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stefanie_beanChapter 11: What Happens in Moloka'i Stays in Moloka'i
Pairings: Hurley/Claire, Kate/Sawyer
Characters: Hugo "Hurley" Reyes, Benjamin Linus, Desmond Hume, Claire Littleton, Kate Austen, James "Sawyer" Ford, Rose Nadler, Bernard Nadler, Carole Littleton, Aaron Littleton, Background & Cameo Characters, Original Non-Human Characters
Rating: M
Length: 5196 words
Status: Multi-chapter, WIP
Notes: Fantasy and supernatural elements. Think American Gods on the Island.
Summary: Hurley heals and rebuilds the Island, while Claire, Kate, and Sawyer head back to our world. But when it comes to love, the Island has a way of getting you where you need to be.
Chapter 11: What Happens in Moloka'i Stays in Moloka'i
Hugo had rebuilt his shelter, and was glad of it. He lay half-dreaming in that drifting space between waking life and the imaginary one, free from anxiety for the first time in a very long while. Morning sun filtered through the weather-worn tarp, casting cool and peaceful blueness over the interior. He rolled off his cot, ran his hands through his wild mane, then pulled the tarp back.
A fragrant odor of cooking filled the beach, and for a strange, disoriented instant he found himself back at the Barracks, when he had time-slipped to 1977 and cooked for the Dharma Initiative. But it wasn't the kind of cuisine he expected to find down here among the shellfish and coconuts, the screeching gulls and the occasional jellyfish which washed up on the shore.
Somebody was frying onions and sweet chilis, Poblanos maybe. There was more than a hint of garlic in there too, and a few other scents he couldn't name.
Rose stirred something in the big frying pan which had come from the Swan Station. "It's a miracle this was still around. You people left this place a mess."
“Whatever that is, it smells great,” Hugo said.
“Fried green tomatoes,” she beamed.
Desmond rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he approached, then peeked into the skillet. “What? You can eat those?”
“You can not only eat them, you can relish them.” To Hugo she said, “Can you imagine, he's never had any?”
“More for me.” The chilis made Hugo's eyes sting a little. “No cornmeal to fry them in, though.”
“Oh, well, you can't have everything,” Rose said.
Ben had taken over the morning duty of making tea, and he carried two metal cups. Handing one to Rose, he said, “There's cornmeal up at my house.”
Rose looked confused. “Your house?”
“What you used to call 'Otherton,' and what the Dharma Initiative called the Barracks. You know, where we're heading today.”
“Oh, that place,” Rose said, then busied herself with stirring chunks of white fish into the pan, to sauté along with the vegetables.
Hugo said, “This fish, we could bread it with cornmeal, too. That would be awesome.”
Rose smiled. “Gather round and grab a fork.” They squatted together on the sand, shaded from the early morning sun, taking turns at stabbing at chunks of fish, onion, and tomato out of the skillet.
Hugo noticed there were large pieces of something else in the mix too, like potatoes but crunchier. “What's this?” he asked Rose, spearing a piece.
“You know those elephant ears that Sun used to grow in her garden? They have big fat roots, and they fry up really nice.” She turned to Desmond. “What do you think?”
“Hot,” Desmond answered, fanning his mouth.
“It's not that hot,” Hugo said. “You should taste my mom's habañero salsa.”
“All the same, some iced tea would wash it down nicely.”
“Sorry, no ice here,” Ben said. “What you're eating is taro. The Hawaiians thought the first taro plant was a child of the gods.”
Rose laughed. “Gods? Well, imagine that. Ben, help yourself. You don't need an invitation.”
“How did Sun know you could eat them?” Desmond asked Rose, picking around the chili peppers.
“No idea. I always thought of them as house plants. You know, Hugo, when you're checking out the Dharma bus, you might go up there and take a look for yourself. We could use some more of those big elephant-ear roots.” She handed him a small bamboo spade and a basket.
“I see what you did there, Rose.”
“Stop complaining. It's a beautiful day, sunshine, fresh air. And it almost seems a shame to leave this beach, with a garden like that.”
* * * * * * * *
The trees along the path which led to Sun's garden had grown higher than you would expect in three years, and the path itself lay deep in shadow. But as Hugo stepped into the clearing, he gasped in surprise, for the wide-open space was far larger than he remembered it. Many of the trees had fallen, but they weren't cut.
He was no expert on trees, that was for sure. Until he had come to the Island, palms were just something to line the boulevard. These trees looked pushed over, as if something massive had uprooted them. Sunlight flooded over the wide center where the trees had been pushed out, but that wasn't what took his breath away.
Plants grew wildly on top of one another in a riotous profusion of green. Tomato vines clambered over fallen trees, hung with green globes big as softballs. Peas dangled from a screen of thin, rope-like vines which reached as tall as his head, and they bowed under their burden of blossoms and fruit. Onion and garlic tops thrust their way up among Poblano pepper plants the size of small bushes. Scattered through the greenery grew a whole host of other plants he didn't recognize. Over everything spread the elephant ears, whose leaves ranged in size from a hand-span to some as wide as his body.
Sun would have loved to see her garden like this.
He had the peculiar sensation of being watched. Sun's presence seemed to be everywhere: in the breeze around him, in the sun-dappled vegetation, in the fat pea pods hanging off the vines, in the thick green garlic stems which bent over from fullness. The flesh along his arms began to creep, and for a few seconds he half-hoped, half-feared that her spirit would walk through the clearing.
When the moment passed, Hugo got to work digging up the elephant-ear roots. They ran deep, so it was hard work, and he stopped often to wipe his brow or take a drink. Soon, though, he got into the rhythm, and as he dug, he thought about his visit to Seoul some years back, when he was still free and not locked up in Santa Rosa. Then, after he'd thought for awhile about Seoul, he rested on a fallen log and recalled what happened afterward.
* * * * * * * *
In late September 2005, Hugo visited Sun Paik and her tiny daughter Ji Yeon in Seoul, South Korea. Instead of going back to Los Angeles afterward, on a whim he flew to Honolulu instead. He spent the next few days in a beachfront hotel, but the sad white expanse of sand tied down by tourists and beach chairs drove him back to his room. It reminded him of this one movie he'd seen as a kid, a cartoon where some shipwrecked sailor got pinioned by all these little people who thought he was a giant. Oahu was like that: tied down with condominiums and beach-front hotels, the giant of the land pinned under all the trappings.
