TROJANS, CAMEL LIGHTS, AND COPS
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
BLOODY SEOUL, AN EXCERPT FROM SONIA PATEL’S NEXT NOVEL
CHOCOLATE AND VANILLA SOFT-SERVE
The late morning Hau’ula sun hurled fiery beams onto seven-year-old Rasa Santos’ back. But she didn’t feel a thing. She was frozen below the window of her mother’s bedroom by the sound of strange groans bursting through the thin wall of their green shack. The grating, throaty noise reminded Rasa of a sick dog she once stumbled across in their sleepy Hawaiian town nestled in the northeast corner of Oahu.
She listened closer. Her mother moaned as if she were in pain.
Rasa raised her head a little so that she could peek inside. Her eyes widened. She watched as her mother’s brownness entwined with white. Like chocolate and vanilla soft-serve swirling in slow motion. She recognized the white skin—it belonged to a man named Paul.
Rasa ducked her head. She turned around and sunk to the ground, pulling her legs up to her chin. She buried her face in her knees and stifled a cry.
He gets more of her than me and Ach get.
It was as if the sun was blazing inside of her then, burning a hole in her chest. She wanted to run away, but she also wanted to charge into her mother’s bedroom and push the man away. The confusion bound her arms and legs. All she could move was her head. She shook it, sucking in her snot. Then she licked the salty tears that coated her lips.
Things were supposed to be better now that they didn’t live on the beach anymore. Their corrugated tin roof shack was, after all, a step up from the ratty tent. It should have kept the three of them together and happy.
But nothing had really changed. It was still her and her little brother Acharya. Their mother remained, for the most part, absent.
An engine out front rumbled, then roared. Rasa whipped her head up. She crept around the side of the shack and saw Paul in his lifted truck. A couple of seconds later he peeled out.
Rasa swept her hands over her face and wiped away all the traces of her grief. She took a deep breath, then walked to the window of the room she and Ach shared. She snuck a look. Thankfully all the noise hadn’t made Ach wake up from his nap.
Rasa went to the front door and stepped into the tiny living room/kitchen. Her mother stood there wearing nothing more than a satisfied look as she counted some money.
“Eighty,” Kalindi said, her voice brimming with pride. “Thank you, Paul baby,” she whispered to herself. She looked over at Rasa. Tucking a long brown curl behind her ear she said, “Here’s ten for the 7-11.”
The thought of food made Rasa’s mouth water, big time. Her disgust at Paul and concern about her mother mutated into something more tangible—hunger. She and Ach had shared a hodge-podge of snacks for dinner last night—some crackers, a package of dry ramen, a banana, and a splash of Pog.
There wasn’t anything left for breakfast. And earlier this morning there hadn’t been any money to buy food.
Rasa’s face crumpled.
Paul was here with Mom. Now she has money.
“Come on, Ras, take it.” Kalindi dangled the money in front of her daughter.
Rasa snapped out of her famished daze and grabbed the ten. She sprinted to the 7-11, making a mental list of the food she’d buy for Ach and herself.
When she got back, she cooked up toast and scrambled eggs, and served them with a big glass of milk. Ach was awake by then. Rasa watched him as he gobbled up every last morsel. He pushed his empty plate away with one hand and patted his belly with the other.
An intoxicating bliss spread through Rasa’s body, like a drug.
Ach squirmed off his chair and waddled
