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. Sets of Secrets

   I managed to call discretely for my wakeup call. Hannah, Margolin, Davida, Kayla and two other girls who had followed them back from Tiqi were having a raging argument while they drank their late night smoothies around a table on the villa’s deck. I heard their voices trickle in through the half open sliding door.

   Interspersed with their conversation a male friend of Marcus’ and Marcus himself had a conversation about the media and ECBAS. I caught shards of it. “They’re as divided as anybody…at least the old timers. The new blood sides with us, no questions asked. They believe ‘evolve or die’ and they are so right…”

   “Only in a place like this would you hear this,” I thought tiredly as I got through to the main desk (It is not really a front desk!) in Building 2 to request my wakeup call for 5:30am. I got out my book to read since I wouldn’t sleep with all that talk.

   Finally the villa quieted down. Margolin went to shower. Hannah threw her clothes on the floor and collapsed on the bed in a piss, poor imitation of passing out. “Can you turn out the lights Kore, please, and do you really have to be studying? This is vacation.”

   “Fuck you,” I thought, but I turned off the light. Hannah had a point.

   “What the fuck was that?” Hannah asked the next morning when the landline phone rang at 5:30am. “It’s for me,” I said thanking the front desk or main desk or Building 2 Desk. I felt bad for the clerk who was all ready up ahead of me. I hoped he or she was ending his or her shift. I thought of the yellow skinned, lined faced adults, on the subways back in New York where it was still grey and cold.

   I dressed quickly taking my bathing suit and two towels and my book with me, and of course not forgetting my map with index. I really needed that map and index even if all the corridors tunnels and maybe even paths weren’t included. “I’m a spy but there’s no point getting in trouble,” I told myself as I left the obligatory note and let myself out of the villa.

   I decided I was no longer the world’s suckiest spy. I was not a great one, but no longer at the bottom of the standings. I congratulated myself. Then my thoughts turned dark. Nearly all of my spying depended on Noblesse Oblige. If the Sidlows decided to keep me in the villa or take me to their special groups…well I’d see a lot less of what mattered or maybe see it in a different way. All they had to do was reel me in on their rope and my spying career was over.

   By now I had reached the bottom of the white pebble and shell path. The grounds crew was not out raking the beach yet, and all the chaise lounges and pads were stacked. I left footprints in the sand and did not care. I had all ready left a note. I was being a good kid in the hopes of keeping the Noblesse Oblige flowing.

   “It’s to the Sidlows’ advantage to give me Noblesse Oblige,” I told myself. “I go to general and casual places where teens can travel. I stay in official activities. I learn no secrets, or at least none that their friends keep.” There are of course other secrets. I thought of the Caucasian groundskeeper. What did he know? What did the official teen activities counselors know? What about those secret tunnels that I knew existed. They just had to exist even if I’d get in trouble for visiting them.

   I crossed past the casual but adults only by custom club on the pier and the Teen Pavillion and under the boardwalk that jutted out from the villas next to Building 3. Building 4 was the highrise with the white glass and retro lobby. The groundskeepers were driving some sort of machine across the sand to soften it up and to suck up the previous day’s debris when I crossed toward the beach entrance. Two supervisors in hard hats and olive complexions, middle aged men lost in themselves  or the day’s work did not notice me as I entered the beach tunnel which was open as everything appears to be at Rialitee.

   I took the elevator five stories up and found the stone path that crossed the bridge to Building 5. The main bank of elevators went all the way to level S6. So there are six underground levels I thought. I wondered if there were tunnels beneath the lagoon. I wondered how one found that out.

   I’d probably get in trouble with the Sidlows before I learned any really big secrets. They’d probably send me home. I was sure of that as I stepped out into clean, white tiled splendor of well made basement corridors that were clearly public. Someone had put neat red and white plastic signs on the wall that said. “General Cafeteria #2, Building 5 Sundries, Palmetto Conference Hall, Chess and Board Game Lounge.” Arrows pointed to all locations.

   The doors to General Cafeteria #2 were wide open. The place looked ready to go complete with hot entrees, a very impressive array of cold cereals, some nice winter and tropical fruits, plenty of juices and cold drinks. There were no prices. “We’re over here!” Dom called to me. He had all ready taken a table and was eating chocolate chip pancakes.