Compared to the Island, Oahu seemed like a stage-set, or a play of shadow-puppets. Finally Hugo could take it no more. He rolled up his dress suit and tossed it into his bag with a few t-shirts and board shorts, then split for Maui, but that was only marginally better. Desperate for a change, he stood on the sunswept Lahaina dock right out of the colonial days of old Hawai'i, and caught the ferry for Moloka'i.
It was as if Hugo had been to Moloka'i before, the feeling of familiarity was so strong. He paid cash for a month's stay in a small, shabby cabin built from an old trailer, with a rusted tin roof and an open-air bathroom out back. Seven other equally run-down cabins nestled in a small cove sheltered by gently sloping hills. The little resort was mostly empty, since relatively few tourists came to the former leper colony. People wanted the clubs, the night life, the glamour of Oahu or Maui. And there were way nicer places on Moloka'i to stay than this.
However, it was a thousand times more luxurious than what Hugo had been used to on the Island, so it suited him just fine.
Two retired teachers from the Big Island explained that there was a special reason most tourists didn't come anywhere near this particular beach. Something about a shipwreck back in 1842, and how the ghosts of the sailors and their leprous passengers still haunted the shoreline. Or maybe the locals just made up the story to keep the tourists at bay. The couple invited Hugo to go with them to this diner a short ways inland, where they would introduce him around. He was going to like it here, they said.
The Blue Lagoon it was called, although the only thing blue about it were the few streaks of shabby paint on its faded front door. Otherwise it was an ordinary diner with a big, grease-spattered grill, where the fat, genial cook served up the best burgers Hugo had ever eaten. You could get fried Spam and eggs, pulled pork, or spicy chopped fish which made your eyes water from the peppery heat. While Hugo didn't drink, there were always juices, smoothies, or a virgin cocktail.
Soon the regulars warmly greeted the big mainlander who always stood for drinks, or who would drive down to Kaunakakai for ribs to load up the barbeques which simmered till dawn. If one of the neighbors lost a job or had a car accident on the winding two-lane road which snaked around Moloka'i, or whose daughter was having a baby, the word went around that the big guy would help out with that, too. They noticed that he always threw in at least two or three twenties whenever the hat was passed. He was pretty chill for a tourist, the local men said. He had mana, the right spirit.
One afternoon Hugo sat in the Blue Lagoon, mostly empty because the regulars were either at work, or resting during the hot mid-afternoon hours. He drank virgin Mai Tais and played with the umbrellas, sneaking an occasional maraschino cherry when the woman serving behind the counter wasn't looking. A stout older man, native Hawai'ian by the looks of him, took the seat right next to Hugo. He ordered a beer, then struck up a conversation. “You a tourist, right?”
Hugo nodded.
“Where from?”
“L.A.”
“Ah, Los Angeles. So you must like holoholo, I bet.”
Hugo looked confused.
“Driving around.”
“Sure.”
“I got a place for you, then. You ever been up to Pala'au?”
Hugo hadn't. So the Hawai'ian man went on, “You go up north, to the end of Kalae Highway. There's a park on the left. Wander around, find the foot path. Head up the hill to the lookout, and check out the big rock. Everybody around there knows it.”
“What kind of rock, dude? Sounds interesting.”
The old man leaned in closer to Hugo, grinning. “The wahine, when they want a keikikane, they go up there and sit on it. Us kane can use the help too. Makes it a lot easier to slide the waves, eh?” He gave Hugo a dig in his well-padded ribs with a sharp elbow. “If it's closed, no matter. Sometimes the park ranger up there, he gets sick of the haole and so he puts up a sign. Don't worry about it, just go in anyway.”
The next morning Hugo thought, what the hell, and headed to Pala'au. The trail did have a “Closed for the Season: No Admittance” sign, but Hugo skirted around it, half-expecting to get wrestled to the ground by burly Hawai'ian park rangers. No one was about, though, not even any tourists. He walked up to the promontory, full of nostalgia, because of all the places he had visited in the Hawai'ian islands, this one felt the closest in atmosphere to the Island itself.
In a grassy clearing surrounded by ironwood trees sat a great rock formation. Two enormous dark stone balls were embellished by an equally massive erect phallus whose stony end poked out to slightly over the top of Hugo's head. Looking around to make sure no one saw, Hugo climbed up and sat in the space in between the balls and the phallic root. From where he sat, the long stone formation thrust out between his legs.
“Yeah, in my dreams,” he said to no one in particular.
Hugo had seen oddly shaped rocks near the Hawai'ian roadsides or beaches, many of them decorated with feathers, shells, pieces of fruit or flowers. Some of the gifts were neatly wrapped in banana leaves. Sometimes you'd see an elaborate scaffold of wood or bamboo, laden down with offerings and draped with leis or ti-leaf wreaths.
An idea came to him. He rummaged through his cargo pockets until he found a granola bar. Hugo had sworn off candy since returning from the Island, but occasionally he treated himself to a granola bar as a compromise. This one was his favorite, chocolate-chip. He unwrapped it, and placed it carefully in the stone hollow at the base of the phallus. Then, embarrassed, he snuck away from the clearing and drove back down the hillside, feeling ridiculous.
That night, when the full moon turned the beach sand to powdered silver, when a boom box belted out seventies oldies, when smoke from camp-fires hung over the beach like veils, Hugo danced with a tall, dark-haired woman. He hadn't seen her around the resort before, even though she strode onto the beach like she owned the place. She was on vacation, she said, and gave her name as Ka'ula-something, long and full of lilting, musical syllables.
He asked her if she was from the islands, and she nodded. When he asked which one, she tossed her glossy blue-black hair. “All of them.”
She always seemed to be laughing at some secret joke which eluded him. Even in the dim fire-light he could see that she had a powerful sunburn over her ruddy, olive-hued skin. When he asked her if her burn hurt, she just grabbed his arms, pulled them harder around her shoulders, and said, “What burn?” with a rollicking laugh in her voice.
He danced closer to her than he ever had with anyone, thinking that she must be pretty drunk to press her stocky body up against his as intimately as she did. She was so tall that her noses almost touched as they slow-danced to “Muskrat Love.” But she wasn't drunk at all, it turned out. Like himself, only juice or water for her. In her hair, little glints of moonlight danced like white fire.
When the boom box ran out of batteries, a couple of people grabbed ukeleles and guitars instead. The light, lyrical music drifted skyward as Hugo and the woman snuggled and kissed in front of a crackling campfire. While her hands roamed up his thighs and under his board shorts, she whispered things in his ear which made him blush to the roots of his beard.
