Jaz & Miguel (6 page)

The road around the International House was eerily empty the next
morning when Jaz came down to be picked up by Sandile.

She found him talking to a guy dressed all in black, a red bandana
on his head like Tupac (or Justin Bieber, depending on the point of view—or the
era), and his underwear showing from above his pants (which desperately needed
a belt). Sandile was leaning on his car—that ugly light-sky-blue thing he'd
told her about the day before—and shaking his head. When he saw Jaz he tried to
squeeze away from the monster (he was indeed a monster in size, towering over
Sandile like Shaq) but baggy-clothes-dude put a massive palm on Sandile's
shoulder and stopped him from moving away, gently, easily, as if Sandile knew
his place and this guy knew that he was in control—no force necessary.

However, the guy also then turned to face Jaz. And then she saw it: the
piece—sticking out from under his basketball shirt, tucked into the seam of his
pants; just enough showing for it not to be obvious at first glance. His gaze
pierced into her chest and sent a tremble down her arms and out her fingernails.
A frenzied look in his eyes dominated his grimy face, as if he hadn't slept or
bathed in days. He smiled at her, sending chills down her legs.

She swallowed, and waited for them to finish.

They spoke in an African language (who knows which one; all she knew
is that it wasn't "Afrikaans," that having about the only distinct
characteristics she could pick up on—namely, a particular sound which seemed
like the person was clearing up some mucous from their throat and getting ready
to spit). Sandile gave the man one of those resigned nods, like you're agreeing
to something but only so the person will leave. The big guy turned around,
nodded with a lewd smile at her (revealing a gold tooth) and swayed away like
he was from friggin South Central or in some goddamn gangsta music video.

She walked up to Sandile and greeted him. His mind was clearly
elsewhere. And so was hers now. She almost got into the wrong side of the car but
forgave herself because she still hadn't yet gotten used to the whole driving
on the wrong side of the road thing.

For a while, they drove in silence. Then, when they got on the
highway and she looked down on the sprawling city below—almost as if its
towering buildings had been stifling her voice when they were in amongst them—she
finally spoke out.

"Who was that guy earlier?"

A fraction of hesitation before Sandile answered: "
Ach
," (that was one of those throat-clearing sounds from the
Afrikaans language). "It was no one. Just some Johnny-come-lately who
thinks he knows me. His name is Tsepho. Just forget him." Then he changed
the subject. "Look, you didn't tell Thandie anything about Elize, did you?"

Jaz was slightly—but only slightly—offended.

"Of course not. And hey, you're the one who opened up to some
total stranger about this thing, not me."

"You're right. I'm sorry. It's just that ... well, no one can
know. Not now. Not ... for a while. Not even your best friend."

"I know that. You told me yesterday."

"Yes, I'm sorry." Sandile was on edge, as if something had
triggered a circuit of worry within him. "However, I'm also excited about
you meeting Elize. She is a special person. You will be the first of my friends
she will get to know outside of Miguel."

"Ah, you assume we're friends!"

She swore she saw him blush.

"I—guess," he said with a weak shrug.

"Well, that depends on how it goes with your friend, Miguel. By
the way, I did tell you I am in
no ways
interested in him, right?"

"Not in so many words, really. But you should give him a
chance." (Jaz had never been less interested in a guy). "Now, as to
that 'friends' question: Thandie likes you—a lot—so, yes, I consider you a
friend. There is no question about that. I hope that I—
we
—can become friends
to you."

That sounded good to her. She could be friends with this Miguel
guy—maybe. As for Sandile, she already considered him one.

"Cool," she said.

"
Cool
? You are so American."

Jaz was taken aback by how much sheer space there was when driving
to Northriding (the suburb in which Northgate Mall was). On their way there she
saw a paint ball place on her left and shouted, "We have to go there!"

Sandile merely nodded and told her that if she liked
veld school
then she'd get enough of that kind of stuff at the camp they were
going to.

"Veld school?"

"Oh, God, you don't know what veld school is? You have not
lived!"

He explained what it was. Veld school (which she later discovered
was spelled with a V and ended in a D, even though it was pronounced with an F
and a T sound—like what guys always tried to do to Rae at a party) was sort of
like a "survival camp" that all South African kids had the fortune
(or misfortune) of attending in both seventh grade (the final year of their "primary
school" which is sort of like Elementary School) and then again in tenth
grade. Sandile wasn't sure what they learned there, but they sure ran around in
a lot of mud, climbed a lot of ropes and ... well, that's when he and Thandie
had hooked up.

"So, ja, we'll be doing a lot of that stuff this coming week at
the camp, I believe, from what I've heard from previous students," he
said.

She had to confess, it sounded fun.

"Why did you decide to do the IHRE program?" she asked
him.

Sandile went quiet. "Um—just some stuff in my past, I guess.
Look, something I should've told you"—Jaz's stomach sank—"but don't
ask Miguel about his family. Beyond that, it's all smooth sailing with him."

"I see," she looked out her window at the expanding fields
of grass, sparsely speckled by houses in the distance. And then her curiosity
won: "Why? What's up with his family?"

Sandile cleared his throat. "It's just—his mom and sister
passed away a few years back. It's best to leave it as an untouched subject."

Jaz sensed Sandile's own discomfort clearly, and decided to drop the
questions.

"Well, I have an ulterior motive for coming today," she
said. "I want to find what makes you guys so close. I think you're both secretly
gay," she said.

Sandile laughed through his nose. "Good one," he said,
slapping the steering wheel. "Definitely tell him that. He'll like it."

