Chapter Seven

Something wet drops onto my leg. I swat at my thigh and roll over to find a more comfortable position on the bed.

Okay, so “bed” is stretching it. Uneven slats of bamboo hastily flung together might even be too generous a description. The bamboo juts out at odd places, making me feel like I’m sleeping on a scratchy, metal grill. At least the platform keeps us off the sand—I have yet to see any evidence of bugs, but I’m not willing to risk it.

I shift, and my head plunks into a crevice between the slats. Ow. Maybe the sand is a better option after all.

Careful not to wake Mama, I ease myself into a sitting position. Seven prone silhouettes are stretched out on the sand. Bodin, Sylvie, Rae, Eduardo, Preston, Mateo, and Kit volunteered to forego the shelter, as there wasn’t enough room for all of us. Well—volunteer is a strong word. Mateo had relented with a lot of good-natured grumbling; Preston had thrown himself on the sand with a lot of bad-natured complaining. Kit, on the other hand, had only acquiesced after a pointed look from his grandmother. There’s talk of building another shelter tomorrow, should we still be here.

I had been trying to convince myself to brave the sand—but then Sylvie had said cheerfully, “Maybe an ant will crawl into my mouth while I sleep. Extra protein.”

And that was it. Game over.

Not my proudest moment, but whatcha gonna do?

The white sand stretches uninterrupted to the horizon, illuminated by the moon. A sense of peace falls over me. The clouds seem to still; the waves cease to splash. For an instant, there is pure silence.

When I was young, I used to stare up at the night sky for hours, drawing the constellations in my mind. Back then, I felt so at peace with the world. So calm. Like all is as it should be.

And I want to cling onto the quiet, getting lost in those heavens, but then I feel another drop. Awake now, I scan the roof over me, searching for glowing rat eyes and creepy rat whiskers. But the only thing that greets me are the holes that Mama failed to patch. As I watch, another drop falls through a hole and lands on Mama’s nose.

Which means…

It’s raining. How perfect. Out of all the nights, it has to be this one?

And then, hard sheets of torrential rain pour down on us, leaking through the roof and soaking the sleeping people on the sand. It’s uncanny how fast the rain comes, not slowly or gradually, but a full escalation in a matter of seconds.

“What. The. Frick?” Preston sits straight up and shouts at the gloomy sky. “Come on. How can it be raining?”

“Um, ’cause it’s monsoon season?” Rae snarks as she runs into the shelter, wiping the water off her face. “Do some research, Harvard boy. Nobody comes to Thailand in July and is surprised by the rain.”

For the next few minutes, we shuffle around, sitting up and squeezing together to make room for everyone. There’s no more talking. First, because we’re out of breath. And second, the wind howls in the air, picking up the water and drenching us, rendering the shelter nearly useless.

If possible, the raindrops have found a way to get rounder and fatter, stinging and lashing at my skin. The sky lights up. Long, blue beams of light stretch across the expanse, and then, loud booms crush my ear drums.

“Move over!” Lola shrieks. “I can’t breathe. You all are squishing me like a pancake.”

“It’s fat boy over here.” Preston jerks a thumb at Eduardo. “He’s taking more than his fair share of space.”

“Don’t call him fat,” Elizabeth says. “Unless that’s the adjective he prefers. But that’s his decision. Not yours.”

Mateo simply glares at Preston, whose legs are flung out while the rest of us sit much more compactly. “He takes as much room as he takes. I don’t know what you want him to do about it.”

“He can go sit with the girls,” Preston says darkly, “instead of crowding me with his fat ass.”

Elizabeth clucks her tongue in annoyance. “Don’t say—”

“Not. Happening,” Eduardo says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Preston. Pull in those legs!” Khun Anita barks.

“If we all rearrange ourselves, I’m sure we can find additional space for Lola,” Mama interjects soothingly.

Preston heaves a big sigh, but then, amazingly enough, he crisscrosses his legs.

The bamboo creaks and groans as we shift around. Rae wraps her arm around her sister’s shoulder, and Bodin sets out the empty water bottles in the sand, so that they’ll refill with the rainwater. I’d kinda sorta hoped that he would sit next to me, as much as I don’t want to be touched—but it’s good that he’s thinking of our survival. Sylvie challenges Kit to an arm-wrestling match, and the two venture out into the rain, where they’ll have room.

Just then, a bolt of thunder splits open the sky, and I jump.