She invited herself to his cabin, made a few exclamations of surprise at his admitted innocence, then pulled him down onto the futon mattress which practically filled the tiny room. There in the glow of a dim 40-watt bulb painted orange-red, her fire-lit hair fell over her face as she climbed atop him. Churning him like butter with her strong thighs, she relieved him of his virginity.
After they slept a little, Hugo drank water from the faucet like a man dying of thirst. The room was stiflingly hot, so he cracked the windows.
“I guess that means we'll have to be more quiet,” she said, her voice peppered with laughter.
He still felt her on his body like a blush. For a heartbeat he didn't turn around, because he didn't want her to see how powerfully aroused he was.
In a low, throaty voice she said, “Come here, lover.” This time she reclined on her back, arms open wide to him.
At first he didn't want to go to her. “I'm, uh, gonna crush you.”
“Can the clouds crush the mountain?”
It was a weird thing to say, but he was past caring. In a dream of red desire he flowed rather than walked over to her, and the rock of Pala'au had nothing on him. She said one word which sounded like “Now,” so he gave her what she wanted, falling onto her with his full weight.
Late the next morning, she woke Hugo from an exhausted sleep with a long, hard kiss. As he struggled into his cargo shorts, she combed her brilliant black hair in front of the cracked mirror. She was already up and dressed. Her vacation was over, she announced.
“At least let me drive you to the ferry.”
She laughed, as if that was the silliest thing she'd ever heard. “I've got my own way off the island, lover. But you're sweet to offer.”
Her parting words rang in his ears, “Just remember. What happens here in Moloka'i stays in Moloka'i.”
The resort trailers were mostly empty now, and all at once Hugo was anxious to get out of there. That evening he headed up to the Blue Lagoon, knowing at bottom that he was just another tourist who would disappear into the past, to be replaced by the next ones who'd come along. Even so, the men thumped him on the back and said “Mahalo” for all that he had done. No, Hugo replied, it was for him to say “Mahalo” back to them, as his eyes grew moist.
Then the night came on, and slowly the locals filtered out of the Blue Lagoon. Hugo knew that it was time for him to leave as well. The cook, the woman behind the counter, and the remaining customers said their round of alohas, with promises of future meetings.
Hugo wondered, though, if he would ever see Moloka'i again.
* * * * * * * *
Long warbling bird-song high in the jungle canopy brought Hugo back from his reverie.
A cold shiver went through him, and with it the uncanny sense that he wasn't alone in the clearing. Suddenly a dark shape flickered past the corner of his vision, then ran across the path, so that the leaves crackled like crumpling paper. With deer-like grace, the dark shape darted between the thin trees, only to disappear into the green shadows.
"Hey!" Hugo called out, heading into the jungle along the route which the flashing shape had taken. Up ahead, a few long palm fronds fluttered against the wind, then fell silent. Hugo strained to hear whispers or any other signs that the dead were feeling particularly talkative. But the only noises were the typical ones of the forest. A few cheeping frogs called to each other. Something above in the tree canopy gave a long caw, almost like a question. Maybe he was chasing a shadow down the path, or maybe it was just the rhythm of wind playing over layered leaves.
Whatever he was after, it was gone.
The birds suddenly fell silent. Hugo parted a screen of leaves, and stared wide-eyed at the mysterious figure who stood stock-still in the path. For an instant he thought it was Sun's ghost, but it definitely wasn't. The girl who had darted out of the jungle was stark naked except for a long screen of black hair, and her skin was a deep forest green.
The green girl picked a few peas from the vines and crunched them.
It was clear that she was no ghost. For one thing, Hugo had never seen a ghost eat before. The green girl crammed peas into her mouth as if they were candy, and didn't even look up when Hugo rustled even more branches. He moved forward, stepping on some twigs which broke with a loud crack. She looked up with a puzzled expression, as if she hadn't noticed him, or perhaps had just thought he was another curious plant growing in the clearing. Then she turned and bolted from the garden, her bottom swaying back and forth.
“Wait!” he shouted, but all he heard was the rustle of her movements through the green woods, followed by the faint echo of laughter.
She ran for cover off the path, but Hugo didn't let that stop him. He crashed through waist-high ferns and small shrubs whose branches reached up like arms to block his path. Instead of getting tired, he pushed on without effort as he leaped over moss-covered logs, or high-stepped over small boulders. Every so often her pert rear end flashed ahead of him, but her dark green coloring was disturbingly close to the shadows of the underbrush, and she kept disappearing from view altogether. However, her trail left a faint disturbance in the mostly seamless tapestry of the woods, and he sped up as he followed it.
Hugo had never been much of a runner, but things were different now. Everything on his body shook, and normally he hated that, but now he didn't even care because of the wonderful exhilaration of running. It was like one of those dreams where you speed on with no effort, lightly skimming the ground but not quite taking off into actual flight.
The faster he went, the more it seemed as if the vegetation actually parted to show him the way. No cramps, no shortness of breath, it was awesome. He almost didn't care anymore if he caught the green girl or not, so taken was he with the sheer joy of moving his big body through the forest as if he were part of it.
A laugh rang out, almost like a bird's cry, and he stopped dead, straining upwards to see where the sound had come from. There she was, perched twenty feet off the ground in a shaggy-barked tree, her nakedness half-screened by the leaves. She peered down at him, a wide grin on her face.
“Hey,” Hugo called out, panting only a little. “Why'd you run?”
“Wasn't it fun?”
He nodded. “Who are you?”
“Don't you recognize me?” She sounded a little offended.
“No, should I?”
Instead of answering, she gave a couple of loud unmistakeable cries, “Hurr-eee, Hurr-eee!”
“You,” he stammered. “But you—”
“You couldn't see me before. It wasn't your fault. Just call me Rima.” Her long delicate toes gripped the branch the way a bird's does.
Her name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. “You're not dead, are you?”
In answer, Rima picked a lime-green fruit the size of a softball off the branch, and tossed it at him. Hugo ducked just in time, so that the tough-skinned ball rolled into the thicket beyond. It was hard not to stare at her. Her nipples were even darker than her skin, as were her lips. He looked away, trying not to eat her up with his eyes, but she didn't seem to be at all embarrassed by her own nakedness, or by his interest, either. She tossed another fruit, and this one bumped his leg, but not hard.
