The Weight of Our Sky(45)

My stomach is churning, and my chest is tight. Every breath is a struggle.

“Come on, Melati,” Vince says impatiently. “I need to make sure my parents are okay.”

So do I, I want to yell at him, but I can’t, yelling is just another distraction, and I can’t afford to be distracted now, or else I’ll have to start all over again.

“MELATI.” Vince’s voice is like a gunshot in the quiet of the garden. “My parents have been hurt, and you’re keeping me from seeing them! What’s wrong with you?”

“I . . . just wait a second,” I choke out. I’m flushed and my face is streaked with tears, but I can’t answer, I can’t, I can’t lose my place again. I can’t let them all die. “I have to keep counting. I have to finish.”

Vince clicks his tongue in frustration. When he speaks again, his tone is as cold and sharp as a diamond’s edge. “You and your numbers,” he says bitterly. “I wish I’d never met you and never heard about your stupid numbers. I could have been home. I could have been here to help Frankie; I could have kept my parents safe. And now, when I could be there with them, we’re stuck in here because you’re too busy counting to get your butt moving. God, you’re a piece of work, Melati. You’re so bloody selfish, you know that?”

And with that, he turns and heads back to the motorcycle to wait for me.

I want to follow him, to apologize, to explain, to make things right. But I can’t move from my spot. Instead, I count and count until I reach a number that feels safe—a perfect three hundred—hating myself more and more with each passing second.

? ? ?

In the distance, I see it: Chin Woo Stadium, looming over a concrete parking lot, the streetlights glinting off the windows that cover the entire fa?ade of the circular building. Over the main entrance, large red Chinese characters stand proudly. “What does Chin Woo mean?” I ask after Vince has parked the bike and cut the engine. It’s the first thing either of us has said since our showdown in the garden, and I’m not really sure if he’ll answer me. But I’m low and hurting and desperate for some kind of normalcy.

In the time he takes to respond, Mama, Auntie Bee and Vince himself die, one at a time, with varying degrees of gore. I flinch with each one as if I’m taking blows, tapping the panic away furiously, my fingers hidden in my pockets. “The essence of martial arts,” he says finally. “The association that runs it does a lot of activities here, including swimming and wushu. We used to come here to swim, once in a while.”

He doesn’t look at me when he tells me all of this. He hasn’t really looked at me since we left the house.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go look for my parents.”

Inside, the great hall is packed with families seeking refuge from the chaos going on outside. In one corner, a mother dozes off while breastfeeding a squirming baby; he moves here and there, restless, exposing her nipple, but she doesn’t even notice. I look away, embarrassed. A pair of little girls shriek as they dash past, weaving and ducking through the crowd, leaving a trail of giggles and messes in their wake. An old woman spoons porridge into her husband’s mouth as he sits propped against the wall, one arm in a sling. Off to the left, a small group has commandeered a couple of tables and are sorting through what seems to be a massive amount of food supplies. “Another delivery from the markets and sundry shops,” I hear a woman saying. “We need to get these repacked and start sending them out.”

Vincent, who has been scanning the room anxiously, suddenly straightens up. “There they are,” he says, and begins to work his way through the crowd. I hang back, inexplicably nervous. Why should they want to see you? Why should any of these people want to see you?

What do you mean? I’ve been trying not to engage with the Djinn, but I’m genuinely confused.

You failed them, he says, caressing the back of my neck with a cold hand, trailing goosepimples in his wake. You took their food and their hospitality and all they got in return was hurt.

I am suddenly acutely aware of the beads of sweat standing on my forehead, the fact that my hands are convulsively clenching and unclenching themselves. I read a book once about how our bodies are primed to protect us; faced with times of extreme danger or stress, we either choose to go into battle or run for safety. Fight or flight, they call it. And right now every nerve ending in my body is screaming at me to run, run as fast and as far away as I can—well, almost. There is one corner of my mind where a light seems to pulse, away from the Djinn’s endless taunts, one corner where a voice that sounds a lot like mine whispers: You could fight. You could fight him, Melati, you could fight your Djinn. And you could win.

I wish it were easier to hear. I wish it were easier to believe.

“Melati!” Auntie Bee charges through the crowd toward me and wraps me up in a huge hug, almost suffocating me.

“Hi, Auntie Bee,” I manage to croak out. The Djinn casts a spotlight on all her worst injuries—the cut above her eye, the bruise spreading across her left cheek, the slight limp when she walks—and snickers. Look what you did.

“Aiyo, I was so worried about you all! We waited so long for you two to come back, I kept thinking about what was happening to you both. You know lah, you hear all these stories . . .” She shudders delicately. “But never mind, never mind, we don’t talk about that. Are you all right? Are you hurt?” She holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down.