POV Akhyra

I'm practicing a set of variations in my dancing room when Valentino walks in to announce, "Madame Laroche is in Haiti."

I never break from a set when I've already started, and he knows this. However, if he chose to interrupt my practice, it must be for something important. 

"Why is this relevant to us?" I ask, speaking over the classical music echoing in the room.

Madame Laroche is the stage moniker of a former glorious French ballet performer. After she stopped dancing, she went on to become one of the most famous producers of our industry. We even had her as a teacher for a brief period at the academy I attended. 

"There are whispers in the industry that Madame Laroche is preparing to retire soon," Valentino informs me. "She's going to create one last spectacle as an adieu. She's touring several countries to get inspired by different dance styles and landed yesterday in Port-au-Prince."

"You are failing to get to the point, Valentino."

"Madame Laroche has said in a recent interview that she's looking for the ultimate star for her final show, someone to be front and center of her production. But she has yet to decide who it's going to be," he pauses for dramatic effect. "It could be you!"

I can see where he's going with this. Toward the end of my tour, the attendance of my shows decreased drastically. It became obvious that people didn't want to see me anymore, but they are for sure going to see a show produced by Madame Laroche. If it performs well, and it will, this would, in turn, reflect splendidly on my career. After all in the ballet world, if you're associated with the correct person, others will follow suit. 

"Where is she, and how do we get in contact with her?"

"She's staying in the capital at the hotel Karibe where there's a folklore dance festival happening this weekend. I've arranged with the organizers of the event to have you briefly pop in as a surprised guest for a solo act."

Valentino goes on to tell me that the plan is to capture Madame Laroche's attention by my stage presence. Then afterward, to subtly strike a conversation with her somewhere during the interlude of the festival and carefully navigate the conversation toward her last spectacle before giving the coup de grâce, asking her to be the lead role.

At the end of his speech, Valentino concludes with, "There's only one problem."

"Which is?"

"Well, it's not as much a problem as it is a minor inconvenience, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter."

"Valentino, what is it?" 

"Because it's last minute, the hotel was already fully booked, so I couldn't reserve any rooms for Hannah and me. I got you one master room for you and Lucian."

"What?" I break out of my pose to go stop the music on the speaker.

"It's the smartest choice to bring him with you since he's the one who knows his way around the capital."

"The issue is not bringing him Tino, I'm not sleeping in the same room as anybody. Do you know how tiny hotel rooms are?"

"It's a master room."

"I do not give a shit. Fix this."

"Fix what?" an annoyingly familiar voice says.

Lucian has just arrived looking between Valentino and I with a quirked eyebrow. 

"There's nothing to fix," Valentino says swiftly. "You will drive Miss Morel to the capital Saturday morning and return on Sunday afternoon. The hotel room is booked, you two will only spend one night there."

***

"So how different is the capital than Arcahaie?" I ask from the backseat of Lucian's car on Saturday morning.

"If you're subtly asking me if you're going to like it, I don't think I have an answer for that. I lived there when I was at university. It's definitely more crowded, for sure."

"What did you study there?"

"The old cliché Computer Science. I didn't graduate, though. Dropped out in junior year."

"Because you got into the national team?" I inquire.

He seems to hesitate before answering. "No, that came a bit later. Something happened beforehand that kind of made me reconsider what I wanted to do with life, basically. I guess I had to find myself like people say."

I can feel that there's something he's not saying. Even though I'm burning to ask about the event that made him drop out of university, I know that if Lucian had wanted to share the information, he would've done it.

"Did you end up finding yourself?"

"Guess I'm still looking."

We stop by a gas station so he can fill up his tank for the journey ahead, and when we pull into the main road, we get momentarily stuck behind a truck that's taking a U-turn. My attention is drawn to a commotion on the side of the road, where many people are gathered around a street food merchant.

"That smells good," I say when the wind carries the aroma through my rolled down window. "What is that woman over there cooking?"

Lucian turns his head to follow the direction of my finger before looking back at me with a worried expression. "You never had fritay in your life?"

"You're asking like it's a bad thing."

"Because it is!" he retorts bewildered. "Your Haitian card should be revoked."

"That's a bit dramatic."

"Hold on, we need to remediate this situation immediately. Because I can not in good conscience let you go through life without having tasted fritay," he decides before parking on the side road and unbuckling his seat belt like a man on a mission. 

A few minutes later, Lucian gets back into the car, holding two take-out containers and styrofoam cups. He places mine on top of the center console between the two front seats so I can take it myself. 

"This one's for you."

"Thank you." The second I open it, the heavenly smell of fried pork and chicken invades my nose. "Uh, do you have the forks?" I ask, noticing there aren't any. 

"You don't need a fork for that," Lucian answers, already munching on a fried plantain that I know we call bannann peze in Creole.

"But my fingers will get all greasy."

"As they should, that's part of the experience."

"That's not very sanitary..."

"For the love of our ancestors, Akhyra, just do yourself a favor and take one bite."

I decided to go with the akra first because it looks easily chewable and more crusty. On Lucian's advice, I add a bit of pikliz on it before bringing it to my mouth.

