The music changes. It’s faster now, and I look back at the crowd. Everyone dips and sways to the rhythm. It’s the familiar music my friends like, too. But they don’t dance the same way. Here, everyone knows the words; everyone dances to the beat just right.
A guy wearing an eye patch steps closer to me and starts dancing. His presence feels like a heavy shadow, a darkness. Then Pri puts both her hands on his chest and pushes him away from me. He laughs, then tries to give her a hug.
As he talks to Pri, something about the way he stands and moves triggers a memory. If the blue-cap boy is outside the club, then the punching man is standing right in front of me. I’m sure of it because he has the same stance, the same gait. The blue-cap boy called him Dray.
When I get a better look at his face, my stomach sinks. He’s definitely the one who punched Bad Leg. He looks younger up close, but older than me—maybe Chantal’s age. There is a black patch over his left eye and his face is a series of sharp lines—a tight jaw, a straight nose, and a hard smile. Even if I hadn’t seen him do that to the poor old man, something about the way he grins and that eye patch makes him look like he’s been to the underworld and back.
I’ve learned to recognize these faces back in Port-au-Prince. There are harmless vagabon who are just as scared as you are when they try to steal your money at knifepoint; and then there are the malfekté, the truly evil, who are not afraid to stick that knife into your belly. He is malfekté, for sure.
“I’m just fucking with her. You can’t keep her in a cage while she’s here, Pri,” Dray says. His voice sounds as if it’s coming from the depths of dark, broken places. I can feel it in my bones.
“I don’t like all these guys staring at her like she’s fresh meat,” Pri replies.
“She is fresh meat. And I’m sure she can take care of herself. Haiti’s rougher than the D and Chi-Town put together.” He licks his lips while staring at me with his one good eye.
“I can take care of myself,” I say. Maybe too loud.
The man laughs. “Of course you can take care of yourself,” he says. “You’re gonna have to. And your English is pretty good, shorty. I’m Dray, by the way.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. It’s cold and rough. He squeezes my hand and it’s as if he’s sent shards of glass down my body. I pull away. He shrugs and smiles his fake smile as Donna and another boy come over to us—the blue-cap boy. Dray slaps the boy’s hand and then slides his arm around Donna’s waist, squeezing her butt—as if he owns these two people.
“This is my cousin, Fabiola,” Donna says to the blue-cap boy.
“Fab what?” he asks, easing closer to me.
I step back. “Fabiola.”
“Fabulous?” he asks.
“Fabiola!” both Pri and I shout.
“Fabulous,” he says.
“No. FAH-B-YO-LAH!” I shout over the music.
“FA-BYOU-LESS,” he says even louder. “I’m Kasim. KAH-SEEM.”
I laugh because his name sounds like the Creole word for “break me.” So I say, “Broke.”
“What? Broke?”
“If you call me Fabulous, I will call you Broke.”
He laughs. “You got jokes? I’m far from being broke, sweetheart.” He steps closer to me.
I step away again. “Broke,” I repeat.
“Fabulous,” he says again, licking his lips while he grabs my hand.
“Let go of me, Broke,” I say, pulling away from him.
He lets go. “You got some fire in you, Fabulous.”
I roll my eyes and turn away. If he has anything to do with Dray, then I don’t want anything to do him. I don’t need a vagabon’s attention right now. I’m still wearing my coat even though everyone has taken theirs off and it’s as hot as Haiti in here. My dress is too tight and too short and I don’t want Dray’s piercing eyes on me, not even the blue-cap boy’s, Kasim. So I pull up the thick collar and cross my arms. I even begin to wish Chantal was here—at least there would be someone to sit next to me. But she has to study. I want to study, too, so I promise myself to stay behind with Chantal the next time my wild twin cousins decide to go to a party.
Pri and Donna seem to know the whole world here. Donna does all the talking, and Pri dances while a small crowd begins to form around her. She moves her feet about so fast, she looks as if she’s tap-dancing. She dips and kicks and spins on her toes and crouches down to the floor with one leg behind her other leg. I have to stand up now to see her. A boy comes into the circle and does the same thing Pri is doing, except with stronger kicks and faster spins.
I finally take my coat off and hang it over the chair, so I can try to do one of those moves. But I almost break an ankle. Someone next to me laughs. I turn to see Kasim leaning against a nearby wall. I roll my eyes and let out a long, tired sigh.
“You’re trying to do the Detroit Jit, Fabulous? I can show you,” he says, and starts to walk over to me.
He does something funny with his feet and pretends to trip. I turn away to hide my smile.
“Hey! I saw that smile. Finally!”
I shake my head and put on a serious face again.
“Are all Haitian girls built like you?”
“What? Built like me?”