“I think you’re pretty great, actually. How’s the wrist?”
I stupidly preen under those words and take the water bottle back from him when he finishes drinking, then offer him a fruit. “It actually doesn’t hurt as much.” He grunts in what I presume to be happiness. “I’m not sure if we should save the snake or eat it. How much longer do you think we’ll be . . . out here?”
He props up on an elbow. “We should eat the meat before it goes bad. And as for us, we’ll go up the river tomorrow. See if we can find anyone else.”
I nod and break the cooked snake in half and offer him part. We both choke it down, and then it gets quiet again. I’m guessing Mendoza’s not in a talky mood, what with passing out and cauterized wounds and all, but I desperately need conversation after a day of being in my own head.
“So,” I say brightly. “Do you want to play another round of our game?”
He scrubs a hand down his face, then crooks his elbow to act as a pillow. “I guess.” He sounds tired.
“All right, I’ll start.” I stir the fire, contemplating what to talk about. Nothing sexual, because the last thing we need is more tension in camp. We’re too exhausted and Mendoza’s lost too much blood. I study my awful, awful-looking hands. They’re upraised with welts from bugs. The blisters are puffy and dark on three of my fingertips, and one burst earlier, which means an ugly scab. There’s scratches, my nails are ragged, and my one pinky is bloated and terrible. My hand modeling days are over, at least for the next year or two. Even the smallest imperfections can cost jobs. I once lost a job because they didn’t like the way my nail beds looked.
Thinking about hand modeling makes me think about Rose. That’s an easy subject, then. I curl my legs under me and move closer to the fire. “When I was in third grade, I moved to a new school,” I tell Mendoza. “Back then, my hair wasn’t this weird brown, but blond. I was very blond, and very pale. I moved to California, and I didn’t know anyone. And kids are mean to people that are different, you know? Anyhow, back then, my eyes—the heterochromia—really stood out. The kids picked on me, called me names, you name it.”
“Kids are shitty.”
I dug my toes in the dirt of the cave. “Kids are kids. A week or two passed, and I started making up illnesses to avoid class. I’d spend half the day lying down in the nurse’s office just to avoid people. And one day, while at the nurse’s office, in walks the prettiest girl with blond hair and the same pink shirt I was wearing. Her name was Rose, and she had to go to the nurse’s office daily to get her insulin pump monitored.” I smile at the memory. “She sits next to me, and asks why my eyes are so weird. I tell her that I was born that way. Then she shows me her insulin pump, and says she was born different, too. She then declares that I’m going to be her new best friend. And after that, people weren’t shitty to me, because they loved Rose. And if Rose liked someone, then she was okay.” My eyes fill with tears. “Rose is the one that got me into hand modeling, you know. She told them they had to have some sort of work for me, and no one’s ever able to tell Rose no. Turned out someone had a cancellation, and I filled in. The rest was history.”
Rafe’s silent.
I sniff and give a shaky laugh. “You pass out on me again?”
“No. Just thinking.”
“About what you’re going to tell me? What terrible secrets?” I tease. “You want to tell me about your childhood?”
“Not really,” he says. “My mother hated me and the man she was married to wasn’t my father.”
Well, that’s a mood killer. So much for my game. “How about you tell me a fun fact about you, instead?”
He yawns sleepily. “I’ll try to think of something.”
We’re both quiet for the next while, and I put on a big log so it can burn all night. Then, I lie down by the fire. I figure Mendoza’s asleep again, and my thoughts fill of Rose. Beautiful, headstrong Rose who thinks she can always get her way with a smile and a flirty laugh. Rose with her insulin pump. Are they taking care of her? I wonder. Can we even be friends after this? Will I be able to look her in the eye and not resent what her choice in men has put me through? I don’t have answers to this, so I close my eyes and try to sleep.
Just when I’m about to drift off, Mendoza speaks. His voice is soft with exhaustion. “I thought of something, Ava. A fun fact.”
“What’s that?”
“I have an island.”
This strikes me as . . . absurd. “Uh-huh.”
“I bought it,” he says, voice dazed with exhaustion. “Had a place in a favela in Rio called Tears of God. Got too dangerous, so I bought an island. Moved a bunch of people there. To keep them safe.”
“Go to sleep, Rafe,” I tell him softly. I hope he’s not hallucinating. I don’t know what I’ll do if he gets sick and dies. Ava of the Jungle has just about hit her limits.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN