Korê in New York

What happens when a kid refuses to leave the past behind? What happens when the past won't go away? Read on and don't worry about the emotional damage.

1. Low Hanging Fruit for Breakfast

   I awoke and thought I was in my grandparents’ apartment just north of Miami Beach. This is Mom’s parents. Dad’s parents live in Scranton, but all the old people are alike.  Most have fond school memories, and when a kid begins to show an interest in things academic, that is a bit of a pass into the adult world.

   I remembered my Grandpa Wolfson who is a retired chemistry teacher asking me all about general science the last time I visited him, spring break of eighth grade. Had that been less than a year ago? I remembered that he had congratulated me about getting in to Brooklyn Tech. I was finally “discovering the world of science and math” which was “quite unusal for kids these days,” who mainly just want to be entertained. I had to disillusion Grandpa Wolfson and let him know that I preferred literature, history, and even popular culture which was better than those For Students books. Maybe I just liked to think for myself.

   One great thing about Florida was how warm it was and how you could swim in the morning. Providenciales was south of Florida! There was nothing to stop me from going for a swim unless the beach was closed or the Sidlows got upset. I slipped out of bed and checked on the grownup Sidlows. They were asleep. The whole suite was asleep.

   I washed up, changed into a bathing suit, grabbed my towel and room key and headed down the white pebble and shell path toward the sea. The lagoon was not turquoise but instead an even prettier French blue. Two hotel workers busily raked out the sand. I noticed one of them was Caucasian. That was unusual for the Caribbean. He looked middle aged and horribly sunburnt. I tried not to look at him.

   “Those who aren’t cool,” sing songed an inner voice. “End up raking the beach while the Fast Crowd rules.” Actually the poor sunburnt man could well just have been a victim of the recent recession. I spread my towel on an all ready raked piece of beach. I could have had a chaise lounge with a pad, but the lounges were still stacked, and I did not think the conession that set them up was open yet.

   The water was warm and almost bitterly salty and perhaps a bit viscous. I swam up and down the beach, meditative laps as I would in a pool or as I would at a public beach. Oh how I used to beg my grandparents to take me to the ocean. Grandpa Wolfson did it three times the last time I was in Florida. He did it as my reward for not just being an ordinary kid with ordinary likes. Thankyou Grandpa Wolfson.

   Of course Rialitee was not Florida. Say that ten times fast. It was in another country for starters. It was further south. It was… I was supposed to be a spy, albeit a suckie spy. No, make that the world’s suckiest spy. I rolled over on to my back. I was near the far end of the beach and I could see beyond the villas, villas of a different construction and several large buildings. At the other end of the beach was a jetty and beyond the jetty was a pier and at the base of the pier another good size complex of buildings.

   Dad, I remembered did not know the buildings. He had only worked on creating the land mass and the desalinization plant for the resort. I could go exploring and have something to bring back without putting myself in danger, getting in to anybody’s hair, or getting in trouble. I could just go for a walk. The Sidlows could try to stop me, but if they got really pissed off, all they could do was send me back to New York.

   I swam back toward the jetty. I swam back toward the villas. I climbed out of the water. I did not see the Sidlows around. I watched the hotel workers unpack the chaise lounges. The sun felt hot, and I realized I had forgotten  my sunscreen. Oh well, I tan easily and probably was not burnt.

   I traipsed up the white pebble and shell path back to the villa. The Sidlows were up by now. “We were wondering where you went,” Marcus used the royal pronoun. “I left a note,” I replied. There was no reason to pretend to be nice.

   “We’re going to order breakfast,” Marcus told me.

   “In the room?” I asked.

   “Sure,” replied Kayla.

   Marcus smiled. “Your family ALWAYS goes out. It’s more convenient for us this way.”

   “Can I see a menu?” I asked. I was not that hungry. I did not want a big breakfast. I dreaded the conversation, seven days, seven breakfasts, and seven such conversations or lack thereof. So much for my plans of easy spying.

   I poured over the menu and said that all I wanted was a pot of tea. I also decidded that I’d definitely go out for lunch. There was a huge and “confusing” tea menu according to Marcus. He handed it to me with a laugh. This was the equivalent of sending Magolin on bodega duty but he wanted to see me in action. I ordered a pot of Indian Chai. Yes, tea comes in flavors. Yes,  I know my tea because Dad and I drink tea back in New York.

