The Jade Notebook (21 page)

No response.

I turn him toward me, cupping his face in my hands, kiss him long and hard on the mouth.

He pulls away, looks down. “We should get some work done.”

My face hot, I walk away and pick up my machete. There’s no explanation for his acting like this. It must have been a vision, an intense one. But what if it’s me? What if for some reason, he’s not into me anymore?

I glance around at the giant leaves, the flowers spilling out everywhere, the beginnings of my path network. My little paradise. None of it matters if Wendell isn’t part of it.

I set down my machete, stand in front of him, look straight into his eyes. “Wendell, the truth. What’s going on?”

He brushes the stray hairs from his face. “Yesterday I …”

The dread in his voice scares me. “What?”

“After work I got an email.” He sighs.

I brace myself. What if it was from an old girlfriend? Or worse, a death in his family? “From?”

“From California College of the Arts.”

“What?” This is the last thing I expected him to say. I feel a wave of relief that it wasn’t an old girlfriend or a death. Then I wonder where he’s going with this.

“I didn’t mention it to you before because—well, I didn’t think anything would happen.”

“What are you talking about, Wendell?” Something in the tone of his voice makes my stomach clench.

“I was sure I wanted to follow our plan, Z. Stay here while you finished school, then go to CU Boulder together … but in the fall, my parents made me apply to at least one college. In case I changed my mind.”

I’m motionless, listening.

He picks up a dead stick, snaps it in half, and in half again. “I applied to this art school in San Francisco, sent them my portfolio of Ecuador and France photos. There’s a famous photographer who teaches there—international nature stuff. I thought there was no way I’d get in, and even if I did, there’s no way we could afford it.” He pauses, rubbing his head.

“And you got in?”

He lets out a long, somber breath. “All tuition paid, plus a dorm room and meal plan.” You’d think he was telling me his dog died. “I’d have to take some prerequisites as summer classes. Starting in June.”

A whole succession of thoughts flies through my mind. First, I’m grateful that his news doesn’t involve weird animals or creepy visions or terminal diseases. Then I envision
him in San Francisco having gallery openings and getting his photos published in magazines, and my heart swells with happiness. Then I wonder why he’s so down about it.

It slams into me like a punch in the gut. June. He’d have to leave a year earlier than me. The other realizations hit me like a storm. A dorm room and meal plan. No place for me. No way could I afford to live in San Francisco, especially on my own, doing my senior year in high school. And even after I graduate, I wouldn’t be going to an arts college. I need something more practical—international relations, maybe—so I can pay back student loans. And a harder punch in the gut: if he’s leaving in June, he won’t be here for our handfasting on the beach. The thought of our perfect spot of beach, empty and abandoned on August second—that’s what makes my lip tremble.

It takes all my concentration to hold back tears. A hummingbird buzzes by. There’s the distant roar of a motorboat or maybe a truck engine. The insect songs rise and fall. He’s waiting for me to say something. I wish I could kiss him and say congratulations, but if I open my mouth, I might start to cry.

He takes my hand. “Hey, listen, Z. I’m not gonna take it. I just—” He shakes his head. “I want to be with you. Help with the cabanas. Protect the turtles. I love it here.”

I find words, make my mouth move. “Did you tell your parents?”

He nods.

“And?”

He answers quietly. “They think I’d be crazy not to take it.” Rubbing his temple, he adds, “They say it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

I try to wrap my head around this. “Why? Couldn’t you postpone it? Till next year? Maybe I could save up money, find a way to go too.”

He lets out a long breath. “The prof who’s offering me the scholarship—he’s leaving next year. He’ll be working full-time for National Geographic. It’s a one-shot deal, Z.”

I absorb this. Wendell’s parents are right; he’d be crazy not to take it. But our year together would be gone. And who knows what would happen at college? He could meet anyone, he could change, he could … anything. I bite my lip. I know what the right thing to say is. So I force myself to say it. “Maybe you shouldn’t refuse it yet. Just email them back. Say you need time to decide.”

“Z, I don’t think—”

“Just email them, all right?” My words come out almost angry.

“All right.”

We clear the rest of the portion of path in silence. My insides are spinning, a whirlpool of emotion. It’s another mess. A mess that makes my stomach hurt, my chest ache. A mess that makes me realize I can’t count on anything. Not my father, who’s hiding from me. Not my mother, who’ll leap at any excuse to make us leave. Not Wendell, the person I thought I could depend on more than anyone.

By the orange glow of the bonfire, three Australian backpacker girls are dancing as a long-haired Norwegian architect, Sven, plays a wooden flute and Horacio, the blind man, strums his guitar. It would be pleasant if Wendell—a happy Wendell—were here instead of moping in his cabana. If only he’d never gotten that scholarship offer. And if only Joe weren’t sitting next to me, staring at the leaping flames and ranting about the inevitable incineration of the world. “Actually, Joe,” I tell him, “at the moment, I wouldn’t mind if the world burned to ashes.”

That silences him.

Then, inspired, Layla stands up, Rumi written all over her face.
“Rise into the atmosphere, and even if the whole world’s harp should burn up”
—and here she looks pointedly at Joe and me—
“there will still be hidden instruments playing.”

A few guests applaud, murmur appreciation. They tilt back their heads, watching the smoke rise into the sky. Horacio and the architect give an appreciative nod toward Layla and keep playing.

She sits close beside me and whispers, “What’s wrong, love?”