“Do I look dead?”
“Just thought I'd ask.”
She peeled one of the green fruits and let the tough skin drop.
He picked up a piece, tough as a coconut shell, wondering how she'd ever gotten it apart.
Rima tossed the soft, peeled fruit down to him. “Here, catch.”
The waxy slipperiness dripped with sticky juice, and almost passed through Hugo's hands. He licked his fingers, hesitant at first, then broke into an amazed grin. “Man, that's good.”
They'd found a lot of fruit on the Island, but nothing like this kind, tart and sweet at the same time. Of course, they grew way high up. Maybe that's why even Kate, who had been the best of all of them at climbing trees, had never found any. He wiped his hands on his shirt, saying, “Thanks.”
Rima descended the tree, almost walking down it as her clever feet gripped the bark. Soon she stood quite close to Hugo, where she picked up a long lock of his hair and rolled it around in her fingers as if savoring the texture. He stepped back a little, trying not to look at her breasts, not quite succeeding.
With a small disappointed pout, she dropped the long curl at once, as if suddenly reminded of something. “Now, down to business. I have a message. You have to remember this.”
“Do I have to write it on my arm?”
“Oh, Jacob was such a silly-face. Of course you don't. No message worth getting should be that much work.”
“So, you knew Jacob?”
“We all knew Jacob, even if he didn't know us.”
“I saw Jacob a couple times. He had a lot of messages, that guy. Crazy ones.” Hugo wasn't even staring at her anymore. Well, not much, anyway.
Rima drew herself up a bit, as if mildly affronted. “I don't think any message he might have could compare to this one.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, really,” she said, mocking his tone. “I am to invite you to a festival. A party, if you prefer.”
“A party? For who?”
“For you, silly-head.”
Something sad passed over Hugo. “Jack didn't get a party, did he?”
Rima shook her head. “Sorry. There wasn't time.”
“I bet there was a real bang-up one for Jacob, though.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts and frowned. “We sent the invitation, but he never even got it. We shouted in his ear, practically dropped boulders on his thick head, but he couldn't hear us.”
“But I can hear you.” And man, oh man, could he ever see her.
“Well, Jacob never could. So he didn't get a party. Too bad, because things would have gone easier for him if he had. But enough of that silly-face. Listen well, now. You're to go to the Heart of all the Waters. You can get there, you know how. But don't stop there. Walk around the Heart three times, widdershins. Then you'll be there.”
"Where?"
"Where you need to be, of course."
Hugo was still confused. "Uh, what's 'widdershins?'"
“Who doesn't know widdershins? You know, backwards.” Standing deliciously close, she traced a circle in the air, against the direction of the clock.
“I get it. You want me to go to the Heart, and walk around it three times counter-clockwise.”
“You say counter-clockwise, I say widdershins,” she said in a pert tone.
“Same thing.”
“If you say so,” Rima said, a bit arch. “I'm not responsible for what will happen if you go the wrong way. I'm just the messenger.”
Something else occurred to Hugo. Maybe he was supposed to go alone, although he didn't like that idea much. “So, who's all invited to this party? There are some other people at the beach. And we were gonna make a trip today.”
“This is more important than any trip,” Rima declared. “The party's tonight. So make sure you arrive at the Heart right before sunset. But if the sun has disappeared completely beneath the sea, you're too late. And you do not want to be late, so you'd best get started. Your friends can come if they want, but that dog has to behave himself around the birds. Now repeat the directions to me, and hurry up, because I have to dress, and I hope not to be late myself.” This last part she delivered as if the merry chase through the woods had been his fault instead of hers.
It was almost like school, but what a strange one. Hugo strained to get it right. “Go the Heart at sunset but no later. Walk around the pool counterclockwise, three times. Then party hearty."
"That's right." Rima had already turned away, her cute little bottom bouncing as she disappeared through the pathless ferns.
Hugo went on his own way. It wasn't until he emerged from the thicket surrounding the beach camp that he remembered where he'd heard her name. He'd once found a few issues at his favorite comic store over in East Los Angeles. But comic-book Rima had been blonde, and instead of being small and pert, she was a real warrior princess.
Rima. Rima the Jungle Girl.
* * * * * * * *
Back at the beach camp, Rose took Hugo's heavy basket of taro corms, Poblanos, and garlic from him. “Quite a haul you got there.”
Bernard said, “So, did you find the blue tank?”
“Not yet, Bernard. And dude, don't call it that.” The face of the man Hugo had run over with the Dharma bus still haunted him. Even if it had saved peoples' lives, he didn't want to be reminded of it. “Ben, Desmond, you wanna hear this too. There's something I got to tell you. Before we head out for Dharmaville, there's someplace I have to go first. Well, we can all go, 'cause we're all invited. But me, I have to go. It's a party. And we have to leave before sunset.”
Ben repeated, incredulous, “A party? You mean with pointed paper hats and tooting horns?”
Hugo shook his head. “I, um, don't think it's that kind of party.”
Rose and Bernard just looked at one another. Then Rose burst out, “I thought I'd heard it all. We survive a crash, we get blasted through time to the past and back again. That smoke devil in a John Locke costume tries to kill us all, and Hugo gets messages from dead people. Now, in the middle of all this crazy, there's going to be a party. With invitations. Well, I never.” She threw her hands up, then let them fall in helpless resignation to her sides.
“We can start for the Barracks tomorrow,” Desmond said. “What's one more day?”
“Are you sure, dude?” Hugo said. “It's important for you to get back. But she said that if I didn't go, any trip any of us made wouldn't be worth it.”
Desmond frowned. “That sounds ominous, mate.”
“She who?” Ben asked.
“The girl who invited me.”
Desmond gave Hugo a wicked grin. “You go out to work in the garden, and a girl invites you to parties. That takes some talent, brother."
“I guess that's a partial answer to the question of who's still alive around here,” Bernard said. “Did you know this girl?”
“Never seen her before in my life. All of us are invited. Vincent too. It's up by the bamboo forest.”
“Well, there are worse things to do to get home than go to a party,” Desmond said. “Think there'll be food?”
“Sure, why not? You ever been to one where there wasn't?”
“I can't imagine what I'm going to wear,” said Rose, a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
“No prob, Rose. She didn't say anything about party clothes. It's, um, probably pretty chill." Hugo didn't quite know how to tell Rose that Rima gave new meaning to the term "casual dress."