   I went to find some hot tea and decided on a plate of sliced mango  to go with it. I am not big on breakfast especially if I intend to have a morning swim afterwards. The tea in General Cafeteria #2 was in bags and they had three large wooden trays/boxes full of different selections. I got my Constant Comment though I could have had Twinnings Oolong or Djarling. I know my tea.

   I got a big mug and set my bag to steep while I grabbed my fruit. Tea reminded me of home so in some ways it was a bad choice. I thought of the apartment with the fake, sunny sky on a strip of paper over the kitchen table. That had been RoAnn’s idea. It was a visual chirp or a brave face stuck to her forever, a mask that would never come off. That too was my fate and it scaird me.

   I did not need to be so philosophical. “I’m glad they have this cafateria,” explained Hannah who was eating a bran muffin along with something that looked like coffee but which turned out to be Raostaroma which comes in tea bags and is in the herbal tea box.

   “They have a good selection of tea,” I observed which was true and my mango was nice and fresh.

   “That’s part of it,” answered Craig, “but we get some very hungry kids. This place serves four meals a day around the clock seven days a week. I can bring kids over here any time and see they get good food.”

   “What kind of things do they serve for lunch and dinner?” I asked. Breakfast wasn’t my thing. Early morning commutes had turned my early morning stomach rancid.

   “Sandwiches of all sorts, a salad bar, some very nice entrees, including a vegetarian option, and all sorts of side dishes.”

   I winced. I said I preferred some ethnic cuisines. “What do you like to eat for lunch?” asked Hannah who was being just a bit motherly. I hadn’t been ready for this. Hannah was old enough to be my sister not my mother. I’d never had an older sister. I’d only had a mentor this year and my mentors were potty mouthed boys who smelled of Right Gard and Ivory soap, a good clean boy smell. And yes, my mentors were sniffable and I could imagine snuggling into them for an endless subway ride or slow dancing with them. I guess a social life is in my “ranging hormones.” There I said it.

   “Italian sub, meatball sub, stromboli, liverwurst sandwiches, all kinds of luncheon meat sandwiches, bean soups, salads, Greek leaves. I like heavier stuff for dinner…”

   “Do you eat Chinese food?” asked Hannah.

   I told her about the PeKing Buffet last night. “They didn’t have pepper steak though,” I commented.

   “I don’t know where they serve that,” Hannah mused. She glanced around the table. “Kuo Chang’s has it, I think,” asnwered Jersey Dom. “They’re supposed to be like traditional neighborhood Chinese. I get supper there sometimes when I’m on early shift.”

   “Isn’t this early shift?” I asked.

   “For some of us,” Craig said. “Amanda, Hannah and Dom are probably going to catch a few hours rest and come on at noon. Dylan, Leigh, and I have the morning.”

   “When do you start?” I asked.

   “We need to have the first program ready by 9am. That means we get the house set up and cleaned up — We call the Teen Pavillion the house — by then.”

   “Do you get paid extra for Sundays?” it couldn’t hurt to pry. I figured the counselors probably had a day off during the week.

   “No,” it was Amanda who replied. She had a long face and wore lots of funky, home made jewelery, and her shirt was batik she made herself. She was a “real artist” or at least an arts major at Cornell of all places. She was taking a semester off to earn money, and thought the teaching aspect of the job would make her resume shine.

   Part of me wanted to smirk at Amanda and then part of me thought of the groundskeeper. “We don’t get a day off,” she began bitterly. “We don’t get overtime. We’re lucky to get paid at all beyond room and board.

   “This is a great place to work though,” Amanda added. “I mean the location is good and the food is super and the kids…

   “They’re all individuals.” “Talk about ephemisms,” I thought.

   “The problem is there are counselors who don’t get paid at all and it’s a race to the bottom for salary and benefits. Working condition’s aren’t unsafe. The hours are a bit long and they have us all on salary. That’s all.” Craig glanced at me to see if I understood all this adult stuff.

   “Why don’t some counselors get paid?” I asked. Craig had just let a golden nugget drop amid all the bitching.

   “They’re fanatics,” Hannah replied.

   “ECBAS,” I said.

   “Youth Voices and ECBAS both,” explained Jersey Dom.

   “They staff the other teen group,” Jersey Dom went on.

   “The one that gets to go to Tiqi and the one my suitemates go to,” I put all the pieces together.

   “Who are your suitemates?” asked Hannah.

   “A family who has me as a guest.” I was not naming names, not this morning.

