Farther beyond the tourist shops are newly built condos that no one but celebrities from the States are rich enough to use. I heard that Oprah—the real Oprah—once stayed in one of those condos. From what my pa said, though, she’s the only one that’s ever stayed there. No one wants to stay in those condos.
Right across the street are the housing projects, repainted to match the dull beige of the condos, with beautiful murals that were added to every single wall when the condos were built so when tourists and celebrities passed by the housing projects, they wouldn’t know what they were seeing.
“How is it that those condos are empty,” Kalinda says, “and across the street they’ve got eight people in a room?”
“I think I have an idea,” I say.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“No one’s living in there, right? We should stay in there for the night.”
“I don’t know if we should mess with those condos.”
“Are you afraid?” I tease.
“Yes,” she says. “If we mess with those condos”—and she pauses here for effect—“they’ll beat us till we bleed.”
“They’ll do more than beat us if they catch us. They’ll throw us into jail.”
“They can’t put us in jail,” Kalinda says. “We’re too young.”
I hate being corrected. “You can go right on ahead and stay outside for the night, then, if you’re too scared.”
“Not scared,” Kalinda says. “Just smart.”
“It’s just for a night,” I say. “No one would even know.”
She shakes her head. “You’re out of your mind.”
I smile. “You don’t have to do a single thing if you don’t want to,” I say. “But me—I’ll be living like a queen tonight.”
I turn away from her, pretending that I don’t care if she follows me or not. I don’t turn around when I hear her coming. We walk down the sidewalk, across the street from the housing projects. Keeping us out of the condos is the black iron fence with sharp spikes at the top. We pass by a security box right by the locked gate. The box is as big as a man, and the officer inside is being baked alive in his uniform. He shines with sweat as he fans himself with the pages of a book. He watches a cricket game on a little TV. We walk by him so slowly that he gets suspicious. He pokes his head out the open window. He isn’t a happy man, sitting in a small sweltering box, guarding an empty condominium.
Kalinda and I speed up our walk. I look over my shoulder to see the security guard watching us until we pass the black gate altogether. The second we pass the sidewalk, he goes back to fanning himself and watching his handheld TV.
“In here, quick,” I say as the second the security guard looks away.
I take Kalinda around the corner and alongside the gate that leads into the unpaved field and trees and pipes that spill out to the ocean and isn’t covered with concrete. “He can’t see us here, right?”
Kalinda scours the bottom of the iron fence. Finally she points out a hole that’s been dug out by an iguana. We get through easily with only a few scratches on our arms, and when we’re on the other side of the gate, we run until we’re sweating and we can’t breathe without bending over and putting our hands on our knees. I’m gasping for breath when I stand to see. There is an untouched stone path that takes us through the budding gardens that are well-kept for the people who don’t live there. Red hibiscus that iguana like to eat are small flames, and trees with flower petals falling with every light breeze make me feel like I’ve stepped into another world entirely.
We bend low beneath the neatly clipped bush, listening for the footsteps of concealed security guards. At the end of the path, we take turns poking our heads out past the edge of the hedge’s leaves. When we’re confident that we’re the only ones there, we leave the path and walk into the courtyard.
It isn’t like the church’s courtyard, with ancient cobblestones and bird droppings. This courtyard is a garden of grass and roses, a gazebo with benches and a sleepily rotating fan. No clouds in the sky, so the blue that is the color of the ocean reflects off of the leaves, turned honey by the yellow sun. The courtyard overlooks a dock. The dock is private for the condos. The water is clear, and we can smell its salt. Kalinda runs right through that garden and jumps into the sea. She sinks and floats to the top with a smile. I sit on the edge of the concrete dock, rough beneath my thighs, my toes scraping the edge of the water. I watch Kalinda swim and dive until I’m tired of watching. With my loafers in my hand, I walk through the garden. The path continues to the other end of the iron gate, but from where I stand, I can’t see the security guard anywhere.
And in front of me are the condominiums. There are five in all, and the main one—the one I’m sure Oprah Winfrey stayed in—stares down at us with its beige paint and white trim, gold handles for the glass French doors. Sweeping staircases lead to the upper level, which has a balcony and white wicker chairs.
I run up the stairs and go to the doors. I’m not surprised when they’re locked. I can see Kalinda swimming beneath the glass waves. There are windows on either side of the door. I yank one up, and then push on the mosquito screen behind it. I push hard enough that the screen falls to the floor with a clatter.
I climb inside. The white tile is cold beneath my feet. I smell dust and dried paint. The walls are yellow, to match the sunshine, and
