Under the Bali Moon

“I’m not going to let him do this,” she announced.

“Do what?”

“Ruin what I’ve worked so hard for, so he can just placate his own male ego!”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Malak confessed, rubbing her forehead.

“It means—I can’t let this wedding happen. I can’t let Adan win. Can’t you see it, Malak? If those two get married, the same thing Adan was so afraid was going to happen to me will happen to Zola. She’ll be living in Alton’s shadow forever. She’ll never live her dream.”

“The dream you gave her?” Malak pointed out.

Zena rolled her eyes. She stood before her bedroom window watching traffic roll up Peachtree Road toward Buckhead.

Malak was behind her, saying something about Zola being in love and Zena needing to support it no matter what, but Zena was already caught up in her thoughts and heard little of the speech.

“I’m not going to let him do this,” Zena repeated. “I can’t.”

Part II

Under the Bali Moon

Chapter 5

Zena got Adan’s telephone number from a thoroughly surprised Zola and called him to apologize for her behavior outside Lucille’s Lace. She chuckled coyly and claimed she hoped he’d accept her apology for being so reckless with her words. Adan sounded just as surprised as Zola, but he accepted Zena’s apology and matched it with one of his own. He hadn’t meant to upset her or anyone else. He explained that he simply wanted to “do what is right for Alton and Zola.”

Zena gushed at his greatness and agreed to do the same. She revealed that she was so happy Zola was marrying Alton. And she’d decided she was going to Bali. She had to be by her baby sister’s side. “Really?” Adan asked.

“Of course! What? Do you think I would lie about something like that?”

Adan should’ve said, “yes,” of course, because Zena was definitely lying. Zena’s saccharine-laced approval of Adan’s support of the wedding and her sudden decision to be there to play the loving and devoted big sister were a meticulously orchestrated oral camouflaging set to conceal what Zena really had going on.

At the top of a long list of things Zena knew about Zola were two important facts she’d forgotten in recent days:

Zola thrived on love and trust.

Zola especially thrived on love and trust from Zena.

There were times during their childhood when Zena and Zola were just simply attached at the hip. And not because they were sisters; it was because with everything going on around them—Daddy cheating and making more babies with more women; Mommy struggling just to feed them and keep a roof over their heads—Zena and Zola only had each other to depend on.

They couldn’t go to their father with their problems—half the time they didn’t even know where he lived. They couldn’t go to their mother with their problems—sometimes when she got home from working doubles in the catering department at Delta Air Lines, her feet would be so swollen all she wanted to do was lie on the couch in absolute silence.

The girls went to each other then; they leaned on each other. First periods. First dances. First boyfriends. First broken hearts. They trusted each other through it all. And even when Zena outgrew this full dependence on Zola, the little sister kept her focus and leaned on the big sister. And she never really stopped. Zola loved and trusted Zena more than anyone in the world—Malak had been right about that.

Once, when Zola was four and they were still living in the projects in Queens, she claimed there was a ghost under the bed. Zena, ten years old and left alone to take care of her little sister, pretended she believed Zola and asked Zola to show her the ghost. They crept out of the bed and got down on their knees and peeled back the sheet hanging over the bed. Zola was so nervous, she kept her little eyes squinted in fear of actually seeing something scary. Zena told her to point out the ghost. Zola peeked. Zena begged to see the ghost. Zola opened one eye. Zena asked where the ghost was. Zola opened her second eye. Soon, Zola was looking wide-eyed at her fears. “See, no ghost,” Zena said, smiling. “No ghost here. No ghost anywhere.”

If Zena wanted Zola to see that getting married was going to set her back and potentially ruin everything she’d worked so hard for, she couldn’t keep throwing it all in Zola’s face. She couldn’t keep telling Zola everything that was going wrong. She had to let Zola see things for herself. She had to let Zola get out of the bed, get on her knees and peek under the bed to find her own ghosts. And just as she did when they were little, she had to be by Zola’s side.

* * *

“Zollie Rollie Polie!” Zena was standing in the lobby of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport with one arm open and ready to receive a hug from her sister. A huge black luggage roller was at her feet.

“Zollie?” Zola laughed, hugging Zena. “You haven’t called me that in like years.” She had her own luggage roller at her feet. It was hot pink and bigger than Zena’s, and the word Bride was stitched on the front pocket in white.

Two weeks had passed, and after successfully showering her sister in sugary speeches and all the comforts any bride could desire, including a small spa shower the day before the Bali departure, Zena was officially a maid of honor to-be.

She arrived at the airport with her game face hidden beneath black shades and a surprise behind her back.

“Come on, how could I forget your nickname?” Zena joked with Zola before revealing her surprise. “And how could I forget how you got that old nickname?”