Tiger Milk Read Free Page A

lies.
    What do I have to do to see these ports, he says folding his arms across his chest.
    It’ll cost a hundred euros, I say.
    Jameelah winks at me and her eyes guide my gaze to her left hand. She forms a circle with her pointer finger and thumb.
    I actually never do this kind of thing, he says as we climb into the backseat of his car which is parked at a nearby garage.
    We never do this kind of thing either, Jameelah says giggling. She picks up a pile of glossy magazines on the seat and tosses them into my lap.
    Are you rich, I ask.
    He laughs.
    No, not really, he says adjusting his rearview window so he can see us.
    There’s no such thing as not really. Are you rich or not?
    I don’t talk about money, he says trying to sound all slick and cool.
    Jameelah looks at me and rolls her eyes.
    What an idiot, she whispers.
    The apartment is incredible, exactly the way we imagined it would be, gigantic, full of beautiful furniture, kind of like what you see at Ikea except more expensive, and there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. He must have a cleaning lady I think to myself.
    Do you guys want ice cream, he asks.
    I don’t like ice cream, I say, though it’s a lie.
    Right, we don’t like ice cream, says Jameelah opening her rucksack, where’s the kitchen anyway, she asks, and do you have any milk?
    There’s a tall CD rack next to the bed. The guy really does still buy CDs. From the far corner of the place I hear the sound of utensils clanging. Jameelah and the guy are in the kitchen. Then Jameelah slides across the wooden floor in her stockings and stops in front of me.
    Hey, she whispers, Sophia Saturna.
    She smiles, nods at the silk scarves hanging from the rungs of the cast iron bed frame, and looks at me inquisitively. I nod and push play on the CD player and the music is decent so I turn up the volume. Jameelah slides back toward the kitchen, balancing herself like a newborn foal taking its first steps across the pasture. I have to laugh because I know that couldn’t be farther from the truth. All of a sudden the apartment goes dark. A disco ball hanging from the ceiling starts to spin and tiny flecks of light dance on the walls. The guy must have taken off his t-shirt in the kitchen because his upper body is naked when he reappears. The tiny points of light spin across his skin and it reminds me of Friday nights at the ice skating rink. There’s no hair on his chest, I bet he shaves it. He holds out a glass for me and smiles. He looks like a nice guy somehow, but that just makes me feel kind of sorry for him.
    Jameelah takes off her top, hops onto the bed, and starts jumping up and down on the mattress. I toss my t-shirt on top of Jameelah’s things and join her. Our heads bob up and down as we jump. The guy stands in front of us and takes cautious sips from his glass of Tiger Milk.
    Come on up, Jameelah shouts, the air’s much nicer up here.
    He gingerly tests the mattress with his big feet and I notice that his second toe is longer than his big toe. He says something but the music is so loud that I can’t understand it. I grab his hand so he doesn’t fall over and as I do I ask myself whether the length of your second toe plays a role in keeping your balance. Mama had said something once about people with long second toes, I can’t remember what it was, but it was something bad, something like people with long second toes die young, that wasn’t it but it was something like that. Mama often says things that sound wrong. Mama says that back when Papa left he took her engagement ring, the one with the green gemstone in the middle, it was real, she says, it belonged to his mother, she says that every time she starts going on about the ring, it was real, she says, and Papa took it to give to his new girlfriend, and then she starts to cry and says that you just don’t do that, and the way she says it makes it sound as if the fact that the ring is gone, that Papa took it with him, is much worse than anything