Free Jade by Olivia Rigal

work. 
    Shit, it hurts. It’s different from any physical pain I’ve ever experienced before. It’s not as bad as a root canal but it’s bad. I feel as if some giant hand has entered my ribcage to crush my heart. I can’t breathe. 
    I’m discovering the ugly feeling of jealousy.
    I force myself to take a big gulp of air, and I hold it in and when I breathe out, a couple of tears come with it. I will myself to stop; I know from watching Agatha that crying doesn’t help. It’s like a self-sustaining cycle: the more one cries, the more one feels like crying. 
    I seriously consider banging my head against the wall to distract myself from this misery. I wonder if it would work. If I inflict a physical pain on myself, will it block out the jealousy stab?
    Then I kick myself. I’m getting all worked up again possibly for nothing, and I’m feeling sick because I don’t like it one bit.
     
    ❦

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    IWAKE UP STILL DRESSED on my bed. I’m a sticky mess. I left the door closed so my cell is like a sauna. I catch my sarong and soap and rush out the door. Back at the pond I strip and dive in. I swim to the rock under the waterfall and almost get knocked out. The heavy rains have made the flow much stronger.
    I stand in a half daze when a young voice startles me.
    “Are you okay?” 
    I turn around, and I see her. It’s the pretty girl who rode away with Oliver, yesterday. She’s even more stunning from up close. She walks on one of the large tree branches with the grace of a feline. Her arms are outstretched for balance. She looks at me with curiosity; it’s the red hair, probably.
    “My name is Chanlina,” she tells me. 
    “Nice to meet you, Chanlina, I’m Jade.”
    “Jade, like the stone?” She’s smiling.
    “Yes, it seems everyone finds it amusing.”
     “My name means ‘moonlight’ in Cambodian,” she says, “and my classmates find it amusing too.” 
    She walks almost to the end of the branch, and then turns around as light as a gymnast on a beam. 
    “You’re not going to jump, are you?”
    “No, don’t worry. I’m not crazy; it’s not deep enough.”
    She takes three light steps, turns around again and flies up in a perfect back flip on the branch. She defies gravity as she runs to the end of the branch before lowering herself in the water by the strength of her arms. Her body slides in so swiftly that there’s almost no wrinkle on the surface of the water.
    “Some days I dream that I am a ballerina,” she declares.
    “From what I see, you are one, already. The only thing you need is an audience.”
    The answer makes her blush. She’s so lovely that I am sure there is not a heterosexual male on the earth who would not be attracted to her. 
    She is sweet, too. She tells me about her thoughts on a merger between the classical occidental ballet, and the Asian traditional dancing. Russian ballets could be enhanced, she thinks, by the hand movements, which are the trademark of Cambodian dancers. Her hands fly around her like two graceful birds as she shows me what she means. I fall under the spell of those magical hands, which seem to have a life of their own. Her fingers flex outward with amazing grace.
    I think about Oliver, and I want to hate her, but I can’t. How could I? None of my tormented feelings are her fault. She looks so innocent.
    “Do you dance?” she asks.
    I shake my head no.  I have the grace of the hippos in Disney’s Fantasia. That’s what my dear brother told me when I was twelve, giving the kiss of death to any temptation I could have entertained of giving dancing a try.
    “So, what do you do for fun?”
    “I listen to music, and study all sorts of things.”
    She makes a face at me, “You study for the fun of it?”
    “Yes, like you move for the fun it.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I like to understand why things are as they are.”
    She thinks about it and says, “Is that why you are so sad?”
    “What do you