SIXTEEN

The family didn’t punish me for “being sick.” I’m grateful.

But I’m still tasting blood when Vision publishes the Hall puff piece a few days later.

Ora stole a copy while cleaning the living room, held on to it until after curfew, when the Halls are gone for another event and everyone in the house is fast asleep. We sit by the pool. The water has this eerie glow from the lights at the bottom.

“Think he got a chip tooth,” Ora says, squinting at the slick pages, holding the magazine close to her face. “Can’t tell.”

I robotically spray my bare arms and legs with insect repellent, try to be present and agreeable. But staying in my body is hard these days. Pretending I am present and agreeable is hard. “You mean Luis?” I ask Ora.

“No. Mr. Hall.” She cackles her witch cackle, passes Vision to me. I don’t want it. “He lose charm with age.”

“What you mean?” Josh asks. “Me tooth chip, and plenty charming.”

“Oh man,” Aaron says. “The way your mother must lie to you.”

“Pity,” Simone adds.

I force a laugh and have my moment with the magazine. I can’t focus on the text right now, so I check out the pictures instead. The main spread is gorgeous: a stunning portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Hall in front of their mango tree. Its leaves envelop and shade them. Fruit hangs from the branches, and a few mangoes pepper the grass. Mr. Hall holds his wife close. She melts into his side, one hand on his chest, beaming. A woman in love.

What bullshit.

Simone pulls blades of grass from around the pool, lines them up by length. “What’s the whole thing about anyway?” she asks, gesturing at the glossy cover. “The benefit concert?” She sneers a little at the mere mention of it.

“A little,” I reply, skimming the pages for keywords. The mansion’s felt livelier than normal because of all the preparation… and invitations. The Halls decided to let staff join as guests. Probably to make attendance numbers seem high compared to Badrick’s functions. Not sure why else you’d ask—no, demand—all your housekeepers and cooks and valets to accompany you and your high-status acquaintances.

It’s going to be a whole thing. I don’t feel up to it, but I still had Ora rebraid my hair on my last half day. Almost everyone’s said they’re going… except Simone. She’s been tight-lipped. Or she just doesn’t like me asking her literally anything. It’s a toss-up. “The writer mostly talks about the Halls’ love story. Family values. Happy home. That stuff.”

“Need Mr. Hall to feel like a family man,” Simone murmurs. She yanks out another piece of grass. “Bad press lately.”

I’ve kept an eye on the media play, and it hasn’t been super positive. But bad? Not sure about that. Then again, I get the feeling Hall tells Simone way more than she lets on, and if they’re spending so much time together, she might know what’s actually up.

“What do ‘family values’ have to do with the prime minister job?” Aaron wonders, plopping his bare feet into the pool. Droplets of water splash onto his rolled-up pants. “People struggling. Can’t afford food at the markets anymore. No money for the schools he have his name on. Got people trying to live off cleaning windshields.” Aaron sucks his teeth.

Jamaica seemed so different when I first arrived. But some things keep cropping up, feeling familiar. Like people fighting to survive. What’s more American than that?

Ora crawls over and roughly rubs Aaron’s head. Little-brother energy when I know she does not feel sisterly. She doesn’t know how to act with him. “You and Scoob hang out behind my back?” she teases. “He turn your brain?”

Aaron leans forward on his knees, away from her. “Maybe Scoob know what he chat about. That’s all.”

“That I do, Chicken,” Josh says with a cheeky smile. “The article pure cheese.”

And he’s not wrong. I finally read a quote from the piece aloud. “Mrs. Hall revealed that she gifted the mango tree to her husband on their tenth wedding anniversary. Now, they stand before it, proud and pleased. Mrs. Hall explained, ‘The mango tree is the perfect representation of a solid marriage. Tend it, water it, give it loving attention, and it will bear the sweetest fruit.’ ”

Josh fake gags. The sound almost makes me want to puke again.

But everyone else chuckles. The whole article is silly, mostly a series of vibrant family photos and “you wish this were you” shots of the property. But it looks good. And it makes the family look good. Hall is lucky to have his wife in his corner, fixing things, smoothing over his bumps and lumps.

“What we know anyway?” Ora asks, pointing at the magazine. “Me always say: what you see is what you get.”

“You would never say that,” I argue. I set the magazine aside. “And that’s not always true.”

“We shouldn’t trust what we see?” Simone asks. She has a lot of nerve asking that, given her situation. But I don’t dog her for it, not in front of everyone.

