Missing Angel Juan by Francesca Lia Block

Author:Francesca Lia Block [Francesca Lia Block]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061732744
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2008-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

On the way home Charlie stops in front of a glassed-in courtyard with a big twinkling tree, little tables underneath, heat lamps all around.

“What are those lights in the tree?” I ask.

“Fireflies.”

“Fireflies in New York city? They look like a whole lot of guys like you.”

“Let’s go in and eat,” says Charlie.

I don’t feel like eating. I want to pad around in a circle on the carpet at Charlie’s place like Tiki-Tee making his bed in the dirt and then I want to curl up there and sleep and sleep and have at least one dream about melting into Angel Juan. But I follow Charlie anyway. Maybe because Angel Juan and I used to eat samosas bursting peas and potatoes at an Indian restaurant in L.A. that looked like a camera on the outside. Maybe because of the fireflies.

I sit near a heat lamp that takes the cold ache out of my knobby spine. A man with incense-colored skin and a turban comes over. He has a liquid-butter voice. Ghee they call it on the menu he gives me.

Charlie tells me to order saffron-yellow vegetable curry with candy-glossy chutney, rice and lentil-bread. The food is so hot it scalds the taste right out of my mouth but it’s so good I keep eating to get the taste back again. When I’m finished I stop to look through my camera at Charlie. He seems like he rocked on watching the meal about as much as I did eating it.

“Do you think that would make a good picture?” Charlie asks, pointing.

“Maybe you should start taking pictures.” I’m sick of him telling me what to take all the time. “I want to go home now.” But I look. Of course I look.

Across the courtyard are two tall beautiful lankas and a little girl. The little girl has red pigtails and freckles, wide-apart amber-colored eyes and gaps between her teeth. She looks just like one of the lanks. She keeps getting up from her chair and running around the tree squealing at the fireflies. The lankas take turns chasing after her, catching her, hugging her and sitting her down again, trying to get her to eat her rice. There is something about the three of them eating their dinner under the firefly tree that burns inside of me more than the food burning my mouth. They keep touching each other and laughing, sharing their tandoori chicken.

The red-haired lanka notices I’m staring at them and she smiles at me. She has the same gap-tooth grin as the little girl. Her friend gets up to catch the little girl who is off in another firefly frenzy.

I’m feeling sort of high from the hot food. “Can I take your picture?” Usually I don’t ask—just do it—but it seems like with them I should.

“It’s okay with me.” Her voice is deep and rich like the ambery color of her eyes. “Honey,” she says to the other one, “she wants to take our picture. Grab Miss Pigtails.”

The friend has black hair and a diamond in her nose.

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