Bernard rolled his eyes at his wife. “You look fine. Look, let's do a bit of packing for tomorrow, then we'll go to this party.”
(continued)
Pairings: Hurley/Claire, Kate/Sawyer
Characters: Hugo "Hurley" Reyes, Benjamin Linus, Desmond Hume, Claire Littleton, Kate Austen, James "Sawyer" Ford, Rose Nadler, Bernard Nadler, Carole Littleton, Aaron Littleton, Background & Cameo Characters, Original Non-Human Characters
Rating: M
Length: 5196 words
Status: Multi-chapter, WIP
Notes: Fantasy and supernatural elements. Think American Gods on the Island.
Summary: Hurley heals and rebuilds the Island, while Claire, Kate, and Sawyer head back to our world. But when it comes to love, the Island has a way of getting you where you need to be.
Chapter 11: What Happens in Moloka'i Stays in Moloka'i
Hugo had rebuilt his shelter, and was glad of it. He lay half-dreaming in that drifting space between waking life and the imaginary one, free from anxiety for the first time in a very long while. Morning sun filtered through the weather-worn tarp, casting cool and peaceful blueness over the interior. He rolled off his cot, ran his hands through his wild mane, then pulled the tarp back.
A fragrant odor of cooking filled the beach, and for a strange, disoriented instant he found himself back at the Barracks, when he had time-slipped to 1977 and cooked for the Dharma Initiative. But it wasn't the kind of cuisine he expected to find down here among the shellfish and coconuts, the screeching gulls and the occasional jellyfish which washed up on the shore.
Somebody was frying onions and sweet chilis, Poblanos maybe. There was more than a hint of garlic in there too, and a few other scents he couldn't name.
Rose stirred something in the big frying pan which had come from the Swan Station. "It's a miracle this was still around. You people left this place a mess."
“Whatever that is, it smells great,” Hugo said.
“Fried green tomatoes,” she beamed.
Desmond rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he approached, then peeked into the skillet. “What? You can eat those?”
“You can not only eat them, you can relish them.” To Hugo she said, “Can you imagine, he's never had any?”
“More for me.” The chilis made Hugo's eyes sting a little. “No cornmeal to fry them in, though.”
“Oh, well, you can't have everything,” Rose said.
Ben had taken over the morning duty of making tea, and he carried two metal cups. Handing one to Rose, he said, “There's cornmeal up at my house.”
Rose looked confused. “Your house?”
“What you used to call 'Otherton,' and what the Dharma Initiative called the Barracks. You know, where we're heading today.”
“Oh, that place,” Rose said, then busied herself with stirring chunks of white fish into the pan, to sauté along with the vegetables.
Hugo said, “This fish, we could bread it with cornmeal, too. That would be awesome.”
Rose smiled. “Gather round and grab a fork.” They squatted together on the sand, shaded from the early morning sun, taking turns at stabbing at chunks of fish, onion, and tomato out of the skillet.
Hugo noticed there were large pieces of something else in the mix too, like potatoes but crunchier. “What's this?” he asked Rose, spearing a piece.
“You know those elephant ears that Sun used to grow in her garden? They have big fat roots, and they fry up really nice.” She turned to Desmond. “What do you think?”
“Hot,” Desmond answered, fanning his mouth.
“It's not that hot,” Hugo said. “You should taste my mom's habañero salsa.”
“All the same, some iced tea would wash it down nicely.”
“Sorry, no ice here,” Ben said. “What you're eating is taro. The Hawaiians thought the first taro plant was a child of the gods.”
Rose laughed. “Gods? Well, imagine that. Ben, help yourself. You don't need an invitation.”
“How did Sun know you could eat them?” Desmond asked Rose, picking around the chili peppers.
“No idea. I always thought of them as house plants. You know, Hugo, when you're checking out the Dharma bus, you might go up there and take a look for yourself. We could use some more of those big elephant-ear roots.” She handed him a small bamboo spade and a basket.
“I see what you did there, Rose.”
“Stop complaining. It's a beautiful day, sunshine, fresh air. And it almost seems a shame to leave this beach, with a garden like that.”
The trees along the path which led to Sun's garden had grown higher than you would expect in three years, and the path itself lay deep in shadow. But as Hugo stepped into the clearing, he gasped in surprise, for the wide-open space was far larger than he remembered it. Many of the trees had fallen, but they weren't cut.
He was no expert on trees, that was for sure. Until he had come to the Island, palms were just something to line the boulevard. These trees looked pushed over, as if something massive had uprooted them. Sunlight flooded over the wide center where the trees had been pushed out, but that wasn't what took his breath away.
Plants grew wildly on top of one another in a riotous profusion of green. Tomato vines clambered over fallen trees, hung with green globes big as softballs. Peas dangled from a screen of thin, rope-like vines which reached as tall as his head, and they bowed under their burden of blossoms and fruit. Onion and garlic tops thrust their way up among Poblano pepper plants the size of small bushes. Scattered through the greenery grew a whole host of other plants he didn't recognize. Over everything spread the elephant ears, whose leaves ranged in size from a hand-span to some as wide as his body.
Sun would have loved to see her garden like this.
He had the peculiar sensation of being watched. Sun's presence seemed to be everywhere: in the breeze around him, in the sun-dappled vegetation, in the fat pea pods hanging off the vines, in the thick green garlic stems which bent over from fullness. The flesh along his arms began to creep, and for a few seconds he half-hoped, half-feared that her spirit would walk through the clearing.
When the moment passed, Hugo got to work digging up the elephant-ear roots. They ran deep, so it was hard work, and he stopped often to wipe his brow or take a drink. Soon, though, he got into the rhythm, and as he dug, he thought about his visit to Seoul some years back, when he was still free and not locked up in Santa Rosa. Then, after he'd thought for awhile about Seoul, he rested on a fallen log and recalled what happened afterward.
In late September 2005, Hugo visited Sun Paik and her tiny daughter Ji Yeon in Seoul, South Korea. Instead of going back to Los Angeles afterward, on a whim he flew to Honolulu instead. He spent the next few days in a beachfront hotel, but the sad white expanse of sand tied down by tourists and beach chairs drove him back to his room. It reminded him of this one movie he'd seen as a kid, a cartoon where some shipwrecked sailor got pinioned by all these little people who thought he was a giant. Oahu was like that: tied down with condominiums and beach-front hotels, the giant of the land pinned under all the trappings.