   “Well, it’s very arbitrary who gets into the elite, teen group,” Jersey Dom explained. “Being in good standing back in the States is no guarantee. Even a leadership post is no guarantee. You have to know the right people and ingratiate yourself. It’s called social intelligence. Sometimes it’s called social capital, but that is the wrong definition of the term. Social capital applies only to groups. It’s a political science term for group cohesion and influence. Social intelligence is somethign else.”

   “Sounds like pull to me,” I replied.

   “That’s what it is,” spat Craig. “It makes for some very unhappy kids when siblings or even friends from the same town get separated. One gets in the elite group and the other doesn’t.”

   “And the elite group is where the meetings are,” I thought aloud.

   “Some of that, but it’s more a feeling of being one of the elect and meeting other movers and shakers from other cells,” answered Hannah.

   “We’re not part of the elite,” Jersey Dom stated the obvious.

   “How did that happen?” I asked.

   “Not good enough in the eyes of those who rule. It’s partly Hollywood and partly…I find it hard to put my ego aside when they can’t use my expertise. I’m glad I worked as a DJ to put myself through college. In the new world, it’s good to have a side light.”

   Then Jersey Dom changed the subject. “You’re not  a member [of ECBAS] are you?” he asked.

   I took out one of my business cards. I didn’t need to give any more than this. Let the counselors pass it around. My membership in Young Achievers was no secret. I’d still be a nice cooperative kid. It was part of having nothing to lose. It all came as a package.

   “Well at least your friends aren’t trying to sneak you into the elite program,” sighed Jersey Dom.

   “That explains the reading on the beach,” Craig observed.

   “This resort is a public accomodation folks,” Amanda reminded everybody.

   I winced.

   “Yes, and we’re paid staff, not glorious volunteers,” Hannah added.

   “Quite frankly,” Jersey Dom cleared his throat as if he all ready had his PhD and could begin treating patients, “Your side scares me Ms. Bihar. I’ve written articles about education and I’ve written one or two things for Star Parent.”

   “And your playing MP3’s for unhappy teens and working seven days a week without a day off,” I wanted to sing-song back. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

   “My stepmother says that ECBAS twists educational philosophy to suit their needs,” I told Jersey Dom.

   “Your stepmother…” Jersey Dom froze.

   “Your mother is Georgia Wolfson,” Jersey Dom figured aloud. “She WAS married to Samuel Bihar.”

   “Who is now married to Doktor Ro-Ann Test-a,” Craig continued the thought.

   “Holy shit,” commented Jersey Dom.

   “So what,” asked Amanda.

   “RoAnn and Georiga are uber tools,” laughed Hannah. “Actually, I don’t blame RoAnn after what Bobby from Hofstra did to her office. Too bad he went back a second time.”

   “He went back armed,” I told my table mates.

   “Did you see it?” asked Jersey Dom.

   “I saw it and took pictures of it with my cell phone,” I replied.

   “Well, that explains a lot,” sighed Craig.

   “Not really,” answered Dom. “Kore was a tool by the end of eighth grade. She couldn’t have gotten into Brooklyn Tech otherwise.”

   “Shall I congratulate you?” asked Jersey Dom.

   “It’s a bit late for that,” I answered.

   “Do you ever regret it?” he asked.

   “Nope,” I replied.

   “I don’t like the people who run your side. Dr. Angelus is a reactionary and considered a bit of a laughing stock.”

   “Young Achievers is a bunch of old people yearning for geometry proofs and old men in flannel shirts playing logic games. When their boys get involved…” Craig smiled.

   Amanda decided to change the subject. “Kore, do you want to make mosaics this afternoon?”

   “Can you use me for enthusiasm?” I asked. There would be more quid pro quo. I might be able to get Amanda to talk if she felt I wasn’t going to recruit her. I had walked away from what my counselors now faced a year ago. I had fought my way out by studying hard. I had earned my wings. I could fly, but the counselors. I was not sure whether to pity them. They were adults who had made choices. They were not middle schoolers or high schoolers who were trapped.

   “Yes,” Amanda confessed. She glanced at me. “Do you do any art?”

   “I helped make the banners for the big meeting at the Board of Ed back in January,” I told her.

   “Oh those…” Craig laughed. “Who thought of the music?”

   “Rachielle Maple, and some of the students at the International Magnet in Jamaica Queens.”

   “Come on, I’ve got to meet Dylan and help him clean up the house,” Craig pushed aside his half eaten plate of bacon, fried eggs, and toast. “You ladies get some rest. You worked hard last night. Your art class is at 2pm Kore, got that?”

