Page 44 of As the Rain Falls
He groans dramatically, “Alice can be very convincing sometimes, okay?”
“Or maybe you’re just too easily convinced?” I press my books to my chest before standing on my tippy toes and looking for Kayla amongst the crowd. Zach shrugs, like he can’t refute my perfect argument.
I like it when I’m right.
He really is impressionable, at least in my humble opinion.
Zach sighs. “Okay, yeah. Touché, Rivera.”
DON'T SIGN THE PAPERS
Beckett
OCTOBER, 2016
Point-Mort is the largestbeach in the area, not to be confused with the most accessible one.
Every year is the same story: I watch clueless tourists get hauled into bright yellow buses, heading for the city center, not knowing that they’re being scammed.
Tourism agencies like to brag about the possibility of swimming with the dolphins if you buy their traditional visiting package, but they always conveniently leave out how brutal the waves are. Locals know better, but then again, this is our home.
I don’t know what it is about Le Port compared to other Caribbean islands, but the ocean feels too unforgiving whenever they come around. Maybe the real deal is, the ocean is rejecting them.
Tourists are stupid, sometimes even downright disrespectful in their ignorance. No one wants to deal with them.
What pisses me off the most is how they’re also the number one reason why Le Port’s traffic is a massive, never-ending nightmare.
I release the clutch and lower the gear to second, allowing pedestrians to cross the street.Right then, my phone starts to ring somewhere in the backseat. It’s a struggle to find it, and an even bigger one to manage to answer the call when the cracked screen keeps slicing up my thumb.
A monotone voice hums on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Evans?”
I try to answer, but the words won’t come out.There’s noise everywhere: the sound of the waves crashing, people’s chatter coming from the opened window to my left, and a flea market blaring across the street.
Some kind of Drake song is humming steadily in the background, the lyrics constantly talking about dancing and Hennessy, and…
Oh my God.
Will it ever stop?
I’m exhausted, and the quality of my speech is getting weaker by the second.Fridays are, without a doubt, my longest and hardest days at the farm. Since I don’t go in on the weekends, Ihave to drive back home knowing everything is set for the next day, just in case an emergency comes up.
“Mr. Evans, can you hear me?”
“Wait a second,” I press my forehead against the steering wheel, working to get the words out. “It’s me. Hi.”
“Hi. Good evening, sir.” He pauses. “You need to come to the station, and—”
“Right now?” I cut the officer off, switching the phone from my right to my left hand. “But I’m, uh,”I can’t say driving. “I’m almost home.”
“I understand, but it’s an urgent matter, Mr. Evans.”
I scoff derisively.
Everything is an urgent matter with these guys.
Every-fucking-little-thing.