Compared to the Island, Oahu seemed like a stage-set, or a play of shadow-puppets. Finally Hugo could take it no more. He rolled up his dress suit and tossed it into his bag with a few t-shirts and board shorts, then split for Maui, but that was only marginally better. Desperate for a change, he stood on the sunswept Lahaina dock right out of the colonial days of old Hawai'i, and caught the ferry for Moloka'i.
It was as if Hugo had been to Moloka'i before, the feeling of familiarity was so strong. He paid cash for a month's stay in a small, shabby cabin built from an old trailer, with a rusted tin roof and an open-air bathroom out back. Seven other equally run-down cabins nestled in a small cove sheltered by gently sloping hills. The little resort was mostly empty, since relatively few tourists came to the former leper colony. People wanted the clubs, the night life, the glamour of Oahu or Maui. And there were way nicer places on Moloka'i to stay than this.
However, it was a thousand times more luxurious than what Hugo had been used to on the Island, so it suited him just fine.
Two retired teachers from the Big Island explained that there was a special reason most tourists didn't come anywhere near this particular beach. Something about a shipwreck back in 1842, and how the ghosts of the sailors and their leprous passengers still haunted the shoreline. Or maybe the locals just made up the story to keep the tourists at bay. The couple invited Hugo to go with them to this diner a short ways inland, where they would introduce him around. He was going to like it here, they said.
The Blue Lagoon it was called, although the only thing blue about it were the few streaks of shabby paint on its faded front door. Otherwise it was an ordinary diner with a big, grease-spattered grill, where the fat, genial cook served up the best burgers Hugo had ever eaten. You could get fried Spam and eggs, pulled pork, or spicy chopped fish which made your eyes water from the peppery heat. While Hugo didn't drink, there were always juices, smoothies, or a virgin cocktail.
Soon the regulars warmly greeted the big mainlander who always stood for drinks, or who would drive down to Kaunakakai for ribs to load up the barbeques which simmered till dawn. If one of the neighbors lost a job or had a car accident on the winding two-lane road which snaked around Moloka'i, or whose daughter was having a baby, the word went around that the big guy would help out with that, too. They noticed that he always threw in at least two or three twenties whenever the hat was passed. He was pretty chill for a tourist, the local men said. He had mana, the right spirit.
One afternoon Hugo sat in the Blue Lagoon, mostly empty because the regulars were either at work, or resting during the hot mid-afternoon hours. He drank virgin Mai Tais and played with the umbrellas, sneaking an occasional maraschino cherry when the woman serving behind the counter wasn't looking. A stout older man, native Hawai'ian by the looks of him, took the seat right next to Hugo. He ordered a beer, then struck up a conversation. “You a tourist, right?”
Hugo nodded.
“Where from?”
“L.A.”
“Ah, Los Angeles. So you must like holoholo, I bet.”
Hugo looked confused.
“Driving around.”
“Sure.”
“I got a place for you, then. You ever been up to Pala'au?”
Hugo hadn't. So the Hawai'ian man went on, “You go up north, to the end of Kalae Highway. There's a park on the left. Wander around, find the foot path. Head up the hill to the lookout, and check out the big rock. Everybody around there knows it.”
“What kind of rock, dude? Sounds interesting.”
The old man leaned in closer to Hugo, grinning. “The wahine, when they want a keikikane, they go up there and sit on it. Us kane can use the help too. Makes it a lot easier to slide the waves, eh?” He gave Hugo a dig in his well-padded ribs with a sharp elbow. “If it's closed, no matter. Sometimes the park ranger up there, he gets sick of the haole and so he puts up a sign. Don't worry about it, just go in anyway.”
The next morning Hugo thought, what the hell, and headed to Pala'au. The trail did have a “Closed for the Season: No Admittance” sign, but Hugo skirted around it, half-expecting to get wrestled to the ground by burly Hawai'ian park rangers. No one was about, though, not even any tourists. He walked up to the promontory, full of nostalgia, because of all the places he had visited in the Hawai'ian islands, this one felt the closest in atmosphere to the Island itself.
In a grassy clearing surrounded by ironwood trees sat a great rock formation. Two enormous dark stone balls were embellished by an equally massive erect phallus whose stony end poked out to slightly over the top of Hugo's head. Looking around to make sure no one saw, Hugo climbed up and sat in the space in between the balls and the phallic root. From where he sat, the long stone formation thrust out between his legs.
“Yeah, in my dreams,” he said to no one in particular.
Hugo had seen oddly shaped rocks near the Hawai'ian roadsides or beaches, many of them decorated with feathers, shells, pieces of fruit or flowers. Some of the gifts were neatly wrapped in banana leaves. Sometimes you'd see an elaborate scaffold of wood or bamboo, laden down with offerings and draped with leis or ti-leaf wreaths.
An idea came to him. He rummaged through his cargo pockets until he found a granola bar. Hugo had sworn off candy since returning from the Island, but occasionally he treated himself to a granola bar as a compromise. This one was his favorite, chocolate-chip. He unwrapped it, and placed it carefully in the stone hollow at the base of the phallus. Then, embarrassed, he snuck away from the clearing and drove back down the hillside, feeling ridiculous.
That night, when the full moon turned the beach sand to powdered silver, when a boom box belted out seventies oldies, when smoke from camp-fires hung over the beach like veils, Hugo danced with a tall, dark-haired woman. He hadn't seen her around the resort before, even though she strode onto the beach like she owned the place. She was on vacation, she said, and gave her name as Ka'ula-something, long and full of lilting, musical syllables.
He asked her if she was from the islands, and she nodded. When he asked which one, she tossed her glossy blue-black hair. “All of them.”
She always seemed to be laughing at some secret joke which eluded him. Even in the dim fire-light he could see that she had a powerful sunburn over her ruddy, olive-hued skin. When he asked her if her burn hurt, she just grabbed his arms, pulled them harder around her shoulders, and said, “What burn?” with a rollicking laugh in her voice.
He danced closer to her than he ever had with anyone, thinking that she must be pretty drunk to press her stocky body up against his as intimately as she did. She was so tall that her noses almost touched as they slow-danced to “Muskrat Love.” But she wasn't drunk at all, it turned out. Like himself, only juice or water for her. In her hair, little glints of moonlight danced like white fire.
When the boom box ran out of batteries, a couple of people grabbed ukeleles and guitars instead. The light, lyrical music drifted skyward as Hugo and the woman snuggled and kissed in front of a crackling campfire. While her hands roamed up his thighs and under his board shorts, she whispered things in his ear which made him blush to the roots of his beard.