“I just mean people hide stuff all the time. Like, freshman year, I started talking to this guy. We texted all the time, he liked everything I liked, the whole thing. So finally, I ask him out, and we start dating. But it was like the real him suddenly showed up. Come to find out, he didn’t like any of the shit I was into. He’d just google stuff to keep the conversation going. In front of me, even.”

“No…” Aaron groans.

“Yes! I was with a dude who thought Beyoncé was overrated. I was livid.”

“So why he even date you?” Ora asks.

“I asked him the same thing. And you know what? He admitted that he lied so he could get closer to my best friend, who he actually wanted a chance with.”

Josh sucks his teeth. “Bumbaclot…”

“I didn’t date another guy until senior year, I was so traumatized. I’m telling you, people will lie about anything.”

The group goes quiet. And I get it because that story is so rage-inducing that it still pisses me off today, and it’s been years.

“You say different a while ago,” Josh says quietly.

“Huh?”

“Before, you say you date whole heap. Now you say you date almost nobody.”

Shit. “No, I didn’t say that.”

“I can pull up the text,” Simone presses. “Said all those rich boys them were dogs.”

“They’re right… seem shaky, yeah?” says Ora. “What that ’bout?”

My stomach drops. They’re right. I’ve been jumping back and forth between Joy and Carina, and I finally tripped. Joy was bait for well-off dudes who couldn’t recall that her favorite color was periwinkle. But me? My truth is what I said to the Young Birds just now. Why’d I tell them the truth?

Suddenly, I’m wishing I had my own squad to save me from myself. A Mrs. Hall to swoop in and smooth this over for me. A Mr. Clarke to fix my mistakes, make them go away.

I pick at the skin on my thumb. Pull my tank top away from my sweat-covered stomach. From nowhere I can name, a chorus crows. Voices layered atop each other, tickled by how dumb I am. I can’t think.

Aaron waits.

Say something. Say anything.

“Right, what I meant to say was that I didn’t date anyone again seriously until twelfth grade. But I was casual with a lot of guys, and they sucked. That’s what I meant.”

Everyone stares. Hard.

Then Aaron: “Careful with your words.”

“Pickney them rattle your brain,” Josh adds.

Ora snickers. “Yeah, there’s dating, and then there’s dating. Need to be clear.”

And with that, “misspeaking” saves the day. One by one, the Young Birds slowly let my slipup go. Though I think I feel eyes flitting to me for the rest of the night. I focus on my hand like it’s the only interesting thing around. A tiny red bead sits where I dug my nail into my thumb. I gulp.

Red like a bull made of blood.

Red like the blood on my hands.

I’m at the mercy of my own lies. And if I don’t get it together, it’s only a matter of time before I take myself out.

---

But then everyone but Ora heads home. She, Aaron, and I sit at the pool’s edge. I make sure there’s a full foot of space between him and me, but her lingering tells me that maybe that isn’t enough. When she finally hauls herself off the property, I breathe, and immediately feel guilty for my relief. But I shove all the worries—and voices—out of my head. The world falls quiet.

I put up my fresh braids even though the teeth of the claw clip dig into my tender scalp. My “On Repeat” playlist streams through my phone’s speaker and switches to a remix of Marley’s “Is This Love.” I’m not trying to set the mood. I’m just cringe.

The moon sits high and full. If the sun’s rays make Aaron’s skin glow, the moonlight shows the depth of his color, the shadows and highlights across his face.

He looks how music feels to me. Sad eyes in a minor key, more blues than rhythm. Summertime nostalgia with a bass drum heartbeat.

“Excited for the concert,” Aaron admits, his words backed by the song of cicadas. “Lots of rah-rah, busyness, should help us pull everything off.” And by everything, he means me running back to Blackbead to finally search Thomas’s files—and maybe the rest of the mansion—for anything about Kelly Rowe. With everyone out of the house, this might be my one opportunity to freely roam.

“Luis will probably forget something for real. I won’t even have to lie about having to go to Blackbead to get it for him.”

“Reckless child.”

“Hard head,” I agree. Aaron chuckles; the phrase sounds totally normal when he and the other Young Birds say it, but it feels put-on and jokey when I try. Some things don’t change.

“We can work on the patois some more,” he says, and I smile even though I know I’m too deep in my New York accent to ever convincingly talk around it. He and Josh try with me, but it’s hopeless, and that’s okay. “You know, I glad you come here. Must have been tough, being alone, struggling to train your ear to hear.”