Even though she'd chosen a flowery sundress because of the
surprisingly warm weather, Jaz felt suddenly overdressed when she saw Miguel in
nothing but faded Levis and a gray T-shirt. That, and the strange sensation she
felt in her chest when she saw the blonde that he was sitting with, made her
feel a little self-conscious. It was ridiculous of her to feel this way around
him. Sandile had made it clear—and said that he'd made it clear to Miguel—that
there was no pressure. That he was a boy and she a girl did not mean they had
to call this thing a
date
. It wasn't a date.
That had been the deal. They would just be two friends out for coffee. Jaz
would be doing
Sandile
a favor—had those not been his words?

Standing there now, purse clutched in front of her, looking at
Miguel's own curls as he and the blonde (that
must
be Elize) laughed as
they sat at their wooden table, it struck her that two single heterosexuals,
alone, out for a cup of coffee, had never been (and never
would
be!)
anything
but
a date.

Damn it.
She was such an idiot.

She felt the strap of her leather purse moisten in her hands as she
gripped it. The rest of her body seemed also to have broken out in a sweat, a
cool breeze from somewhere hitting the nape of her neck and sending a chill
down her spine, finally making her entire body shiver.

Why had she spent so long ensuring her eyeshadow looked just right
today, or wondering if the dress she'd chosen made her look fat?

And he? Miguel looked like he was about to roll in the mud with some
pigs. He looked like he'd put as much attention into looking good as he'd put
into—
I don't know
—throwing a basketball at someone's head!

"Hi," said Miguel, standing from his chair and putting his
hand out to shake Jaz's.

Well, that was at least more chivalrous than yesterday.

The blonde literally
glowed
when she saw Sandile. He put his
arms around her and they kissed. Jaz shook Miguel's hand, hoping he wouldn't
notice how moist hers was. They stood around for a bit, hoping Elize and
Sandile would soon finish, but then Miguel pulled a chair out for her when that
seemed unlikely.

"You look nice," he said, an air of calmness now on his
face, completely unlike the angry stiff she'd met the day before.

"Thank you." She wiped her hands on her dress under the
table. She was sitting unbelievably close to him. And he was wearing quite an
aftershave (or cologne). As its aroma wafted into her mind, she felt briefly
lightheaded.

They sat in silence awhile, Elize and Sandile still standing and
kissing. Miguel cleared his throat very obviously, and they chuckled. Elize
(whose cheeks had gone very pink by now) smiled as Sandile pulled away from
her, never letting his gaze leave her face, and then Sandile finally introduced
her.

Jaz could've sworn she'd seen the man's dusky skin go slightly red
(the second time today).

Elize's skin, however, was
unmistakably
red.

"I've been dying to meet you!" said Elize. "Miguel
was telling me all about you."

He was?
And what did he say? How long
did he talk about me? Did he introduce me as Sandile's friend or … as something
else?

Jaz looked at Miguel and his expression betrayed nothing. "I
told her you were from America," he said as he played with the straw of
whatever clear-colored sparkling drink he was having. He looked so casual, so
relaxed, nothing at all compared to the person she'd met yesterday.

Jaz noticed that he'd cut himself just slightly below his right ear while
shaving that morning, and saw as well that, if he was to let it grow, he'd have
quite a thick black beard. She hoped silently that he wouldn't let it grow. Beards
prickle. Her dad had a beard once. Every time he'd kissed her on the cheek it had
made her skin itch, and her mom had always complained about it as well. So then
he shaved it off.

"Jaz?" Elize's voice. It sounded like someone saying
something to her from above a pool while she lay beneath it. And just as Elize
had spoken, Jaz heard the sudden rumble of people's voices talking at the same
time at the coffee shop, and the sounds of glasses hitting
against each
other, as if she'd just been suddenly yanked from that quiet pool by a
fisherman's rod.

"Oh, yes, yes—I'm from ... America." She'd long since noted
that everyone here called it "America" so she just went along with the
flow, the word blending into her language just as so many others already had,
merging into one language as if neither had ever been different from the other.

Elize's beauty struck her. But it was a different kind of beauty—a simple,
caring beauty. She had marine-blue eyes and curls of golden hair. Her cheeks,
she saw now, had an almost permanent red hue on them—not from makeup; it was
natural. She was not overweight, but carried a tiny amount of baby fat. In a
way, it suited her, making her even more elegant and soft and uniquely feminine.
She wore a simple green sweater with a loose collar over a plain dress—nothing
conspicuous at all—which contrasted with her pearl necklace and the long,
silver earrings that swayed above her smooth shoulders.

Like when she'd met Sandile, Jaz just knew that she would like Elize,
and needed no explanation as to why.

They ordered drinks and, seeing as the legal drinking age in South
Africa was eighteen and that Jaz was at least two months older than that now, she
ordered a small beer. Elize was genuinely interested in where Jaz was from and
so Jaz told them about Seattle and The Needle and even about Northgate Mall (which
they all laughed at).

"Ah, but does your Northgate Mall have an in-house ice rink?"
retorted Sandile.

Miguel stayed mostly quiet, just listening as they all spoke,
sitting back in his chair, his gaze every now and then wandering toward things
at other tables, but not with an air of boredom. It's as if he was simply
basking in the comfort of companionship and the alleviation of friendly voices.
He'd smile as they made jokes, and ran his index finger over the top of his
glass occasionally. Part of him seemed to be permanently elsewhere.

Almost in the middle of one of Elize's sentences—unprompted by
anything other than the sudden urge to know more about him—Jaz blurted out to
Miguel in an incomprehensibly unthinking moment, "And? Tell us about you!"
On top of it, along with her spontaneous question (much like her spontaneous
hand the day before), her other unthinking hand (the
left
one this time)
had also now found its way (all of its own accord) onto Miguel's leg ... but
only briefly.