An Infidel in Paradise (14 page)

Angie invited me over for dinner tonight, but apparently the grounding does cover that, and I also lost the use of my cell phone, so I have to wait for the landline to call and tell her I’m going to Mustapha’s tomorrow after all. Angie will definitely want to give me some advice. She’s still convinced Mustapha has some burning passion for me. I think it’s far more likely he realizes his effect on me and is sadistically toying with me because I insulted his country.

Now Vince is at my door. Maybe the phone’s free.

“Dad’s on the phone. He wants to speak to you.”

“Really? What a surprise.” I angrily flip an unread page of my book.

“This isn’t all his fault. You need to stop blaming him.” He takes a step into my room but hesitates just inside the door.

“Are you going to tell me Mom was doing the gardener now?” I challenge. I’m full-on raging, and it feels good. I hope my voice carries all the way down the hall. I want Dad to hear, though truthfully I don’t blame it all on him. I’m at least as angry at Mom.

“No, I’m just saying you know what was going on between them. They had a lot of problems.”

“And more than one solution,” I fire back. “He didn’t have to screw the maid.”

“Zenny, her name’s Zenny. And you liked her too, Em. We all did.”

“Well, I don’t like her much now,” I say fiercely, but my voice comes out raspy like I’m holding back tears. Vince is right. I did like Zenny. A lot.
But doesn’t he realize that it just makes it worse?

“I know you feel Dad abandoned us, but Mom made the decision to move us here, and he had no way of supporting us if we stayed behind in the Philippines. He barely makes enough to support him and Zenny.”

“I never said I wanted to stay behind with him.” I never said it, but it’s true. More than that, I wanted him to fight to keep me. He knew I couldn’t get along with Mom. I always took his side whenever they argued. I defended him.
How could he let her take me without a murmur of disagreement?

Vince continues as if I haven’t spoken. “He didn’t stop loving us. But our lives are with Mom, and he couldn’t live with her anymore. They’ve been unhappy such a long time. He deserves a life with someone who loves him.”

I stare at Vince, wondering what he’s really thinking.
Is he really okay with all this? Or does he have his own internal dialogue, angry words he’ll never voice?
Perhaps our ears are so attuned to the clambering inside us we’re
no longer capable of really hearing each other. “We loved him,” I point out. “Why wasn’t that enough?” I bow my head. The words on the pages of my book swim before my eyes.

“He misses you, Em. You know you were his favorite.”

“Well, I think we can all agree that now Zenny is his favorite,” I say, still not looking up.

“What’s happened to you, Emma? You’ve changed.”

I don’t answer.

“You know, you’re getting more like Mom every day,” he says.

He’s gone before I can respond, but I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I swipe away tears and listen to him make excuses to Dad. Moments later, he’s saying good-bye. I grab the edge of my bed to stop myself from running to the phone and ripping it out of his hand, just to hear Dad’s voice. But Dad’s already gone. That’s what I have to remind myself. He left two months ago. It’s like removing a bandage. Better to do it quickly, once and for all.

Vince is back in my doorway.

“Do you want to talk?” I can see it’s hard for him to ask. He wants me to say no.

It’s funny, we used to talk all the time. Vince is a good listener, for a boy. Like Dad, he’s not strong on giving advice, but he keeps secrets way better than I do, and up till we moved here, I never doubted he had my back. But we haven’t had a real conversation since the night Mom lost it.

We were still living in Manila. It was a few weeks after Dad left, and she came home late, like she always did. Mandy was asleep, and Vince and I were watching TV in the family room.

I knew something was up when she didn’t come in to tell us she was home. She wandered around for a while. We could hear footsteps like she was pacing. Just before something hit the wall and shattered, she started moaning. It was a primal sound, inhuman, and yet it more starkly conveyed her agony than any words she could have spoken. I looked at Vince, but he kept staring at the TV, even though Mom’s moans drowned out the sound. For the first time, I wondered what our lives would be like without Mom. Dad had flown the coop.
If Mom fell apart, who was left?
I remember the first tug of fear as I leaned across Vince and picked up the remote. Our eyes met for a second as I turned up the volume. We watched TV until the early hours of the morning, when we were sure Mom had exhausted herself and fallen asleep. We never spoke about it. Not then, not ever.

I look at my brother now, standing uncomfortably in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. I want to say something to bring him closer, but the territory that divides us could be mined; it’s that dangerous. If I could only turn back the clock, rewrite our history, but it’s too late. Actions can’t be undone and some can never be forgiven.

“It’s okay,” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “I’m fine.” He holds my gaze as guilt and remorse
gather in the air between us, like a low pressure front moving in. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed when finally he turns away and disappears down the hall.

I get up to phone Angie. I don’t really feel like calling her anymore, but I know once I hear her voice, she’ll make me want to talk. She has some freaky mind-meld power that way, and I need the distraction.

“What’s up, girlfriend?” Angie comes on the phone, and I immediately feel better. Like I said, mind-meld.

“I’m going to Mustapha’s tomorrow,” I say, walking back to my room with the phone’s handset and shutting the door behind me.

“No freaking way!” she shouts. I’m pleased with her reaction. At least someone gets it. “You can’t go,” she continues. “How did this happen?”

“He spoke to Vince, and now my mom is making me go because it’s a school thing.”

“That scheming bastard!”

“I know.”

“Can’t you fake being sick or something?”

“My mom would never fall for it.”

“Okay, we just have to stay calm and think this through.” I love how she takes over my problem. I know she can’t really fix anything, but for a moment, it feels like I’m not alone. I think of telling her about my dad.

“The main thing is, you have to make sure you’re never alone with him.”

“Ali and Faarooq’ll be there.”