“At this point, the duppy has been harder to deal with than the language barrier.” And that’s only half a joke. “I like it here. Visiting made my world twice as big.”

“First time you travel by yourself?”

“Yep.”

“And it didn’t scare you to go?”

“No, it did.” I’ve never gone anywhere without my parents, or Joy. And Mom’s had years to load me up with fears about Jamaica. She’d shove US travel advisories in my face, talk about how much she wished she knew what happened to that one family member of hers. “But I needed to go.”

Aaron leans back on his elbows, watches the lit-up pool. “You’ve really never left Jamaica?” I ask.

“Monique—my ex-girl—did. Left with her new man.” Yikes. The disdain’s obvious. “My parents too.”

I’m not touching the ex-girlfriend thing. But he’s mentioned his folks a few times. I’ve never met them, seen pictures, nothing. And he lives at Blackbead with Gregory, of all people. “Can I ask… where your parents are?”

Aaron’s silent. Maybe I pissed him off. Is there anyone who doesn’t consider their parents to be a sensitive subject?

“When I was fifteen,” he starts, “they both went to the States. Said they’d get their papers right, then come back for me. So them left me with my aunt.” He picks up a small twig, tosses it into the pool. “Auntie fell into trouble after some time, so then I stay with an uncle. Then he drink, get loud, kick me out. I bounce around for a while.”

I let my feet slip into the water. So before Blackbead, Aaron was couch surfing? For who knows how long? “Why not stay with Ora?” Ora and Aaron have known each other for so long, she would definitely help him through any struggle he was having. Even if she was suffering herself.

“I decide that was not a good option” is all he offers. So if he didn’t want his closest friend to know, or he didn’t want to stay with her… maybe he just felt weird living with Ora and her mom. Or he didn’t want to be a burden.

Or he didn’t want to give Ora the wrong idea.

Aaron clears his throat and continues. “So move from place to place, look for work, until Gregory catch wind. He and Father went way back. So he got me an interview with Mrs. Hall, and rest is history. Been here almost a year now.”

As much as we probably annoy Aaron, he doesn’t have anyone else. The Young Birds and Blackbead. We’re his whole world.

“Do you miss them?” I ask.

“Nah, Monique not worth missing.” He sucks his teeth.

“And your parents?”

“You know, they started out sending shipping barrels full a shoes and bagged rice. Kept me clothed, belly full. But after six months? Nothing.” He sniffs. “Good riddance to dem.”

Aaron’s gone to some world I can’t see. But I know that face well.

He’s lost.

And why shouldn’t he feel that way? It’s like everyone lies to him and then leaves.

“It’s okay to wish they were here.”

“I don’t wish that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Aaron frowns. “I not proud to miss people who choose to go.” He presses his lips tight. “But maybe I do. Sorry for that.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re just telling the truth. I like that.”

My music changes. Another track about love. I guess there’s a reason almost every artist sings about it.

“Okay, so they’re away. What about you? Don’t you want to see the world?” Aaron opens his mouth to answer, freezes, stays frozen. It’s like he’s never considered it before. “Let’s just pretend,” I add. “If you left Jamaica, what would you want to do?”

He sniffs, makes quick work of composing himself. “Um… see the Grand Canyon.”

Of everything there is to do and see on this planet, that’s what he picks? Weird but sure. “Okay. I’ll book the trip and take you someday.”

“That’s a good dream.”

“Could be real. Could do it in a few months, maybe, if you save up. If the Halls pay you okay, I mean.”

“But my parents—”

“—are gone. They’re probably living their lives, and you should live yours.” Aaron moves like he can’t get comfortable. A boy still waiting for his parents to come home, even though he’d never reveal that. “You deserve to do what makes you happy. Think about your own future.”

“And what if they need me?” he asks. “After all this time. They could be in trouble. Could need my help.”

Maybe. But I shrug and say, “You need you more than they do.”

That’s why I came here. My mom wanted me locked up at home, safe and sound, but I needed to escape. She wasn’t wrong, but neither was I.

Aaron sits all the way up. “You an independent thing, Bambi.”

“Like, lonely?”

“Like… you do what you want, always. You live your life.” He passes a palm across his chin. Then he reaches out and places his hand over mine. Warm. A little rough. “I like that,” he says. “Admire that.”

