Free Bright Lines by Tanwi Nandini Islam Page A

whistling workers, dogs shuffling with their walkers, bodegagates grinding upward and open to commuters, who, with morning coffee in hand, disappeared underground onto the rumbling trains. Maya wiped her brow and peeled her veil, using it to wipe sweat from her neck. One minute pious, the next a regular girl—Ella caught herself staring.
    “Your eyes have glazed over,” said Maya, noticing that Ella had stopped digging alongside her. “Time for you to get some rest.”
    “What about you?”
    “You’ve got all those books in your room. I’ll keep myself busy.”
    Ella nodded and folded her glasses, tucking them into her shirt.
    She went to lie on her hammock and didn’t wake up until noon, when she heard Charu’s voice:
    “Yes, the beach ! I’ve been, like, twice this summer. Let’s go to Brighton Beach! Sexy Russian dudes who might be gay or just Russian. Pierogies and sour cream!”
    Ella could make out Charu and Maya sitting on canvas lawn chairs across the backyard, and from the splash of color on bare skin, it looked like they were wearing bathing suits.
    “More like Russian mafia,” said Maya.
    “We could ride down Bedford,” called out Ella.
    “She shows a rare display of spontaneity!” yelled Charu. “Good!”
    “Let’s go to Riis beach,” suggested Maya. “It’s less crowded and less Russian.”
    “What’s your issue with Russians?” asked Charu. “What’d they ever do to you?”
    “Rather than get undressed with someone’s eyes, don’t you like the idea of being naked on the beach?” said Maya. “Nice and private and naked?”
    “No,” Ella said, just as Charu said, “Hell yes !”
     * * * 
    To get provisions for their trip, they made a pit stop at the corner bodega, the famously misspelled 24 Ours and Co. The yellow, weather-torn awning was a familiar landmark in the neighborhood. They walked past a group of boys straddling bikes, leaning against the wall. Two of them muttered, “Damn, girl,” in unison at Charu. She’d waited to turn the corner from their house to slip off her jeans, and now she sported a miniskirt. Inside the bodega, two catslazed near the cold drinks, a motherly calico and a cross-eyed albino kitten. They were the feline watchkeepers of the obese shopkeeper, who was arguing with a teenage girl holding a bag of plantain chips and a peach iced tea.
    “Mister, I told you I wanted a brown bag, not one of them black plastic joints!” The girl shook her head; the plastic beads tied to the end of her cornrows rattled.
    “No!” the man yelled from behind a plexiglass counter. He noticed Maya and lifted a tobacco-yellowed finger, wagging it like a schoolteacher. “One dollar,” he said.
    “Give her a brown bag, first,” said Maya.
    “Fine, fine,” said the man.
    “Thank you , miss,” said the girl, as she walked out.
    Maya picked up a large bag of spicy corn chips, a couple of rolls, and sliced ham.
    “You eat ham?” asked Ella.
    “My first babysitter was a Puerto Rican girl. I begged her to let me eat ham and cheese sandwiches and one day, she finally did,” said Maya, chuckling.
    “I just started eating pepperoni last year and now I’m addicted,” said Charu.
    “You gonna eat this? Ain’t you a Muslim?” asked the man.
    “Yup,” said Maya, pulling out a twenty.
     * * * 
    A bike ride from 111 Cambridge Place to Riis beach was a thirteen-mile adventure. Ella wasn’t one for beaches; she was never sure of what to wear. Bikinis, never. One-piece bathing suits were unforgiving and uncomfortable. She could have finished the ride in forty minutes, but between Charu’s bicycle (a Wicked Witch of the West–style cruiser; there was no speeding on that thing), and the monster camping backpack Charu had her carrying, Ella found herself at the end of their cycling line. The backpack was stuffed with a sheet Charu had patched together from old T-shirts, the ham and chips and soda, Ella’s boom box and soccer ball, sunscreen, and a change of