   I dressed before room service arrived and sat on the deck while the girls drank smoothies and launched their own brand of conversation. Oh the parents who were related to me would call it bickering, but that is just the adult word for a really intense conversation. This morning’s debate was about the lameness of teen programs and activities at various resorts and whether the official activities at Rialitee were better.

   “Do you think you’ll be in the official activities for long if they don’t suit you?” asked Kayla who ate yogurt, granola, and blueberries. Her husband had an egg and sausage sandwich on a croissant because Rialitee is a classy place.

   The girls looked at one another, and Davida sniggered, then she glanced at me. “It will be interesting to see what other teens are here,” commented Kayla. I wasn’t going to get much opportunity to walk around on my own, I realized. I should have known. My tea was hot and good. I thought of making tea in the Pyrex for Dad long before the sun rose. For some reason that thought left me homesick and sad.

   After breakfast, the Sidlows walked us up (rather than down) the pebble and shell path, toward the top tier of villas (There were four tiers) and through a gap in the tier that lead to a stone path that lead to shallow stairs and which had a thatched structure by it that had an elevator.

   We did not take the stairs. We rode the elevator to a lobby that was all 1970’s style brass, brown velvet, and sumptuous tropical plants including orchids and bamboo. Two huge flat screen TV’s and two easels advertised the day’s activities. We had all ready missed the 9am session, but the teens met at their pavillion down on the lagoon and down a long hall that led to a different beach entrance. I craned my neck and saw that the large building with the pier blocked the jetty to my left. That let me know where I was. Rialitee was really not that big. It was just densely constructed with lots of paths and walkways and elevators and corridors.

   The structure from which we emerged was a highrise of pristine, white concrete with smoked glass windows like hollow, black eyes. The teen pavillion was a clapboard house painted pale grey with white trim. It had a surrounding porch. Below the porch were all kinds of complicated water toys. Inside the house were computers, video games, a crafts room. A girl was asking about horse back riding. Other counselors were helping a kid learn to use a jet ski. Hannah made a face.

   “Keep quiet,” Davida advised. We watched the adults walk away. I wondered how soon I could sneak out and explore. I really did not want to learn to surf or ride something motorized in the water. I like the quiet of actual swimming better. If I could be left to swim and read and then go to lunch, I’d be happy. One of the counselors though was looking for a game of beach volleyball though and trying to sign up kids who looked too tired, too pale, and too winter white.

   I joined in. I wanted to see what Davida, Margolin, and Hannah would do and they managed not to sign up and disappear. I was glad to see them gone, though the beach volleyball game was a bore. I was glad to be left alone to swim. One of the counselors had to call me in from the water. If she had caught me half an hour earlier, she would have found me reading.

   “Come on,  Corey, we’re going to go have lunch,” she said. She was a chunky woman who looked like a very young gym teacher. It turned out she was a college student majoring in physical education at University of Connecticut. I asked her what she thought of Youth Voices. This could be fun and I was not above courting a little danger.

   “They’re banned. It’s not fair, but one of the boys led an armed gang into a building at Columbia and a professor caught them. Got them on cell phone, called the police, and everything.” The counselor whose name was Haley shook he head tossing her mane of brown-blonde hair.

   I was having trouble wiping the shit eating grin from my poor face. I was glad some other kid interrupted Haley. It was a plump, blond girl who complained about the walk to the food court. “There’s a bar buffet nearer the adult pool, but they like our group to eat in the food court or at one of the casual places in Buildings One and Two.”

   The food court was as decent as any mall’s. There were two dozen assorted well known chains. I tried to decide between an Italian sub at Subway, a meatball sub at Subway, a stromboli from Sbarrow, or chorizo tacos. There were other good choices too…. I’d get it all straight eventually. I went with the Stromboli and I even found Dr. Pepper. One of the boys at our table asked if teens were allowed to use the gym. Another boy said he’d heard there was a twenty foot high dive.

   “I want to find out of Troy DeVilliers is here,” said the plump, blond girl.

   “He’s here, but he wants privacy,” the counselor was trying to keep order.

   “I know there are some kids who got to see him,” replied a girl with horn rim glasses.

   “Look this isn’t boy scout camp,” said a boy who half leaned back and toyed with some kind of cheese burger. “I’d just like to kick back with a Wii and then maybe try some parasailing this afternoon.”

   “Parasailing is on the adult side,” commented the male counselor. “I can bring a group of you if you’re interested.”

