Free The Jade Notebook by Laura Resau Page A

prey. “Maybe they can tell us something about the jaguar’s owner.”
    “Can’t hurt to ask,” he says.
    Grabbing his arm, I lead him toward the court. “Let’s watch the game till they take a break.”
    Two younger girls—about eight and ten years old—notice us and wave us over, jumping up and down. “Come on our team!”
    Wendell and I give each other why-not smiles, then jog onto the court. As we get closer, I recognize some players from the families that own small local businesses. Added to the mix are a few dreadlocked hippies who sell hemp and seashell jewelry; our fish guy, El Loco, sporting his own short dreads; and the clean-cut, hair-sprayed sisters from the bakery.
    They’re all friendly, giving us smiles and waves.
“¡Qué onda, chavos!”
    I’ve played pickup volleyball in at least three countries. It’s the same everywhere—all ages playing together, laughing, diving for the ball, getting sand in their hair, joking around. When I score the winning point, thanks to a setup from Wendell, our teammates shower us with hugs and high fives and triumphant slaps on the back.
    Even the players on the opposing team are good sports, making fun of their own blunders. The hippie jewelry sellers give us fist bumps. “Good game,
güey
, but we’ll beat you next time!” El Loco is quiet, as always, but offers us each a warm handshake.
    As we all chat, I learn that the dreadlocked vendors trickled onto this beach months or even years ago, coming from all nooks of the world. Apparently they scrape together a modest living, sleeping on hammocks or under boats on the beach. It seems the locals find the hippies amusing, quirky, and harmless, overall. I admit I feel a sense of camaraderie with these nomads. They’re the kind of idealistic, mellow people who’ve drifted in and out of my life for as long as I can remember. Layla and I have
been
them. When I was four, she put dreads in my hair; I quickly ended up with a bout of lice. After torturous hours of having nits picked from my hair, I insisted on regular showers, brushes, and barrettes.
    I can almost see why Layla clings to the feeling that we’re bits of seaweed floating wherever the waves take us. There’s an appeal to the wandering existence, seen in a certain light.But it’s exhausting, too. And most importantly, when seaweed is miraculously washed ashore in paradise, it should know enough to stay put.
    Soon the players scatter, say they’ll see each other tomorrow night. Wendell and I stick around, lost in the glow of victory and new friends. A boy about our age passes around glasses of cool
agua de jamáica
—red hibiscus tea, tangy and sweet.
    “Gracias,”
Wendell and I say at the same time.
    The boy sprawls beside us, brushing sand from his chunky legs, his jiggly belly. Despite his heft, he’s a fantastic volleyball player, and a generous one, always passing the ball, letting other players step into the limelight. “You two here on vacation?” he asks.
    Wendell answers. “We just moved here.”
    “You should keep playing with us.” The boy breathes on his glasses, wipes them on his swimsuit. “We’re here every night.”
    I look at Wendell, grinning. “Sure!” we say simultaneously.
    Taking a gulp of iced tea, I gather courage to ask about the jaguar. I don’t want to spoil the good time, but finding out more about this beast is our whole reason for being here. Reluctantly, I offer the bit of necessary information that’s sure to alarm the boy. “We live up at there.” I point, and his gaze follows my finger. “In the cabanas right near Punta Cometa.”
    He nods, sips his red tea. He says nothing more, but hissuddenly blank expression suggests thoughts racing through his mind. Thoughts of the jaguar. Of curses.
    I take a deep breath and try to act casual. “So, you happen to know who owns that jaguar?”
    He looks surprised at my directness. “A
señora
,” he says after a pause. “She lives up there. At the end of a