My eyes close on their own as if to better savor the crunchiness and the spicy flavor. When I open my eyes, I find Lucian gaze on me from the rearview mirror.

"What's the verdict?" he asks knowingly. 

"This tastes amazing!" I exclaim, unable to dial down my enthusiasm. 

"Wait until you've tasted the griyo. You'll be a changed woman after that!"

After finishing our food, we drink the iced lemon juice that Lucian bought, and then we hit the road once again. 

Lucian turns the radio onto a sports show just in time for me to hear the host announcing that today Haiti is going to play against Panama in the quarter-finals of the Gold Cup. He goes on to talk about what members of each team will be playing and discusses their stats throughout the competition. He also mentions that Lucian Moreno won't be on the field, which apparently is going to be a tough blow for the national team because our opponent is skilled.

"Have you guys already played against Panama before?" I ask.

"Not yet. Which makes the match even more unpredictable. Let's hope we arrive at the hotel before it begins, I don't want to lose a single minute of the game."

"Do we need to win this match to be qualified to the semi-finals?"

"We do."

"You'll be able to play this one, right?"

"Sure. The CONCACAF only banned me from playing the quarters. I could've been there. The coach just wanted to humble me by sending me home instead. Though he'll probably book me a flight to the USA as soon as we win this match today."

"So you'll be leaving soon?"

"Yeah, don't worry, Princess, I'll be out of your hair in no time." He winks at me in the rearview mirror. 

There's a weird pang in my chest that I attribute to the spicy fritay I just ate.

***

When we enter our hotel room and I notice two beds on opposite sides of the place, I sigh in relief. I have watched enough rom-com to know that this could have gone terribly wrong. But if I'd only found one bed in here, there's no way I would have stayed. I would have turned around and went straight back to Arcahaie Madame Laroche be damned.

Lucian and I take turns getting into the shower, and then we order room service. By the time the match is about to begin, Lucian and I are both seated on our beds staring at the TV as the Haitian national anthem, La Dessalinienne, plays.

During the first period of the game, the Panamanians score two goals, which leaves both Lucian and I anxious. Whenever he suspects foul play, he mutters something in Creole and calls out his teammates by name when they do something wrong.

By the time the first period is over, we still haven't scored, and the tension in the air is terrible, to say the least. Lucian paces his side of the room like a bear trapped in a cage.

I try to reassure him. "There's still forty-five minutes left. They have time to turn it around."

"I know, but it's going to be way harder for us to win now. Assuming the Panamanians don't score again, we'll have to get three goals to beat them."

When we score our first goal of the match during the second period, Lucian and I let out the same cry of joy as we clap our hands, but it is nothing compared to our explosion of cheers when we tie 2-2. I find myself jumping up and down with Lucian. 

"Come on guys, we got this," he mutters during the final five minutes of the match.

"What happens again if it ends in a tie when regular time is over?" I ask.

"We'll be given extra time to break the deadlock, but if the score remains, they might proceed to a penalty shootout. Which is not really in our favor at this point."

"Oh, no!" My hand flies to my mouth when a foul play is committed on the team captain Hector. 

The replay shows in slow motion how a Panamanian player grabbed his shirt while trying to take possession of the ball and tackled him in a way that sent Hector flying in the air before crashing harshly on the grass holding his tibia with a grimace of pain. The referee blows his whistle and walks over the scene as he pulls out a yellow card, sanctioning the adversary player.

"That doesn't look good," Lucian remarks as Hector is getting back on his feet with a slight limp. "But it works in our favor because the foul play happened within the penalty area, so we'll be given a penalty kick."

I hold my breath as I watch both teams get into position on the screen. Panamanians ready to intercept the ball. The camera zooms in on Hector's face. You can clearly see the pressure that this kick is putting on him.

"Isn't it risky that Hector is the penalty taker when he's just been injured?"

"If I was there, they would've designated me instead, but other than that, Hector is our best shot."

When Hector finally kicks on the screen, my heart stops beating as I watch the ball fly in the air until it lands straight inside the goalpost, securing us a third winning goal.

"Fuck yes!" Lucian yells, clapping in his hands.

"We're in the semi-finals!" I scream my lungs out as I jump on the bed overly excited.

I hear several shouts of victory going around the hotel. We weren't the only ones watching the match. Lucian and I go full mode cheerleaders with our chanting. He even takes off his shirt to swing it around. Meanwhile, I'm shaking my locs as if they were the rotor blades of a helicopter.

I get so caught up in the euphoria of the moment that I get off the bed and run toward Lucian to give him a high five. When my brain catches up to what I'm doing, I stop abruptly a few feet away from him. He stands still equally astonished by what almost happened. 

What was I thinking? If I hadn't stopped in time, we would have undoubtedly touched each other. I can't even explain it to myself. 

Before the prolonged silence becomes awkward, I say, "We're in the semi-finals. That's crazy!"

A huge grin illuminates Lucian's face as he brags, "And we're going to win this thing, Princess, just watch."

During our next session, my therapist might have more to say than usual because for the first time in over a decade, I voluntarily tried to initiate contact with someone.