The sincere way he speaks makes me blush. The way he always seeks something good in me makes me blush. The way I want to close the foot of space between us makes me blush. Moonlight hits his face again, the curve of his shoulder, the length of his arm. He is so beautiful, and I want to be beautiful with him.

Aaron is my friend, but I shouldn’t want to touch my friends the way I want to touch him. I pretend, like Ora does. I pretend I don’t imagine us wrapped together. I pretend I don’t daydream about sneaking him into my suite at night, where nobody can hear us. I pretend my body doesn’t come alive every time we’re alone, ready to swallow him whole.

Fireflies drift through the air, dots of light floating past. The air’s sticky. Weighty with tension I can’t keep ignoring. This constant pull.

Most of my time in Jamaica has been me faking. Pretending I’m this normal girl with a normal past. A jumble of who I was and who I try to be, cherry-picking between what’s me and what’s Joy. And by now, I’ve proven I suck at maintaining the act. So maybe I should pretend something else.

What if?

What if I really were Joy? What if I could have who I wanted? No qualifying my desires. No squashing them to spare someone else’s feelings.

What if Aaron could want me, and have me, and choose me without it being the end of the world?

And I could want him. Have him.

Relish him.

Aaron’s thumb traces circles along the inside of my wrist. My breath catches.

What if I lived without shame, without fear, without regret?

I should say no.

But I could never say no.

I slide off the side of the pool, sink into the water. My tank top clings, my denim shorts pull on my hips, and my feet barely graze the tiled floor.

“It’s hot,” I call out. “Come cool off.”

Maybe Aaron won’t join me. Maybe he’s not living in the same desperate dream that I am. That invisible line separating us could be one he’s willing to toy with but not cross.

But then he pulls his shirt over his head and slips into the pool. Wades until he’s standing right in front of me, gaze locked with mine. His Adam’s apple bobs.

Aaron whispers, “You out of your mind, Bambi.”

“Complaint or compliment?”

“Compliment.” He takes my hand, lifts it, and presses a blood-hot kiss to my inner wrist.

My knees buckle a little. I dip in the water, and Aaron grasps my waist to steady me. Even over my clothes, his touch is lightning.

Something within is wide-awake.

Hungry.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face. “Can I—”

I don’t let him finish.

My lips are on his.

Finally.

Aaron lifts me, his hands on my ass, my arms coiled around his neck. His mouth is soft, gentle—too cautious. More. Deeper. My mind tumbles over itself, heady with excitement and freedom and finally.

Ora seeing me dig my nails into Aaron’s back.

He pushes my back against the pool wall. The more I feed, the more ravenous I become. Feeling him is like listening to music high, becoming one with a song you can’t stop humming. Replay, replay, replay.

Joy’s face, twisted in rage, screaming.

Aaron trails his lips down my neck. Goose bumps. Everywhere.

Joy staring dead-eyed from her driver’s license, tucked away in the lockbox.

I start to shake.

You’re just a greedy, shady slut.

“You not goin’ nowhere,” Aaron murmurs.

My burned-out passport photo, eyes smoldered.

I put my hands on Aaron’s chest and push him back.

He blinks, confused. Can’t catch my breath. “I’m sorry. Did I—”

“No, I just…” I want to tell him. I want to tell him how badly I’ve wanted this, how much I think I care about him, how hard it’s been to pretend like I could be the kind of girl he deserves when Ora’s right there, waiting for him.

But I can’t. I can’t tell him any of that without telling the rest of the truth. Why I’m wrong for him. Why I forced myself into Blackbead. Why I lie.

I don’t want to lose Aaron. I don’t want to lose Ora’s trust. And if I take this any further, I’ll lose both.

“I’m sorry” is all I say. Whether or not he understands why I’m apologizing, he accepts it.

He lets me down to stand, quickly exits the pool. I’m slow to get out. When I pull myself onto the side, Aaron’s waiting with a towel.

“See you at the concert,” he mutters.

“Sure.”

“Good night, Carina.”

Carina.

He walks to the guesthouse. He takes the moonlight with him. My head’s buzzing.

Don’t scream.

But I want to scream.

I dry off, pick up the leftover mess so Gregory and Thomas don’t complain tomorrow. Autopilot. No thinking. If I think, I’ll throw myself back in the fucking pool to drown. I move to grab the Vision magazine. It’s still open to the photo of the Halls standing in front of their magnificent mango tree.

But the image has changed.

Mr. and Mrs. Hall grin without eyes. They’re burnt out. Just like on my passport.

And at their feet, in between them, the singed mark of an X.