   “It will be a pleasure,” I answered. I drank the rest of my tea and started making my way back to the villa to check in and then it would be off to the Teen Pavillion for a morning activity that I hoped would include a trip to the diving platform. Learning to dive gracefully and also to jump from great heights into water was not a bad way to spend my vacation. Besides, I needed time to think. I wondered how I could get Amanda to open up. She really did seem like the most disillusioned and the best prospect of the bunch.

   “Where have you been?” asked Marcus Sidlow when I returned to the villa. He was the only one awake and he was out on the porch going over some sort of computer print out. He too had his secrets. I’d keep mine. “Can’t you read?” I thought.

   “I went out for breakfast. I left a note.” I went to get the note. It was gone. I was in trouble.

   I was not ready to bow, scrape, and say I was sorry. I just waited for Mr. Sidlow to make the next move. Go ahead and yank your Noblesse Oblige. I was sure it was coming.

   “I don’t know who took the note,” I confessed.

   “I did,” answered Mr. Sidlow.

   “So Kore, what are your plans this morning?” he asked. I had not expected this.

   “Go to the teen pavillion and see if they’re going to the high dive pool on the roof of Building Four.”

   “OK…” answered Mr. Sidlow.

   “And what about the afternoon?”

   “Art class at the teen pavillion.”

   “And that’s all you’re going to see of this island….”

   “Do you have a tour of Providenciales scheduled?” I ask.

   “We don’t do anything that formal, but I thought that since it’s Sunday our family is going to have a family afternoon at the Beach Pool behind Building 4. Can you squeeze that in?”

   I shrugged. I’d have to leave word for Amanda but what choice did I have. “It’s beautiful up there and you can either order lunch from the bar or there are restaurants nearby.”

   I agreed to show up at 1pm. I felt oddly disappointed, but having to put in some “family time” with my host family was I guessed part of the deal.

   ---

   I managed to straighten out my schedule to skip mosaic class with Amanda by leaving a message with Craig. I did not care that Marcus Sidlow had the good sense to rein me in. He should have done that a long time ago. It was part of his parental role. I did not hold it against him.

   Around 12:30pm, I left the group walking to lunch and climbed through Building 4 to reach the beach pool. I expected guards at the gate, but there was no gate, just another beach entrance and then a patio of marble as white as alabaster across which were stretched chaise lounges with colorful, overstuffed, striped cushions. Some of the chaise lounges sat forlornly in the sun, others huddled in family groupsings under archways. At the center of each grouping, was a low, marble table. On most of the tables was assorted beach paraphanalia and leftover food and drink containers.

   At the center of the Beach Pool was the pool itself, turquoise water in a round basin that looked shallow and calm. There was a surfing pool elsewhere complete with artificial waves. Good natural beaches do not exist on artificial islands. I thought of the desalinization plant my Dad helped build. I thought of a minute of what would happen should that stop working.

   “Kore are you OK?” asked Kayla.

   “Make sure you wear your sunscreen,” she kept pouring out the advice as I ducked under the Sidlow’s archway. Hannah lay dozing on one of the chaises. Margolin and Davida shared a Blackberry or other smart phone on which they were ardently busy texting or else playing a game. I thought of how seldom I used my Blackberry in front of adults. My Blackberry and computer life were my own set of secrets. I sat on the edge of a chaise. I shoved my clothes bag underneath it.

   “Why don’t you relax?” Kayla suggested.

   “I’m going for a swim,” I answered in a very unintentionally sullen voice. I kicked my clothes bag under the chaise lounge and bounded out into the sun. The water was too shallow for a dive. Craig who was still sweet Craig would stop me. He took diving and swimming as seriously as my friend, Eugenia, took her running. I jumped instead doing a rather ill formed pencil. The water was bath tub warm and weirdly brackish. Different water has different personalities.

   I swim laps when I don’t know what else to do. It’s an old Florida habit. After about fifteen laps I climbed out. I put on more sunscreen and lifted A Connecticut Yankee out of my bag. I was going to finish that book in the next forty-eight hours. I was going to lose my prop. Was there a library on the island, even one that consisted of other peole’s left behind paperbacks. I had a paper due on Yankee the week after I got back. Could a teen use the “business center” to write. Having parents who made space for their kids’ school work was something I always took for granted.