I stare at the fire. Layla wouldn’t understand. She’s used to guys flitting in and out of her life. She’d have no clue how I feel. If she were in my place, she’d take it as a sign—or excuse—to move to another country, most likely. “Nothing,” I whisper.

“Is it about your father?”

I glance up. I could let her think that.

“You’re upset you haven’t found him?”

I pause, listening to the lone flute notes spiral up. “It sucks looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found. Someone I’m not even convinced I want to find anymore. Not now that I know more about him.” I shrug. “I’ve given up for the moment.”

“Really, love?”

I wave the smoke from my stinging eyes, forcing my mouth into some semblance of a smile. “I’ve found my cousins and aunt. At least, I think I have. And I’ve met some cool locals—Lupita and Santy and El Loco and the other
bolibolistas
. Maybe that’s enough.” But even I can tell I’m not convincing.

“There’s more, isn’t there, Z?” She gives me a sheepish look. “Are you mad I haven’t signed the contract yet?”

“You haven’t?” I’m too depressed to get angry.

“I promise I’ll do it soon, Z.” She reaches out, tilts my chin up, studies my watering smoke-stung eyes. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?” Glancing around, she asks, “Where’s Wendell been hiding?”

I wince, as if she’s just touched the tender skin around a splinter.

On occasion, Layla can be surprisingly perceptive. She pulls me toward her. I blink back tears, let her hold me.

“He got a scholarship,” I sputter, my voice muffled in the cotton of her huipil. “He’d have to leave in June. He says he doesn’t think he’ll take it but …” I let my voice fade, and wipe my tears.

I brace myself for her to assure me it doesn’t matter, there are more boys out there, on every continent, a world of boys just waiting to meet me. In fact, she’ll probably offer,
Hey, why don’t we go find one for you now?
Instead, she says, matter-of-factly, “He’s the love of your life, Z. We all know that.”

I pull away from her and stare. This is the last thing I expected.

“You’ve just hit a rough patch. Hang in there, love.” She squeezes my hand and says confidently, “It’ll work out.”

“What if it doesn’t?” My voice sounds so small and vulnerable. Usually, I’m the strong one around Layla. The one with my feet solidly on the ground, pulling her back to earth. “What if everything’s ruined?”

She pulls me to my feet. “Dance with me, Z!”

I groan. Dancing is Layla’s solution to just about anything. I glance around, searching for a way out. Joe is passing out Coronas to the guests. Sven and Horacio set down their instruments, clink their bottles together, and sip. The Australian girls are heading back to their cabana, their laughter tinkling behind them.

“Come on, Z!” Layla insists, her bangles clinking as she snakes her arms through the smoke. “Let’s dance!”

“Layla, the absolute last thing I want to do is dance.” I scowl, folding my arms tightly. “Anyway, the music’s over. There’s no point.”

She lets go of my hands and begins dancing herself, just the rush of ocean for music, the metallic tinkling of her
bracelets. She whispers Rumi.
“We rarely hear the inward music, but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless.”

The next morning, when I show up at Doña Lupita’s house, I’m groggy from a sleepless night. She gives me a big hug that smells of smoky chile and cinnamon. Today she’s wearing a silvery dress with a pink flower pattern under her checked apron. I wonder if every dress she owns looks like her garden.

She sits me down on a tree stump and immediately places a steaming cup of chamomile tea in my hands.

I force a smile, determined not to let my bad mood put a damper on our cooking lesson.

She claps her hands.
“¡Empezemos!”
Let’s start! Then she takes out a large clay plate—“our
comal
,” she says, patting it. She balances it on cement blocks over the cooking fire. Then she plucks an array of dried chiles from a basket and drops them on the
comal
. As they roast, she pours a heap of almonds onto one area, cacao beans on another, then sesame seeds, cloves, pumpkin seeds, and cinnamon sticks in other areas. From time to time, she stirs each ingredient with a wooden spoon. The smell is heavenly—sweet and spicy and earthy. I jot down the ingredients as fast as I can.

Over the next few hours come plantains, raisins, onions, peanuts, garlic … so many ingredients, I can barely keep up. It feels good to focus on this smattering of smells and tastes and textures and heat. Lupita shows me how to turn over the chiles and stir the seeds, until everything is almost to the point of burning, but not quite. Then she has me scrape the
roasted ingredients into a giant stone bowl, add a little oil, and, with a big pestle, grind everything together in a paste.

“So how’s your boyfriend?” she asks, watching me work.

For a moment, I tense up, not wanting to break the spell of the chocolate and chile and spices. Struggling to control my emotions, I tell her about his art school news, how cold he’s been acting.

“Will he take the scholarship?” she asks solemnly, understanding the gravity of this situation.

“He claims he doesn’t want to,” I say, pounding the pestle with more force than necessary. I wipe the sweat from my brows. “But I know I’m the only reason he wouldn’t take it.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“To tell the school he needs more time to decide.” I pause to stare at her. It’s as if she can see through me, right into my selfish center. “I want him to stay,” I admit. Then, glancing at our
mole
, I add, “He’s the main ingredient in my paradise.”

She considers this. “Is he happy staying?”

“Not since he got the email. If he passes on this opportunity … I think he’ll regret it.”

She hands me a cacao bean. “Bite.”

I do, and grimace. “Bitter,” I say, instinctively spitting it out. An old dog moseys over to inspect it. After a few sniffs, he deems it not worth the trouble, and settles back down under a tree.