“It’s okay. It’s just Mekla and Ramasura, the goddess of lightning and the god of thunder,” Mama says to me as we huddle together. Despite her current warmth, I know that every moment in this weather drains her health a little more. “Would you like to hear the story?”

I nod. I could be five years old again, begging Mama for just one more bedtime tale. Except for the chattering teeth. And pruned fingers. And sopping wet clothes.

“Ramasura was entranced by Mekla’s beauty, as well as her magic crystal, and so he chased Mekla across the sky,” Mama begins in a soft and melodic voice. Her Mama Bear voice, as I like to call it. When I was a kid, she used to read me hundreds of Berenstain Bears books. And so, forever more, her storytelling voice will always sound like Mama Bear to me.

Elizabeth, Khun Anita, and Mateo turn toward us, also listening.

“Try as he might, Ramasura could never catch Mekla,” Mama continues. “So, frustrated and angry, he would throw his magical ax across the sky. However, Mekla never got hit, because she would flash her magic crystal, blinding Ramasura temporarily. And that is the story of why thunder chases lightning across the sky.”

She lifts up my chin and looks into my eyes. And then, she smiles, in spite of our misery.

Eighteen, I think dazedly. I know that she’s dying. I know as cold and tired and hungry as I feel, Mama must feel it worse. And yet, she’s making the effort to reassure me. To protect me, with the few tools she has left.

And that means only one thing: I have to fight, too.

…

I can’t feel my toes. They’re not numb or throbbing. I don’t feel any pain or stinging. They’re simply not there.

It’s a few hours later, still in the deep of night. I pull my feet out of my white canvas sneakers, setting them carefully on top of my shoes. My toes are there, albeit wrinkled, swollen, and pale. Carefully, I stretch out my legs, making sure that my feet don’t touch the ground—and OW. The pain comes roaring in, a billion needles in my toes, my arches, my heels. My eyes widen, and I suck in the air, too fast, too often—

“Alaia!” Elizabeth breaks off her description of the anniversary meal she cooked for Sylvie last week. “Are you all right?”

“My feet went to sleep,” I manage to say, putting my canvas sneakers back on and slamming first one foot—and then the other—against the bamboo slats. When that doesn’t work, I pound on my foot, over and over again, until the pain finally, mercifully subsides. “No, worse. They died and went to heaven.”

“Lucky feet,” Sylvie whines. “I’d die, too, if I was guaranteed that I wouldn’t go straight into another hell.”

Elizabeth snorts, and I shake my head, smiling a little. The four of us—Elizabeth, Sylvie, Mama, and me—have bonded over the endless, sleepless night. As the hours wore on with no relief from the rain, Khun Anita had dozed off with Kit curled by her side. Despite his height, despite his obvious athletic prowess, he’s just an overgrown kid. He still has that baby face, devoid of any facial hair. Eduardo stares out at the stormy sea, his back to the rest of us. The other five—Rae, Lola, Preston, Mateo, and Bodin—had been engaged in an animated game of Never Have I Ever, but they’ve since fallen quiet, lost in their own thoughts.

Part of me had wanted to join the game, to get to know the others—especially Bodin. But I avoid such games like the ants that may or may not be crawling in the sand. Too personal, way too revealing. Much safer to reside in my cozy cocoon with Mama.

When Elizabeth started to sob uncontrollably because of the torrential, relentless downpour, Sylvie gave her a change of her own clothes. They’re not the right size—the long-sleeved tee hangs down to her fingertips—but at least the clothes are dry. Sylvie also suggested that we tell one another stories to pass the time. Mama’s been regaling us with the Thai folktales she learned in her childhood. My favorite is the one about the good queen who was able to walk across hot coals because lotus flowers bloomed under her feet.

On the other hand, Elizabeth, a would-be chef about to attend culinary school, tells us about the most memorable meals of her life, from the sumptuous seven-course dinners she’s had with her parents to the homestyle Filipino food she’s learned to cook in order to give Sylvie a taste from her home.

“Could you go on?” Sylvie asks wistfully, reaching out to intertwine her brown fingers with Elizabeth’s paler ones. She’s softer now, the badass athlete left behind. “As hungry as I am, hearing you describe the food makes me feel warm.”

“Sure.” Elizabeth closes her eyes, getting back into the rhythm of her storytelling. “Adobo chicken is prepared by marinating the meat in a mixture of white vinegar, soy sauce, garlic, peppercorn, and bay leaves…”

I close my eyes, too, and lean my head on Mama’s shoulder. I’m tired, so tired, but it’s hard to sleep when you’re as cold and soaked as we are. I don’t know how Khun Anita does it. Still, Elizabeth’s voice lulls me.