She invited herself to his cabin, made a few exclamations of surprise at his admitted innocence, then pulled him down onto the futon mattress which practically filled the tiny room. There in the glow of a dim 40-watt bulb painted orange-red, her fire-lit hair fell over her face as she climbed atop him. Churning him like butter with her strong thighs, she relieved him of his virginity.
After they slept a little, Hugo drank water from the faucet like a man dying of thirst. The room was stiflingly hot, so he cracked the windows.
“I guess that means we'll have to be more quiet,” she said, her voice peppered with laughter.
He still felt her on his body like a blush. For a heartbeat he didn't turn around, because he didn't want her to see how powerfully aroused he was.
In a low, throaty voice she said, “Come here, lover.” This time she reclined on her back, arms open wide to him.
At first he didn't want to go to her. “I'm, uh, gonna crush you.”
“Can the clouds crush the mountain?”
It was a weird thing to say, but he was past caring. In a dream of red desire he flowed rather than walked over to her, and the rock of Pala'au had nothing on him. She said one word which sounded like “Now,” so he gave her what she wanted, falling onto her with his full weight.
Late the next morning, she woke Hugo from an exhausted sleep with a long, hard kiss. As he struggled into his cargo shorts, she combed her brilliant black hair in front of the cracked mirror. She was already up and dressed. Her vacation was over, she announced.
“At least let me drive you to the ferry.”
She laughed, as if that was the silliest thing she'd ever heard. “I've got my own way off the island, lover. But you're sweet to offer.”
Her parting words rang in his ears, “Just remember. What happens here in Moloka'i stays in Moloka'i.”
The resort trailers were mostly empty now, and all at once Hugo was anxious to get out of there. That evening he headed up to the Blue Lagoon, knowing at bottom that he was just another tourist who would disappear into the past, to be replaced by the next ones who'd come along. Even so, the men thumped him on the back and said “Mahalo” for all that he had done. No, Hugo replied, it was for him to say “Mahalo” back to them, as his eyes grew moist.
Then the night came on, and slowly the locals filtered out of the Blue Lagoon. Hugo knew that it was time for him to leave as well. The cook, the woman behind the counter, and the remaining customers said their round of alohas, with promises of future meetings.
Hugo wondered, though, if he would ever see Moloka'i again.
Long warbling bird-song high in the jungle canopy brought Hugo back from his reverie.
A cold shiver went through him, and with it the uncanny sense that he wasn't alone in the clearing. Suddenly a dark shape flickered past the corner of his vision, then ran across the path, so that the leaves crackled like crumpling paper. With deer-like grace, the dark shape darted between the thin trees, only to disappear into the green shadows.
"Hey!" Hugo called out, heading into the jungle along the route which the flashing shape had taken. Up ahead, a few long palm fronds fluttered against the wind, then fell silent. Hugo strained to hear whispers or any other signs that the dead were feeling particularly talkative. But the only noises were the typical ones of the forest. A few cheeping frogs called to each other. Something above in the tree canopy gave a long caw, almost like a question. Maybe he was chasing a shadow down the path, or maybe it was just the rhythm of wind playing over layered leaves.
Whatever he was after, it was gone.
The birds suddenly fell silent. Hugo parted a screen of leaves, and stared wide-eyed at the mysterious figure who stood stock-still in the path. For an instant he thought it was Sun's ghost, but it definitely wasn't. The girl who had darted out of the jungle was stark naked except for a long screen of black hair, and her skin was a deep forest green.
The green girl picked a few peas from the vines and crunched them.
It was clear that she was no ghost. For one thing, Hugo had never seen a ghost eat before. The green girl crammed peas into her mouth as if they were candy, and didn't even look up when Hugo rustled even more branches. He moved forward, stepping on some twigs which broke with a loud crack. She looked up with a puzzled expression, as if she hadn't noticed him, or perhaps had just thought he was another curious plant growing in the clearing. Then she turned and bolted from the garden, her bottom swaying back and forth.
“Wait!” he shouted, but all he heard was the rustle of her movements through the green woods, followed by the faint echo of laughter.
She ran for cover off the path, but Hugo didn't let that stop him. He crashed through waist-high ferns and small shrubs whose branches reached up like arms to block his path. Instead of getting tired, he pushed on without effort as he leaped over moss-covered logs, or high-stepped over small boulders. Every so often her pert rear end flashed ahead of him, but her dark green coloring was disturbingly close to the shadows of the underbrush, and she kept disappearing from view altogether. However, her trail left a faint disturbance in the mostly seamless tapestry of the woods, and he sped up as he followed it.
Hugo had never been much of a runner, but things were different now. Everything on his body shook, and normally he hated that, but now he didn't even care because of the wonderful exhilaration of running. It was like one of those dreams where you speed on with no effort, lightly skimming the ground but not quite taking off into actual flight.
The faster he went, the more it seemed as if the vegetation actually parted to show him the way. No cramps, no shortness of breath, it was awesome. He almost didn't care anymore if he caught the green girl or not, so taken was he with the sheer joy of moving his big body through the forest as if he were part of it.
A laugh rang out, almost like a bird's cry, and he stopped dead, straining upwards to see where the sound had come from. There she was, perched twenty feet off the ground in a shaggy-barked tree, her nakedness half-screened by the leaves. She peered down at him, a wide grin on her face.
“Hey,” Hugo called out, panting only a little. “Why'd you run?”
“Wasn't it fun?”
He nodded. “Who are you?”
“Don't you recognize me?” She sounded a little offended.
“No, should I?”
Instead of answering, she gave a couple of loud unmistakeable cries, “Hurr-eee, Hurr-eee!”
“You,” he stammered. “But you—”
“You couldn't see me before. It wasn't your fault. Just call me Rima.” Her long delicate toes gripped the branch the way a bird's does.
Her name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. “You're not dead, are you?”
In answer, Rima picked a lime-green fruit the size of a softball off the branch, and tossed it at him. Hugo ducked just in time, so that the tough-skinned ball rolled into the thicket beyond. It was hard not to stare at her. Her nipples were even darker than her skin, as were her lips. He looked away, trying not to eat her up with his eyes, but she didn't seem to be at all embarrassed by her own nakedness, or by his interest, either. She tossed another fruit, and this one bumped his leg, but not hard.
“Do I look dead?”
“Just thought I'd ask.”