“Don’t count on them to protect you. Guys always
stick together. They’re probably already plotting some excuse to leave you two alone. I’ve got it!” Angie shrieks. I wince and hold the receiver a safer distance from my ear.

“What have you got?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t. Mom’s sending me with our driver. She’ll never let me take you.”

“Don’t worry. Leave it to me. Just watch for me when you come out of your gates. What does your car look like?” I tell her and we hang up. I’m still not clear what the plan is, but I feel strangely reassured. I really think Angie may be able to save the day. She has odd powers, that girl.

I
look for her the second we come out of our gates. All morning I’ve been certain something’s going to go wrong – her parents won’t let her out of the house, or she’ll realize I’m not worth wasting her time on and decide not to come. I pull down the sun visor and check my makeup in the tiny mirror. I’m wearing mascara and eyeliner! I’m not trying to look good for Mustapha or anything. I just don’t want another lecture from Angie about “making the most of what the good Lord gave me.” Most people here think the only thing the Lord gave me is a smart mouth and a bad attitude, but maybe Angie sees more.

We pass the Egyptian embassy. It’s been completely rebuilt since being blown up a few years ago. The explosion was so big, it blew out the windows on our compound as well, embedding glass in furniture, which all had to be replaced. There’s still no sign of Angie, and I’m beginning to panic. Maybe I missed her.
Although the diplomatic enclave is densely populated, it’s surprisingly leafy and overgrown. There are pockets of scrubby green space separating most of the compounds, and even in daytime, the streets are shadowed in huge trees.

Suddenly I catch sight of her. I needn’t have worried. Her smile is like a beacon. I’m surprised I didn’t see it a hundred feet back. She waves both arms with wild enthusiasm, and I grin and wave back, even though I’m only a couple of feet from her now. I feel like a total dork.

I already told Ahmed, our driver, that we’re picking up a friend. He looked at me suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything. I was afraid he’d refuse because he didn’t have permission from my mom. Miguel, my driver in the Philippines, would never do anything without my parents’ authorization. He was like a driver-bodyguard-babysitter all in one. He’d drive me to a mall, follow me till I met up with my friends, and be there within minutes when I called him to come get me. I always suspected he never left. Perhaps he followed me around all day, ducking into corners when I turned to look. It used to bug the hell out of me at the time, but I miss it.
Weird
.

“You look
so hot
! Mustapha’s going to die when he sees you.” Angie jumps in the car, spilling over with excitement.

I turn around to smile at her in the backseat. She seems unconcerned that we’re on the way to witness my total and absolute humiliation at the hands of boys who hate me. I feel a small glimmer of hope.

“So, are you nervous?” she asks. “Don’t be nervous. I won’t let you out of my sight. Just be polite and friendly. But not too friendly. You’re there to do a job. We go in. You practice your play. We get out. No problem. Nothing to worry about. What can go wrong, right? Nothing. That’s what. Nothing can go wrong. And if it does, I’m right there to protect you.”

Okay, now I’m worried. She’s as nervous as I am. She knows they’re going to annihilate me. She’s already working out how she’s going to drag my limp, lifeless carcass away from there.

“Have you memorized your lines?” she says, breaking into my fierce attempts to remember every action movie I’ve ever seen, where people hurl themselves from moving cars and get up without a scratch on them.
Is it crouch and roll or roll and crouch? How are you supposed to jump if you’re crouching? And what do you do with your arms? Is it different for girls? Do I protect my brain or my boobs? It doesn’t take a genius to know which are going to get me farther in life
.

“Emma? Your lines?”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, I guess.” I still haven’t told her what the script is about.

“Now remember, if he tries to get you alone, just make up an excuse.” I try to focus on what Angie’s saying. “Be firm but polite. Whatever you do, don’t lose your temper – and try not to be rude.”

“I’m never rude!” Of course, I know I’m lying. I wouldn’t be in this mess if I didn’t shoot my mouth off
the first chance I got, but it stings that Angie says it like it’s a permanent character flaw.

Angie doesn’t say anything.

“You’ve known me for only a week. How can you say I’m rude? I know I was rude to Mustapha, but that was a one-time thing, an accident, and I was provoked.”

More silence from the backseat.

I look out the window. In Manila, no one ever would have thought I was rude. I cared about people’s feelings. I was thoughtful and funny. Not biting and sarcastic, but funny. Angie doesn’t know me. But my mind wanders to my ongoing battle with Mom, my overwhelming rage at Dad, and the fifty-two deleted e-mails. Maybe it’s me who doesn’t know me.

I break the silence first. “I’ll try to be nice.”

“That’s all I’m saying. You are nice. Just let them see that.”

I turn round in my seat to examine her face. She looks back at me seriously. She’s not just being kind. She may think I’m rude, but she believes I have hidden niceness. I hope she’s right, although I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think if I ever did have genuine human warmth or compassion, it was lost when I entered this country, like abandoned luggage at the airport. It never made it through Customs. It’s already been disposed of. I face forward and sink down in my seat.

“Emma, turn around again.”

I don’t want her to see my face right now. I stare out the window, but I don’t see the scenery whizzing past.

“Turn around, Emma.”

We drive in silence for several minutes.

“Emma, I’m sorry. Okay?”

Why is she sorry? I’m the bitch. Does she think I don’t know that?

“It’s okay,” I say, but I don’t look at her. I can’t. If I do, I’ll start crying or turn into a pillar of salt or something. “I know I’m a bitch.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. As long as you know.” I hear the laughter in her voice, and I do turn around. She’s grinning and it’s infectious.

I grin back.

“I’ve always been partial to bitches,” she says. “Some of my best friends are bitches.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re a bitch yourself.”

“Could be … I’m not ruling that out.”