Children of the River (7 page)

Now her aunt spoke to Naro with excessive sweetness. “You're better off here, I think, where you can't talk to other women so much.”
“You mean
you're
better off,” he teased. “You know, you ought to watch how much
you
become American, Little Sister. You've put yourself high up enough in this family as it is.”
“Too bad” Soka replied, suppressing a smile, jutting her chin out at him.
“Oh Niece,” Naro said with mock weariness, “why did my parents match me with such a sassy woman?”
Soka smiled broadly at this. She had good, even teeth, and a very nice look about her, Sundara thought, when she was joking with someone she liked. And they all knew Naro was only teasing, for Soka had proven a good wife to him. Especially after the first year in America, when he sank into depression. He, who had supported so many relatives at home, shamed by having to send his wife to work! But while he brooded in silence those long months, wait for time to heal his spirit, Soka had been the most loyal and loving of wives.
Now he grinned at her. “At least she is better than the wife of Pok Sary.” He jerked up his arms as if to ward off her blow.
“Ha! You
better
think so.”
“I saw the two of them yesterday,” he said. “Let me tell you, this is what / like about America: Here I don't have to bow down to
them.
You should have heard them, boasting about that son of theirs. It makes me tired.”
Sundara's pulse raced at the mere mention of Pok Simo. Nervously she rose to fill her bowl again, hoping they wouldn't notice her hands shaking.
“You would think,” Soka said, “that if they were so high-class they would have the good manners not to brag.”
Naro nodded. “I've often thought that myself. I don't know how many times I've heard about their big brick house in Phnom Penh, their car, how everybody wanted to be their friend.”
“I suppose we should try to be understanding,” Soka said. “Perhaps we would feel the same way if we fell so low from so high up. But still …”
“Where's Grandmother?” Sundara said. “Not well again?”
Soka turned in her chair and gave Sundara one of those measuring looks. Had her attempt to change the subject been too obvious?
But to Sundara's relief, Soka merely sighed. “She doesn't want to eat. She doesn't even want to get out of bed today. Sometimes it seems hopeless. I finally persuade her to come to the supermarket with me, and then the checker is so rude Grandmother says she won't ever go back.”
“They just don't have any respect for the elderly, do they?” Naro said. “And sometimes, Little Sister, I don't think
you
show her the respect she deserves, either.”
“Me” Soka was indignant. “What about you? You're not exactly humbling yourself for her advice all the time.”
This stopped him. “Well, it's different here.”
“Yes,” she snapped, “I've noticed that.” Then her voice softened. “I'm sorry, Naro. I do the best I can with your mother, but as you say, it's different here, and what can she tell us about coping with life in America when all she does is stay in the house, dreaming of home?”
“Ah, so understanding America is the way to be respected, then? If that's so, perhaps we should all foil on our knees before young Ravy!”
“Ha! Or Sundara here.”
Oh, no. How American Sundara Has Become. A topic Soka relished and Sundara loathed. So unfair, to be criticized for everything right down to what Soka claimed was her overly bold way of walking. If only her aunt could see what an outsider she was at school. What did Soka think? That she could go to an American school and squat in the cafeteria to eat as if she were still half a world away? Would that have satisfied her? At home Sundara was too American; at school she felt painfully aware of not being American enough. She didn't fit in anywhere.
Please dont start on this,
she thought.
Fortunately, Soka seemed more inclined, at the moment, to analyze Grandmother's problems. “She has nothing like school or a job to force her out of the house. If only we could find something …” She considered this for a moment, then jumped up. “As for me, I have more than enough to do. That's the answer, you see. Work. Keep busy. Then there's less time to brood. Niece, you will start the dinner tonight so we can eat as soon as I get home. I promised to take that new family shopping for warm clothes tonight.”
“They're having a sale at Valu-Time,” Sundara offered, trying to be helpful. Unable to bargain here, Soka liked to at least find the best sales.
But Soka waved away that suggestion. “Last time I bought a jacket there the threads unraveled after one washing. I thought everything here would be good quality, but you really have to be careful.”