She peeled one of the green fruits and let the tough skin drop.
He picked up a piece, tough as a coconut shell, wondering how she'd ever gotten it apart.
Rima tossed the soft, peeled fruit down to him. “Here, catch.”
The waxy slipperiness dripped with sticky juice, and almost passed through Hugo's hands. He licked his fingers, hesitant at first, then broke into an amazed grin. “Man, that's good.”
They'd found a lot of fruit on the Island, but nothing like this kind, tart and sweet at the same time. Of course, they grew way high up. Maybe that's why even Kate, who had been the best of all of them at climbing trees, had never found any. He wiped his hands on his shirt, saying, “Thanks.”
Rima descended the tree, almost walking down it as her clever feet gripped the bark. Soon she stood quite close to Hugo, where she picked up a long lock of his hair and rolled it around in her fingers as if savoring the texture. He stepped back a little, trying not to look at her breasts, not quite succeeding.
With a small disappointed pout, she dropped the long curl at once, as if suddenly reminded of something. “Now, down to business. I have a message. You have to remember this.”
“Do I have to write it on my arm?”
“Oh, Jacob was such a silly-face. Of course you don't. No message worth getting should be that much work.”
“So, you knew Jacob?”
“We all knew Jacob, even if he didn't know us.”
“I saw Jacob a couple times. He had a lot of messages, that guy. Crazy ones.” Hugo wasn't even staring at her anymore. Well, not much, anyway.
Rima drew herself up a bit, as if mildly affronted. “I don't think any message he might have could compare to this one.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, really,” she said, mocking his tone. “I am to invite you to a festival. A party, if you prefer.”
“A party? For who?”
“For you, silly-head.”
Something sad passed over Hugo. “Jack didn't get a party, did he?”
Rima shook her head. “Sorry. There wasn't time.”
“I bet there was a real bang-up one for Jacob, though.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts and frowned. “We sent the invitation, but he never even got it. We shouted in his ear, practically dropped boulders on his thick head, but he couldn't hear us.”
“But I can hear you.” And man, oh man, could he ever see her.
“Well, Jacob never could. So he didn't get a party. Too bad, because things would have gone easier for him if he had. But enough of that silly-face. Listen well, now. You're to go to the Heart of all the Waters. You can get there, you know how. But don't stop there. Walk around the Heart three times, widdershins. Then you'll be there.”
"Where?"
"Where you need to be, of course."
Hugo was still confused. "Uh, what's 'widdershins?'"
“Who doesn't know widdershins? You know, backwards.” Standing deliciously close, she traced a circle in the air, against the direction of the clock.
“I get it. You want me to go to the Heart, and walk around it three times counter-clockwise.”
“You say counter-clockwise, I say widdershins,” she said in a pert tone.
“Same thing.”
“If you say so,” Rima said, a bit arch. “I'm not responsible for what will happen if you go the wrong way. I'm just the messenger.”
Something else occurred to Hugo. Maybe he was supposed to go alone, although he didn't like that idea much. “So, who's all invited to this party? There are some other people at the beach. And we were gonna make a trip today.”
“This is more important than any trip,” Rima declared. “The party's tonight. So make sure you arrive at the Heart right before sunset. But if the sun has disappeared completely beneath the sea, you're too late. And you do not want to be late, so you'd best get started. Your friends can come if they want, but that dog has to behave himself around the birds. Now repeat the directions to me, and hurry up, because I have to dress, and I hope not to be late myself.” This last part she delivered as if the merry chase through the woods had been his fault instead of hers.
It was almost like school, but what a strange one. Hugo strained to get it right. “Go the Heart at sunset but no later. Walk around the pool counterclockwise, three times. Then party hearty."
"That's right." Rima had already turned away, her cute little bottom bouncing as she disappeared through the pathless ferns.
Hugo went on his own way. It wasn't until he emerged from the thicket surrounding the beach camp that he remembered where he'd heard her name. He'd once found a few issues at his favorite comic store over in East Los Angeles. But comic-book Rima had been blonde, and instead of being small and pert, she was a real warrior princess.
Rima. Rima the Jungle Girl.
Back at the beach camp, Rose took Hugo's heavy basket of taro corms, Poblanos, and garlic from him. “Quite a haul you got there.”
Bernard said, “So, did you find the blue tank?”
“Not yet, Bernard. And dude, don't call it that.” The face of the man Hugo had run over with the Dharma bus still haunted him. Even if it had saved peoples' lives, he didn't want to be reminded of it. “Ben, Desmond, you wanna hear this too. There's something I got to tell you. Before we head out for Dharmaville, there's someplace I have to go first. Well, we can all go, 'cause we're all invited. But me, I have to go. It's a party. And we have to leave before sunset.”
Ben repeated, incredulous, “A party? You mean with pointed paper hats and tooting horns?”
Hugo shook his head. “I, um, don't think it's that kind of party.”
Rose and Bernard just looked at one another. Then Rose burst out, “I thought I'd heard it all. We survive a crash, we get blasted through time to the past and back again. That smoke devil in a John Locke costume tries to kill us all, and Hugo gets messages from dead people. Now, in the middle of all this crazy, there's going to be a party. With invitations. Well, I never.” She threw her hands up, then let them fall in helpless resignation to her sides.
“We can start for the Barracks tomorrow,” Desmond said. “What's one more day?”
“Are you sure, dude?” Hugo said. “It's important for you to get back. But she said that if I didn't go, any trip any of us made wouldn't be worth it.”
Desmond frowned. “That sounds ominous, mate.”
“She who?” Ben asked.
“The girl who invited me.”
Desmond gave Hugo a wicked grin. “You go out to work in the garden, and a girl invites you to parties. That takes some talent, brother."
“I guess that's a partial answer to the question of who's still alive around here,” Bernard said. “Did you know this girl?”
“Never seen her before in my life. All of us are invited. Vincent too. It's up by the bamboo forest.”
“Well, there are worse things to do to get home than go to a party,” Desmond said. “Think there'll be food?”
“Sure, why not? You ever been to one where there wasn't?”
“I can't imagine what I'm going to wear,” said Rose, a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
“No prob, Rose. She didn't say anything about party clothes. It's, um, probably pretty chill." Hugo didn't quite know how to tell Rose that Rima gave new meaning to the term "casual dress."
Bernard rolled his eyes at his wife. “You look fine. Look, let's do a bit of packing for tomorrow, then we'll go to this party.”
(continued)