The American

Chapter Seven

With morning comes the rain. The hours unravel slowly, uncaring of our dissent and with an undercurrent of violence, and just like that, we find ourselves sitting through a week of rainfall with no end in sight. With our plans disrupted by the weather, Mario, Sahara and I take up hobbies we have abandoned in mourning. 

I am sitting by my window, reimagining the rainstorm with brushstrokes on my canvas, when Teo saunters into my bedroom. "Margarita," he says softly, like my name is not of this world but an incantation he is humming into the air. I can hear the pride in his voice as he approaches me. Cigarette in hand, our bodies a negligible distance apart, I cannot see him but I can feel him, the caress of his thighs against my waist, as he leans forward to analyze my painting. 

"Wow," he whispers, taking in the heavier strokes. My heart doesn't have a moment to leap because it is already running away with his. "You're a talented girl, Margie."

Margie? Since when does Teo call me Margie? And why does his voice sound like Sahara's all of a sudden? My eyes snap open.

I am no longer in my bedroom but on a sofa in our living room, lying down beside the vista. There is a blanket on top of me that I do not remember being there two hours ago. The only other person in the room with me is Sahara, who does not seem to know I am there. I think about Teo again, about the fantasy of his body against mine. Was that just a dream? How cruel.

"Shit," Sahara heaves, snapping me out of my reverie. "Shit, shit, s—oh, Margie!" she exclaims, her eyes widening as it registers my disconcerted gaze. She flounders in a meager attempt to brush away her tears. "I didn't expect to see you here."

I remove the blanket from my body. "Sahara—"

"I'm fine," she assures forcefully. As I stand up to comfort her, she takes a seat on the edge of the sofa. "It's okay," she murmurs. She releases a calculated breath, as if in an internal battle with herself. "It's okay, Margie, I swear. I swear I expected this."

I inch towards her cautiously, until our shoulders are barely touching. "Expected what, bub?"

"No—no, I'm not going to be that person who rats others out."

"Sahara, I'm your fucking sister."

She sniffles, her eyes watering once again. "I'm fine, Margie. I promise."

"I don't believe you."

She is silent for the longest time. Then she plunges into the sofa, covering her face with her hands. "Fine," she breathes out. "Fine, I'll tell you. But first promise me that you won't say a word of it to Mario."

"I promise."

The threat of rainfall continues into the night, even as the downpour subsides. Laden clouds hover over the shore, stifling the voyages of the dragonflies in the nearby horizon. A cumbersome silence veiling the waterfront, the scent of another rainstorm inundates our dinner table where Sahara, Mario, Teo, Gram and I are eating in silence. Just outside, the enthusing silver of lightning glimmers in the fleeting way of our lives, but even the cacophony of pouring rain cannot disguise the haphazard movements of my silverware clinking against my plate. 

"Margarita?" Gram begins hesitantly. "Eres bien, mi niña?"

"I'm fine, Gram," I say, though I cannot help but cast my eyes downward to avoid her gaze.

Sahara gulps down a string of her noodles, the majority of her plate remaining untouched.

"Well, something's clearly up," my brother mutters as Gram leaves the table, his eyes deflecting between Sahara and I. When met with silence, he releases a sigh. "Sahara? Margie?"