Sundara nodded. The jacket she'd put on layaway for herself was at one of the nice stores downtown. But Soka would consider that an extravagance, and would like it even less if she knew Sundara hadn't waited to walk in with cash. But after one more payday she'd have enough, and what if the beautiful plum-colored jacket were gone by then?
She scooped out the last of the noodles from the pot into her bowl, causing her aunt to cluck.
“That's your third bowl! I don't know why you're not fat, all the food you eat and nothing but sitting in school all day.”
“I'm sorry,” Sundara said meekly. “I should have asked if either of you would like the rest. Would you?”
Naro shook his head and Soka said she'd had enough— she was getting a bit plump herself lately—so Sundara ate the noodles. But Soka had spoiled her appetite.
Once out the door, Sundara began to breathe easier. Nothing said about Pok Simo. She sank into her bus seat thinking maybe she'd be lucky this time. Maybe they wouldn't find out. If she stayed away from Jonathan from now on, there was still a chance she might save herself.
And after all, was he really worth the risk? Maybe Cathy was right. Maybe she
was
just a curiosity to him. Maybe she was making a fool of herself, letting herself care about him as if there were the slightest chance they could ever belong to the same world.
Besides, she already had one failure on her conscience: the death of Soka's baby. There was no more room in her life for mistakes, large or small.
Yes, what she must do was quite clear. She would not think of him. She would not waste any more time looking for him in the halls. She would study hard during lunch hour the way she used to, and when her parents came they would be proud. She would not talk to him. She would not look at him. She would forget it ever happened.
And then the school bus pulled up to the patio. Through the tinted window, she saw him standing by the flagpole. What was he (doing there all by himself? Usually she didn't see him until international relations. He looked so nice. She loved those faded jeans and that flannel shirt of his. The morning sun shone on his blond hair as he tapped his notebook against his thigh and looked around.
Her heart pounded, her knees felt weak as she stood up in the bus aisle. She must pretend she hadn't seen him and walk past to the building. With so many students milling around, maybe she'd escape his notice.
But when she stepped off the bus, he hurried right toward her. He had been waiting especially for her. He knew which bus she rode.
“Sundara! I've got to talk to you.” He led her away from the others. His hand on her arm felt nice, nicer than it should have. “How about explaining that little scene yesterday. Is that guy your boyfriend or something?”
She glanced up at him in surprise. “Oh, no! He be mad to hear you say this. We not the same class.”
“So? Lots of girls go out with older guys. I thought—”
“Not class in school!
Social class,
don't you know? Oh, too hard to explain now.” She looked over her shoulder. Were they being watched?
“But why'd you run off, then?”
“Because he
see
us. With my people everyone watch everyone else. He will talk.”
“We were just sitting there.”
“But I am a girl and you are a boy!”
“You noticed that too, huh?”
“Oh, you make fun” Her voice wavered between a giggle and a wail; her cheeks were warm. “I could get in trouble. How many times do I have to tell you? In Cambodia a girl doesn't go with a boy alone.”
“You're in America now.”
“Oh, is that so?” She made a face. “Sometime I forget!”
He grinned. “Meet me for lunch?”
“Jonatan.”
So persistent! Was it possible he really didn't understand? How blunt you sometimes had to be with Americans! But the longer she stayed there with him in the fresh morning air, the easier it was to let herself be persuaded, the harder it was to tell him they must not see each other. Soka had a strong power over her, but so did Jonathan.
And right now, as he stood looking at her with those strange and lovely blue eyes, she just
liked
him, liked the way he made her feel, liked the way he was banishing her nightmares by stealing into her dreams. Was that so terrible? After all, it was not as if staying away from him would bring the baby back to life….
“Okay,” she said. “I meet you.” And her heart beat with the most extraordinary mixture of joy and fear.

CHAPTER
8

Sundara was used to being watched.
In Willamette Grove, black hair and brown skin stood out. Except for a few people up at the university, almost everyone was white. So when she'd first come here, people stared because she was different.