   Well, why not fly the colors proudly, I thought. Until I could find another book, I’d have to make Yankee last. I dug out my Math A/B book and began working on a practice exercise. I always have scrap paper or motel stationary. I did not see Kayla roll her eyes. I heard Margolin giggle instead. “Yeah just like New York when she used to visit us,” commented Davida.

   I drew up my legs. “Aren’t you going to have lunch?” This time it was Marcus who asked. “When I feel like it,” I replied. “They have shrimp and salads here,” Marcus tried to tempt me. Salads were fine, but not shrimp. I shrugged and went back to work.

   “If I had a suit like that,” commented Davida, “I’d spend my time doing  math problems. That’s all I’d be good for,” she added.

   “Are we going to go the spa this afternoon?” asked Margolin.

   “I’ll see if I can get you in,” purred Kayla.

   “I ought to introduce Kore around,” mused Marcus.

   “Who’d want to meet her?” It was Davida who asked.

   “There are adults who need to see her. This is what the other side is like.”

   “Where does my father fit in to all this?” I looked up at Marcus. I imagined a bomb buried in the bowels of the desalinization plant. Ka-fucking-boom! No water. Die you wretched ECBAS slaves.

   “You want me to call your father a tool?” asked Marcus.

   “I want you to tell me where he fits in.”

   “He’s a colleague. You know that.”

   “He consulted for Star Corps,” I replied. My Dad did not l lie. Star Corps and other clients demanded secrecy that was all.

   “I work for Star Corps,” Marcus stated the obvious. “This is one of our properties. How does it feel…Have you explored all of it yet?”

   “No,” I replied. “It’s too big for that.” I smiled. I needed to study but that was going to be an impossiblity. Well, Marcus would get lunch soon.

   “So you are impressed. Kore, how would you like to never come to a place like this for vacation again?” Marcus was squatting so we could see eye to eye. He must have been more flexible than most men his age. His old middle aged thighs jiggled, but he could still squat. He had man tits under his chest hair and light colored nipples.

   “How do you feel about never coming to a place like this for vacation again?” Marcus repeated for emphasis.

   “Any one who pays can come here,” I remembered what Dad had said. I also knew of the gradations, restrictions, and secret groups.

   “That’s now. What about when social intelligence counts as it truly should?”

   “My family never goes to places like this anyway,” I answered. “There are other hotels on Providenciales.”

   Marcus shook his head. I thought about the Caucasian groundskeeper. I thought about lunch, but I waited until Marcus, Kayla, and Hannah had plates of shrimp salad before taking off for a nearby food court.

   One just did not strike up a conversation with counter workers in the food court. It wasn’t done. Besides, the walls had ears and there was no point in doing anything rash. I was just a step ahead of Marcus and Kayla. They weren’t just going to restrict resorts, the Fast Crowd would control employment if they ever seized control. It wasn’t too hard to figure out if you’d actually lived it as I had in middle school. I caught my breath and tried to concentrate on lunch.

   I bought a gyros combo platter to-go and a Dr. Pepper and brought the whole thing back upstairs where its wrappings could join the Sidlows trays after the meal. “You can’t watch me every minute,” I thought. “And my secrets won’t come out if you needle me.

   “Yes, I may practice some kind of aescetic strength ritual by swimming, studying, and reading and exploring. I may pretend my  needs are nothing and yes it may work. Yes, this is the way a lot of people keep up their morale. Adults do it too. There’s nothing special in deriving meaning and joy from small things. It’s the basis of cultural tours. It’s for real. It works. You can watch it if you like, but be warned, some of our rituals make us tools hard to crack.

   And face it, you need us tools. Without tools there would be no desalinization plant, and without the desalinization plant, there would be no water, and no Rialitee. You need us, and we’re you’re enemy. Of course, maybe a far thinking Star Corps executive like Marcus Sidlow realized that it’s not a good idea to have tools as enmies. It means no desalinization plants or the tool cold just refuse to work for you. You need doctors, scientists, engineers, linguists, teachers etc… Maybe there is a way to bring the tools in under the ECBAS tent either through fear or some other sort of enticement. “Interestng strategy,” I thought as I ate gyros in the shade and watched two little boys in water wings stage a splash fight while their tolerant mother looked on.

   I imagined recruiting those boys for Young Achiever’s. They weren’t old enough but Nervy Worm was probably a future Young Achiever and she was younger than those boys. I smiled. I missed Nervy. I did not really miss Kyril or Ivanna. I glanced at Marcus and felt like telling him that Star Corps had all ready done more than its share of damage.

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