   I wasn’t in the mood to have where I was going decided by anybody. The boy who had heard about the high dive said a high dive was not as wimpy as a video game. “Shit, I bet you don’t have the cujones to jump off which is why you want to sit and play video games.”

   One of the girls who wanted to see Troy DeVilliers laughed.

   “There’s a secret group of girls who gets to see him,” horn glasses added.

   “So what,” complained Haley. “You’re not in that group. Now what would you like to do this afternoon. We hav jewelry making class that’s always fun. Amanda is going to teach that. We have a trip to the pool by building four to use the high dive or to the parasailing by building two if you want to try that. Sorry no horse back riding. We’ll have that tomorrow morning, and we have the video games and dance lessons.”

   “This place is lame!” complained the plump, blonde girl.

   We ended up voting for the high dive, a return to base to make jewelry or play video games, or more beach side water sports for those who wanted them.

   I found myself with the male counselor who was built like a tank and three boys who gave me dirty looks. I did not tell the boys my high school had a male majority and boys thought they knew everything but really knew very little.

   “You gentlemen up for a hike to the pool?” asked the football player counselor. He had a crew cut and slightly crooked teeth.

   The boys glanced at eachother. At least none of them whinged as we made our way along the beach and over a pier down steps and across stone paths. Then up and up more twisting and turning paths. The pool with a hgih dive was on a roof top of building four and part of General Fitness Center and Gym. It had three high dives, and decent lap lanes in case I felt the need to wimp out.

   I did attempt a jump (a decorous pencil) from the eighteen foot platform. No it was not twenty feet. The boys discussed cannon balls off the platform. The counselor talked them out of it. He even did some jumps and dives. My dive style was too loose for diving. He made me practice some off the three foot spring board. “There you go Kore,” he said getting my name right.

   I liked this counselor. I wondered who he was. His name was Craig. I asked him if he was a college student.

   “I’m taking a semester off.”

   “Where do you go to school?”

   “University of Iowa.”

   “Are you a phys ed major?”

   “No, business major. I want to get rich some day. They pay pretty well here.”

   Craig had to pull us out of the water, though not literally. I was painfully thirsty and had a bit of a sunburn. I smeared on more cream hoping I could make up for my carelessness. Craig warned me not to fall asleep in the sun with a book.

   We returned to “Base” a different way which was how I got a resort map in one of the large lobbies. We stopped in a different food court and I had a Dr. Pepper after I drank some water at Craig’s sweet insistence.

   I returned to the Sidlow’s villa and took a lukewarm shower. No one was home. I could study the map to my  heart’s content. It would be easier to explore that way. I wondered what would happen when I snuck out for breakfast the next morning. I gave up wondering and lay on my bed reading. About fifteen pages later, I heard someone unlock the suite door.

   “Of course we have to have clothes to have dinner with Troy!” Davida explained.

   “I was young once. I understand,” compliant Kayla answered.

   “Where’s Mr. Sidlow?” I wondered.

   “Wait until I tell all the kids at St. Blans,” Hannah beamed.

   “Hey where is Kore?” asked Kayla.

   “She was with official activities all day,” sighed Margolin.

   “It’s better that way. Leave it alone and don’t say anything about it.”

   “It’s your problem,” I thought. “If you want to attend meetings all break. Even reading and studying is better than meetings.”

   “She’s in there reading…” Margolin announced after taking a peek into Hannah’s and my bedroom.

   “Study study…” laughed Kayla.

   I slid off the bed. “Where’s Mr. Sidlow?” I asked.

   “He went out on a reef tour. He’ll be back for supper. What can I order for you?”

   “I’d prefer to go out for dinner,” I answered.

   “You have to dress.”

   “Casual dining doesn’t need you to dress,” I answered.

   “OK, when can I expect you back?” Kayla tried to study me. “They’re having…” Kayla’s voice trailed off.

   “You won’t be able to go to the real teen club,” Kayla told me in a very serious voice.

   “I don’t want to see Troy DeVilliers anyway so no problem,” I replied.

   “Oh he won’t be at teen club,” explained Margolin. “It’s just the music and the clothes and…you don’t care about that stuff anyway…”

   “She doesn’t,” answered Kayla. “It’s just so hard to have a child with us who’s so out of it,” Kayla sighed. Was this supposed to make me feel bad. It just felt tactless. Tomorrow, I told myself, I could explore in earnest.

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