Then, more recently, she'd noticed the boys paying a new kind of attention, boldly eyeing her from head to foot, hanging on their lockers or elbowing each other as she passed.
And of course there was always Soka, monitoring her for the slightest sign of disobedience. After four years, Sundara had almost forgotten what life was like without those watchful eyes, the automatic looks of disapproval at her every move.
But now she had Jonathan. How much nicer it was to have
Urn
studying her. In his eyes she read only good messages:
You are beautiful. You are special. I could look at you all day long.
The intensity of his gaze across the classroom was difficult to ignore. She could almost feel the heat of it. And other people were starting to notice too.
Kelly assured her that everyone was talking. Now even the girls were looking at her. Conversations seemed to trail off when she walked by. Heads turned.
“What do you expect?” Kelly said. “Everybody can see he's absolutely smitten with you.”
“Smitten?”
“Knocked out, crazy over, totally infatuated. Like that. People can't help being curious. They're all wondering like,
who
is this exotic creature they've heard about.”
Apparently the stir was not lost on Jonathan's coach, either. One day on the patio Sundara looked up to see him watching them from the door of the faculty lunchroom.
“Is that your coach?” she asked Jonathan.
He took a quick look. “Yeah.”
“What the matter? Why does he watch us?”
“Just likes to keep an eye on all the players.” He turned back and gave the coach a lazy salute.
Hackenbruck nodded, not smiling.
“He look kind of mean,” Sundara whispered.
“Huh. That's probably one of the nicer words people use.”
Finally, Hackenbruck went back inside.
“Why he so mad?”
“Oh, he has this thing about girls. Thinks you sap our energy. Get us all distracted.”
“Oh.” She was thinking of Cathy. Did the coach watch Jonathan when he was with her? “He mad about you eat lunch with me?”
Jonathan shrugged. “It's a bunch of stuff. He called me in the other day. Give me a lot of crap about buckling down, getting my head in the right space. I guess he's got a right to that, but when he starts getting into my personal life … Well, I just told him I thought what I did off the field was my own business. But he says anything that affects my performance
is
his business. Says I'm getting a bad attitude about football.” He shrugged again. “Guess I really can't argue with that.”
“You don't like football anymore? Even though you the star?”
“Hey, I signed up to play a game, not fight a war. You should hear Hackenbruck in the locker room. Smash ‘em, pound ‘em, kill ‘em …” He tossed the last of his taco back on the tray. “Other things bug me too. Like the game last week. Did you see that guy get his knee torn up? Everybody goes, “Hey, we gotta win for Baker.’ But I kept thinking, wait a minute, winning's not going to fix his knee.”
Sundara waited to make sure he was finished. “Why do you play, then? Why you don't quit?”
“I don't know. It's hard to explain. Being on the team gets so tied in to who you are.”
She nodded. “Make you important. I see how everybody kind of bow down to the player.”
“Well, not everybody. Plenty of people don't give a hoot about football.” He jerked his head toward a group huddled at the curb, smoke rising from whatever they were passing around. “Like those guys. They couldn't care less.” He turned back to her. “And the brains. You won't catch them at a pep rally when they could be logging time in the computer room.”
He was right, Sundara realized. She'd been so busy trying to understand exactly what Americans were like, she'd missed the point. Americans were all sorts of things.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I don't need people putting me on a pedestal. It's more just this pressure of having to be what everybody wants me to be. My parents and all.”
She nodded. “Your family honor.”
He laughed. “If you want to put it that way.”
“They probably so proud when you win the game.”
“I guess. But it's weird. I don't think they were into sports when they were younger. They were busy marching for civil rights and all that. Sometimes they kid around like, ‘How on earth did we get a football player for a son?’ But they come to all the games. I hear my mom on the phone bragging about me. So I guess it's pretty important to them. But sometimes I wish I had the nerve to say, ‘Hey, does being able to run fast and catch a ball mean I
bave
to do it?’ ”
She thought for a moment. “Jonatan?”
