either side and notice what I could have
sworn
weren’t there a minute ago—pairs of large, looming men guarding the steps. So. I guess Kyle was right about the whole high-security thing.

We have no way, absolutely no way, of getting up on that stage.

The realization sinks through me, from the top of my head down to the soles of my feet, making me crumple into myself, unable to look at Kyle or Roo.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Patricia Chevalier says into the microphone, her sophisticated voice booming out over everyone. I squint, once again trying and failing to catch a glimpse of her shoes. “Welcome to the annual Gold Circle Investors’ Gala at La Lava Resort and Spa. Please help me welcome this year’s Geniuses!”

After a huge round of applause fades out, Patricia Chevalier begins going down the line, introducing the men one by one. All of them look exactly the same to me, with big, round, rich-guy faces, except for Dad. Patricia Chevalier speaks in English, and her words are translated into Spanish and French and what looks like Japanese or maybe Chinese (I’m embarrassed to admit I can’t tell the difference) on these digital red translator screens running along the bottom of the stage. The introductions blur together—president of this, president of that, CEO, CFO, chairperson, architect, all the way here from London, New York City, Tokyo, Paris, instrumental in development, marketing, advising, blah, blah, blah.

And then Dr. James Wade, hailing from Denver, Colorado—MPhil Cambridge, PhD Yale, a list of all the universities where he’s taught, all the research grants he’s won, all the awards, all the articles by and about him. And to be honest it gets a little boring, but then at the end she finally mentions that among his fans he’s known as the Bird Guy, which, if you ask me and Roo, is one of the coolest things about Dad’s work.

After lots more clapping and me shrinking further into myself and refusing to look at Kyle and Roo and trying to think if there’s any way we can maybe sneak up onto the balcony to get everyone’s attention from there or climb up on our table or something, Patricia Chevalier starts talking about “all the environmental awards La Lava Resort and Spa has received in the last twelve months alone” and “how very proud we are to have been ranked the World’s Greenest Spa each of the past two years since the spa was founded.” She goes on and on about “the emphasis we place on being in harmony with the volcano and the rain forest ecosystem,” maintaining La Lava as an “environmentally sound, low-impact place, even imitating the exact foliage of the rain forest on our grounds” and “using the volcano’s natural energy to power the spa, which is essential to making this an entirely organic institution.” She talks about the yoga classes that “channel the ancient energy of the volcano.” It all culminates in “the capstone of the La Lava experience,” “our supreme achievement”—the “miraculous and priceless skin treatment” developed “by our brilliant resident biochemists over the course of the last nine months, and recently trademarked.” This substance “restores our clients to their most perfect natural state” due to the “incredible antiaging properties of our intricate formula, created entirely from all-natural and locally-sourced ingredients,” which has been “proven to not only reduce the signs of aging but to in fact
reverse
the aging process” in a way that has been “described as groundbreaking by experts and mind-blowing by our clients.” She mentions all the ecologists brought in for “multiple, in-depth consultations.” She thanks “in particular Dr. Wade, for contributing so much to the ornithological mission of the spa.” She tells us “it is both an honor and a responsibility to be the best on the planet, setting the golden standard for ethics in rain forest development.”

Then! She mentions the Lava-Throated Volcano trogon, which,
“having been confirmed extinct four years ago,” is “one of the great tragedies of this region.” She informs us that “La Lava is committed to making sure such an extinction never again occurs in the area. What happened to the Lava-Throated Volcano trogon must not be repeated. Even as we expand and flourish, we vow to treasure and protect delicate habitats.”

I’m still not totally clear on the exact definition of
irony
—we just started to learn about that in English class at the end of the school year—but I’m pretty positive this is it.

And then it hits me: Patricia Chevalier definitely knows. She knows everything about our plan. She has the letter. She’s wearing tan shoes (I try yet again to spot them beneath her dress). Because why else would she be going on so much about LTVTs? We failed—
I
failed.

My head feels painfully heavy. I put my elbows on the table and let my forehead droop down into my hands. After a long moment, I gather my courage to look up at Kyle and Roo.

But they aren’t paying the least bit of attention to me. Their faces are bright as they gaze hard at the side of the stage, where there’s some kind of shuffle going on, some kind of fight or heated conversation—a regal woman in green speaking sharply to the bodyguards protecting the steps. From up on the stage, Patricia Chevalier shoots the men a let-her-through-you-stupid-fools glare, and the bodyguards part to let the movie star pass between them.