Free The Bungalow by Sarah Jio Page A

legs began to sweat on the hot canvas seat, and I clutched my hat as Lance gunned the engine. The pothole-littered gravel road that encircled the island wasn’t for the faint of heart. The dust was thick; I wished I’d brought a scarf.
    “First to town center,” Lance said, sounding like an overzealous tour guide. “And next, to the beach.”
    Kitty let out a little cheer, and Stella eyed Elliot, whose gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. “Do you get into town much?” she asked him sweetly.
    He didn’t respond.
    “I SAID,” Stella repeated, louder this time, competing with the engine noise, “DO YOU GET INTO TOWN MUCH?”
    Elliot looked at us, at first startled, then confused, as if he wasn’t sure which of us had spoken and why in such a shout.
    “No, not often,” he said briefly, before turning his gaze back to the road.
    Stella huffed and folded her arms across her chest. The air smelled of dirt right after a rain, mingled with a sweet, floral scent I didn’t recognize.
    “You see that?” Lance said, pointing to a gated property to our left. He slowed the jeep, and I was glad to let go of my hat for a moment. My arm was beginning to cramp. “It’s a vanilla plantation. Almost all the vanilla in the world comes from this island.”
    I wasn’t sure if this bit of trivia was true, or if Lance had just thrown it in to impress Kitty, but the idea of seeing a real, working vanilla plantation was incredibly exciting. I thought of Maxine. Was she happy living in the Windermere home day after day, waiting on my parents with little more than a “Thanks, Maxine” or “That will be all, Maxine”?
    “An American owns the place,” Lance continued. “He married an island girl.”
    Stella’s eyes widened. “I thought they were all cannibals.”
    Elliot took his eyes off the road and gave me a knowing look before settling back into his quiet mind.
    Lance continued on. Makeshift homes, constructed of scrap lumber, dotted the roadside, tucked in under the lush palms. Occasionally we’d spot a rooster or chicken pecking about, or a child running nude in front of one of the dwellings, but never an adult, and I was curious to see one of these natives that Nurse Hildebrand spoke of.
    The jeep wound around the north side of the island and past a small turquoise cove with a ship anchored a way out. It might have been pulled from a page of Robinson Crusoe . Moments later, Lance pulled over to the side of the road. “Here we are,” he said.
    I stepped out onto the dusty ground and turned my gaze to the busy scene ahead, where one might never guess there was a war going on mere miles from the shore. There were rows of tables cluttered with exotic fruits and vegetables, handmade necklaces, packs of cigarettes, and bottles of Coca-Cola. The scantily dressed shopkeepers, with their olive skin and enigmatic eyes, sat behind their tables looking vaguely bored, or sleepy, or both, as soldiers buzzed about spending their hard-earned cash on whatever trinket caught their eye.
    “Look,” said Stella, gasping. She pointed to a native woman walking toward us. Bare-breasted, she wore her hair twisted into a single braid that rested between her breasts. A swath of green fabric hung around her waist, tied loosely, dangerously so. I noticed the flower in her left ear as she walked right up to us as if she knew us. I tried to look away, but her breasts, with nipples so dark, lured my eyes with magnetic power. Her presence had the same effect on Stella, Kitty, Elliot, and especially Lance.
    “Mr. Lance,” the woman said, setting down the bag she had been carrying. Her thickly accented voice was sweet and soft. She was maybe eighteen, possibly younger. Her breasts dangled and swayed as she bent down to the bag and produced a pack of Lucky Strikes. “Your cigarettes,” she said, offering him the pack.
    How does Lance know this woman, or rather, woman-child?
    “Thank you,” Lance said. Kitty eyed him as he tucked the pack into