“Hmm?”
“You the same person to me if you play football or not.”
For a moment he just looked at her, then his hand came toward her cheek.
She flinched.
“Sorry.” He pulled back. “I forget.”
For a long time neither said anything. Finally, Jonathan spoke.
“You know, it's funny. My friend Clarkston, he has this theory that I'm going to have a terrible crisis someday when I don't get something I really want. Says everything's always come too easily for me.”
“You cannot help that you smart and can run fast.”
He rested his forearms on his thighs and stared at the ground. “But maybe he's right. I'm beginning to see that now. Before, I didn't know what it was to really
long
for something.” He turned and gave her a crooked smile.
“Now I do.”
Cathy Gates pushed through the swinging door into the lavatory, flanked by two friends. Spotting Sundara, she switched on her smile.
“Oh, hi, Sundara!”
Sundara's brush stopped in midair. “Hi.”
Cathy eased into the spot next to her at the mirror and took out a tube of lip gloss. “I love your hair,” she told Sundara's reflection.
Sundara saw her own mouth twitch in a nervous smile as she started brushing again. She glanced at the girl next to her, Jan Cheney. They'd been talking about their latest assignment for English comp when Cathy interrupted. Now Jan went on about how she never knew what to write, but Sundara was too nervous really to follow her.
Cathy took out a brush and fluffed her hair around her face. Toilets flushed. The warning bell sounded.
“See you later,” Jan, said, heading into the hall with the rest of the girls.
Sundara remained beside Cathy, slowly pulling the brush through her already thoroughly brushed hair. Such a terrible silence. But what did you say to the girlfriend of a boy you liked? I love your hair too?
Finally, Cathy dropped her brush into her bag and turned to face Sundara. “Don't you think we ought to talk about this?” Her voice echoed in the tiled room.
Sundara smiled with embarrassment. “I don't know what you want me to say.”
Cathy laughed. “I'm not trying to make you say anything in particular. I just want to know what you're thinking.”
Sundara hesitated. She was thinking she'd never been this close to Cathy before. Her perfume smelled like some kind of fruit. And under her makeup, all across her nose and cheeks, she had lots of those little flyspecks—freckles, the Americans called them. She was sure Cathy didn't want to hear about that, though.
“I'm thinking you're mad with me,” she said.
“Oh, come on.” Cathy tossed an amused smile back at her friends. “Why would I be mad?”
Sundara kept her eyelids lowered. “Maybe because Jonatan like me?”
Cathy blinked, then regained her composure. “Oh, Sundara, of course Jonathan likes you. I like you too. Everybody does.”
Sundara understood the phony smile. Cathy wanted her to think that Jonathan only liked her in the same friendly way everyone else did.
“That's why I honestly don't want to see you get hurt. Believe me, I've been through this before. You're not the first girl who's gone after him.”
Sundara drew a swift breath. “I never go after him.”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“No, I don't. Jonatan ask me about my story for his report and I say okay. Does that mean I go after him?”
Cathy exchanged glances with her red-haired friend, the one so thin, she seemed to be starving, then turned back to Sundara and let out a long, disgusted sigh. ‘Okay, I've tried to be nice about it, but look—Jonathan and I have been going together since the ninth grade. We have something
very special
between us.”
Sundara gripped her brush. Were they sleeping together? She thought of the first time she'd seen them walking down the hall, hands in the back pockets of each other's jeans …
“Very special,” Cathy repeated. “So don't try to mess it up.” She whirled on her heel and strode out the door. Her friends followed, glancing back to check Sundara's reaction.
She was shaking. Americans! They didn't avoid confrontations; they
enjoyed
them! And Cathy certainly had the advantage in this one. Sundara suspected she had even practiced what to say beforehand.
Only later did Sundara think of a good reply. She imagined herself holding up her head, looking Cathy straight in the eye. “It's a free country,” she should have said. “And I can like any boy I want!”
But then, it wouldn't have been true.
Not for her.