All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [35]
“Did you see that?” Lucy asks Tara. “I haven’t lost it.” She slumps back into her seat.
The sun fades, and the waitress lights some electric tiki torches inside the thatched hut bar. I take off my Italian sunglasses and set them on the table.
A strong young Samoan man with a tattooed armband approaches our table and pulls up a chair. “Malo,” he says, greeting Lucy, whom he seems to know. The young man turns his attention to me. “You’re American?” he asks, flashing a smile the same dingy white as the big shark’s tooth around his neck, a talisman surfers wear to protect them from sharks.
The waitress delivers three more big Vailimas. She eyes me. “Be careful with these,” she whispers, glancing around the table, but I wave on another beer. I can take care of myself. I study Tara and Lucy, who are joking about sex and boyfriends to cover up the loneliness in their lives stretching out in front of them like the endless sea. I knock over my beer, and it drips all over my sandals and dress. It’s sticky and I need air.
“I’m going over there,” I say, pointing to the ocean and pushing back from the table. “Splash some water.” I walk away in the sand, and the fa’afafine nod, barely registering. Their heads are low to the table, whispering to each other.
“Me, too,” says the Samoan surfer, following, and I don’t care, whatever. I wander by some camping huts to the edge of the water, dip my feet in, and wash away the beer. I look up at the stars, so bright, and a wave comes up, startling me, pushing me onto my seat, my dress now sopping and sandy.
“Here,” says the Samoan man, taking my hand and pulling me up. How nice that he’s helping.
“Look.” I gesture at my dress helplessly. “Look what happened.” He keeps my hand in his, pulling me away from the water, pulling me along the beach.
I drop his hand. “Stay there,” I command and giggle and go to the other side of some brush to pee. I lift my skirt and squat; it’s hard to balance when you’ve had a few drinks. Men have it easy. Emerging from the bush, I don’t see the surfer guy, which is good. I just need to sit, to breathe, I don’t feel so good. Sit awhile and then find some water to drink.
There’s the surfer guy, coming toward me. He sits down, and then he is too close. “Baby, I want you,” he says out of the blue and puts an arm around me. Where did he get that line, this silly surfer? I push him away.
“I want to lick you,” the Samoan guy says, more urgently, and he starts pawing around. “Go away,” I say, pushing him more strongly.
I start to get up, and he pushes me down into the sand. “Really,” I say, angry now. “Leave me alone.”
“I want to fuck you, baby.”
“No!” He is ridiculous. I make a mighty effort to get up, and he puts his hand on my hip to keep my down. Red alarms go off in my head, and I summon all my will, my strength, that bolt of energy to fight him off, and his hand pushes harder on my hip bone and he laughs at me, drunkenly enjoying the game. He still thinks I want to kiss him, fucking moron. No, I say, turning my head into the sand and closing my eyes. No.
I WAKE UP, curled in a fetal position. I have no idea how much time has passed. I brush sand from my mouth and look to see if the Samoan guy has gone. I push myself up to sitting and then lean over again. I heave up everything, the beer, the pineapple. I vomit until it’s bitter and my throat is raw and there is nothing left, but I can’t stop heaving. I close my eyes and try to breathe in deep. Some people would not be in this situation. Some people would be back in their hut, in bed with a book. Some people would not have gotten so fucking drunk with a bunch of drag queens in Samoa. But I am an idiot, I am a mess. In the sand I notice the shark’s tooth the surfer was wearing, the leather cord ripped apart.
I stand up, nearly sober, and walk back to the water’s edge. After a hard wave, there is a calm pooling of water. I rinse my face, then walk into the warm water in my