“You pick.” Right. I’d forgotten the rules of our little game.
“Okay.” I scan the crowd. There are hundreds of tourists around us, but what are they going to say? This market was a good recommendation, but I think I lucked out—most visitors, like us, don’t know what they’re doing here. They’ve read some article in the New York Times or looked up a list of must-dos on TripAdvisor, and they feel equipped to explore and come back with a grownup scout badge on their metaphorical vest of achievements. Nope, for our next experience, we need a local. Once I’ve decided what I’m looking for, I spot my girl right away. She’s standing nearby and seems curious about us too; she keeps glancing in our direction and smiling.
“That one,” I say. She’s perfect, about our age and stylish, leaning against a stall of decorative lights, their bulbs twinkling brightly against the night sky. She’s making eye contact. She looks approachable but also like she belongs there, maybe like she’s the owner or the owner’s daughter.
“Nice choice,” Lena says. “And if she doesn’t speak English?”
“She will,” I say. I’m not sure why I say this. I realize I’m making all kinds of assumptions based on appearance, but the girl has the same adventuresome glint in her eyes that initially drew me to Lena. Lena may not know Thai, but she knows basically all of the Romance languages . . . at least according to her. I think it’s a safe bet that this girl knows what she’s doing, has been around and seen some things and knows some stuff. Seeing us staring, she smiles again and motions me over. I roll my eyes in Lena’s direction; I’m sure she’s going to try to sell us something, but at least she’s friendly.
Lena stands up and brushes off her pants. I watch as she approaches the girl. Unlike Lena, our new friend has a long mane of thick dark hair. She’s slim with high cheekbones, and black eyeliner makes her eyes look wide. Lena’s back is to me, but I can read the other girl’s expression. At first her brows furrow, and then she breaks out in a wide grin and nods with enthusiasm. The two talk animat-edly for a couple of minutes longer, the Thai girl gesturing with her hands. I’m growing curious, so I join them. Lena is nodding in response to something the girl is saying as I approach. The two almost look like twins from the way Lena is standing, slight and lanky in her jeans.
“Aubrey!” Lena exclaims. “Charanya here is going to take us to a karaoke bar!”
“Okay,” I say slowly. I’m not sure how I feel about this random girl tagging along, but maybe it’s not that big a deal. Maybe it’ll be fun. Great, even. So why is a prominent part of me bristling at the idea of someone joining us on what I’ve come to consider an important night for the two of us?
“Charanya’s from here,” Lena says. “But she studied at NYU. She just graduated.”
“Hi,” says the languid Charanya, extending one hand in my direction while the other busies itself with a cigarette. Almost as soon as I take it she snatches it away, as if it’s something breakable that I can’t be trusted with. She looks me up and down slowly, then turns and saunters away, beckoning to us over her shoulder as she calls out something in Thai to the man behind the booth. In contrast to our worn and dirty clothes, Charanya is wearing a simple white T-shirt, distressed pegged jeans, and low black heels that fasten with an ankle strap.
“I go by Cha-cha,” she tells us, as we hurry along after her in the busy, thronged streets. It’s hard to keep sight of her in the night, and I find myself exchanging a look with Lena as if to say, “What the hell have you done this time?” At least I hope that’s what it conveys. But Lena’s pepped up, high on something like fear, if I had to guess. We have four hours. Four hours to kill until she is—we are—presumably safe on a plane. But what if our efforts to evade Charlie before that are in vain? There have been so many surprises thus far that I can’t discount the possibility that both of us are in danger, not just Lena, and that our plan isn’t foolproof.