I’ve never eaten this dish before, and now, all I want is to get off this island so that I can try it. My mind conjures up a fragrant pot of chicken thighs, the skin a rich, mouthwatering brown, with the bright pops of green scallions sprinkled throughout.

I can almost taste it. I can actually smell it. No, really. The savory scent of garlic and soy sauce wafts around me, tingling my nose…

I sit straight up. “Can anyone else smell the chicken adobo?” I ask in a strangled voice.

“Elizabeth, you are some storyteller,” Mama says, awed. “You describe this dish so vividly, it’s come alive.”

“Literally.” Sylvie meets my eyes across the darkened shelter. “I’m with Alaia. I can physically smell the damn thing. It’s like my mama’s in the kitchen, about to serve me dinner.”

She looks not awed like Mama, not tough like her usual self, but…scared. Before we can make sense of the situation, a scream wrenches the air.

My heart leaps into my throat, panic instantly rising as I swing my gaze around. We’re so packed under our makeshift roof that it could’ve come from anyone. But only one person leaps up and runs out from under the shelter.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Lola cries, tilting her face to the sky. She lifts her arms, and her braids stream down her back, dripping rain. She’d look like a goddess if she weren’t so miserable. “I didn’t even want to come on this trip. I wanted to stay home and binge reality TV with my friends. Instead, I’m here, in the middle of nowhere, soaked to the bone. I am freezing, hungry, thirsty, and we don’t even have a proper roof. Go on, God of Tropical Storms. I have nothing left to live for. Kill me now.”

“Lola!” Rae says sharply. “This isn’t helping. Come back under the roof. Now.”

When Lola doesn’t move, Rae strides out in the rain, wraps an arm around her sister, and guides her back to their spots on the platform. Her wild-animal keening fills the air, leaving no room for anything else.

I shiver. That could’ve been me. That would’ve been me, if I didn’t have Mama, as well as Elizabeth, entertaining me with stories and eerily realistic smells.

My heart breaks for Lola, for all of us. We can pretend that rescue is coming soon, but the truth is, we’re stranded on this island, with no way out and no way to communicate with the outside world. The conditions are terrible, heading swiftly toward unbearable. The odds of someone finding us during this storm are, well, next to nonexistent.

This SUCKS. And if my brain thinks I’m yelling, it’s because I AM.

The worst part? The scent of the chicken adobo has disappeared.

…

The thing about storms is that they always end.

After a very, very, very long while, the sun materializes over the horizon as the raindrops slow to a drizzle and a bit of sky peers out from behind the clouds.

Finally. I thought this moment would never come.

We detach ourselves from the huddled mass underneath the roof and stretch our legs (and arms and necks and oh, just about every part of our bodies). There are exclamations about the rain we collected in our water bottles, and Bodin suggests that we gather dry wood to attempt to start a fire. Mateo never did get one going last night. I guess there are some things you can’t learn from books.

Bodin and I barely interacted last night, although our eyes did meet a few times over the crowd of bodies separating us under the shelter. Each time, I flushed and looked away. I don’t know how to interpret these glances. Is he simply being a good boatswain, making sure each of us is holding up? Or does his attention mean something more? Do I want it to?

I don’t have space in my brain to think about it. Especially because Lola remains under the shelter, unmoving, while the rest of us are scurrying around, searching for dry wood.

“Lola.” I approach the curled-up ball of human. “Are you okay?”

She gives no indication that she’s heard me.

Sometime during the night, she turned from loud and hysterical to silent and still. It worries me more than if she were still screaming. Usually when people go silent like that, it means that something truly awful has occurred inside them. Something broken and beyond repair.

“Lola,” I say, a little louder this time.

She lifts her head as the final drops of rain fall and the sun ascends the sky, casting an orange-and-pink glow. The wind dies down, and the sea, once troubled, goes calm.

“I’m so happy I could cry,” Lola says, wiping a tear from her cheek.

I blink. Here, I thought she was in a state beyond terror, and yet she seems relatively stable…

That’s when she chokes. Oh no. We’d passed around a portion of beef jerky, and then pieces of a couple granola bars last night. Is there still a piece in her mouth? Will one of us have to perform the Heimlich maneuver? Was she so desperate for food that she ate the ruby red fruit? Is she going into anaphylactic shock, like me?

But even as I’m leaping to my feet, about to yell for help, a single golden flower floats from her mouth and drifts lazily onto the bamboo slats.