Under the Bali Moon

She remembered their long talks, talks just like this, where they figured things out, understood things, revealed their deepest secrets in whispers. Adan had been the only person she could talk to about her parents’ divorce, how it felt to suddenly not have a father there every morning—how it felt to have him ripped from her life. What it was l

ike to watch her mother waste entire weekends in bed, smoking and watching Dallas reruns. And even when Lisa managed to get up and out and meet someone, it would be weeks before she’d discover he was in a relationship or just emotionally unavailable. Soon, Zena watched as Lisa gave up and resolved to stay in bed, or as close to bed as possible.

Adan was the only person who would listen to this and drape his arm over her shoulders before kissing her cheek. That was when he was a boy, but standing there in her kitchen, Adan was a full-grown man. Maybe this meant all men weren’t all bad and unreliable. And love was something she could trust. Not all marriages were like the ones she’d seen in New York, like her parents’. Some were good. Mrs. Pam and Mr. Roy were in love, always in love. For the first time, Zena wondered if she’d always be in love with Adan. If he’d be her husband and they’d be married.

But then she heard Adan say something.

“So we should just be friends,” Zena remembered hearing Adan say that afternoon in her apartment, miles from Bethune-Cookman.

She watched the assistants stuff Zola into another horrible dress and remembered Adan standing there, his arms crossed, his eyes focused and serious. But he couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t. But he went on. “I’m going to be in Boston and you will be in DC. It won’t be like Atlanta and Florida. You won’t be home on weekends and I won’t be able to stop everything to spend time with you. Look, we have to focus right now. We have to get this right, Z. We can’t afford to lose.”

Zena remembered feeling her chest grow warm and looking at Adan as if he was slipping away and suddenly a million miles in the distance. “Lose what? Lose us?” Zena had asked, confused.

“No,” Adan answered. “I mean lose sight of your dreams. Of where we are going and how that could benefit our people. We have to put that first, Z. We have to put that before ourselves. And who knows, maybe when we make it, we can get back together, but until then, I think it’s over. I think we have to let this thing go.”

Zola was standing in front of Zena, complaining about something. None of the dresses were working, and she was running out of options.

“What do you think I should do?” Zola asked in the middle of her lament, but Zena didn’t know how to respond, as she hadn’t been listening.

Zena took a sip from the bottle of Perrier one of the assistants had placed on the glass table beside the settee.

“She’s getting annoyed,” Zola said, pointing to Madame Lucille, who was pulling dresses from the racks and tossing them to the floor while admonishing her assistants in French for bringing them to the showroom. “I can’t afford to mess this up. I don’t have time to go somewhere else. But nothing is sticking. Nothing looks like me—you know? The dresses are too big and fluffy or too slender and elegant. I don’t think I’m any of those things. I guess I don’t know what I am.”

Zola fell onto the settee beside Zena and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Maybe I’m in over my head. Maybe that’s what this dress thing is about. Like, I’m rushing so nothing is working,” she said helplessly.

Zena sighed audibly at her sister’s inconsistencies. While the sudden sadness was new for free-spirited Zola, the flip-flopping wasn’t. For the first time, Zena got the inkling that maybe the wedding didn’t have to go down; that maybe there was something she could do to stop it. She could use Zola’s indecisiveness to get her to see things the way Zena saw them; or at least get Zola to hold out long enough to pass the Exam and then have more options.

“You might be right.” Zena fed the idea to Zola softly beneath Madame Lucille’s fake French chattering with the assistants about what to put on the wardrobe next.

“You think so?” Zola asked, her eyes widening on Zena.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t say anything else, since you’ve obviously made up your mind, but maybe this is a sign.”

Heat from outside rushed toward the sisters, signaling that the shop door had opened. They turned to see a familiar figure walking toward them, but the harsh rays of the sun coming in from the display window splashed in over most of the features.

“Who is it? You can’t come in here now! We have a private appointment!” Madame Lucille protested, walking toward the figure with her assistants behind her.

“I was invited,” the person said, and Zola jumped to her feet.

“Mommy!” she yelped and ran to her mother for relief. “You came.”

“Yes. Last minute, but I came,” Lisa said, walking past Madame Lucille. She was wearing a sweat suit, a hot pink Wal-Mart jogger that she refused to give up though it was shrinking and losing shape. “I thought you girls needed me right now. Lord knows what would happen if I left you alone doing this.”

Zola pulled Lisa to the settee as if she was joining a slumber party. Along the way, Madame Lucille greeted her as the mother of the bride and snapped for the assistants to bring her something to drink.

Zola pointed to all of the dresses she’d picked over, the ones she was sure she’d love and the ones she hated but tried anyway. She went into the speech she’d just given Zena about maybe making the wrong decision, but Lisa was obviously unmoved by her child’s confusion. In the middle of Zena and Zola, Lisa looked around the shop and saw a mannequin toward the back in a thin rose-gold lace sheath that looked more like a cocktail dress than something a bride would say vows in.

“Try that one,” Lisa said, pointing to the dress knowingly.

All eyes shifted to the back of the shop and then back to Lisa as if she was crazy.

“No, Madame! It’s not enough,” Madame Lucille argued, wagging her index finger at the simple design. “It doesn’t have enough gravitas. It’s not for the bride.”

“Well, maybe not for all brides, but I think it may fit this one.” Lisa slid her hand onto Zola’s knee.

“Really? You really think so?” Zola kind of tilted her head toward the dress. It really was nice. Simple, but nice. Pretty and dainty. She stood and walked to the mannequin with her hands held out, set to grab hold of her mother’s suggestion.