Read Online The Bungalow by Sarah Jio - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Jio
Tags: General Fiction
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from plywood. “Fairy lights.”
Strands of tiny white lights hung above, crisscrossing the rafters constructed of palm fronds. Men huddled together on the sidelines, whispering among themselves, as a group of nurses made their way across the lawn. Five musicians took to the stage, tuning their instruments while an announcer wielded a microphone.
“I would like to welcome the corps of nurses to our little island,” the announcer said. “Let’s show them a good time, lads.”
There was a round of cheering and applause before the band started, and for a moment, no one moved. “What are we supposed to do?” Kitty whispered. Her breath tickled my shoulder.
“Don’t do anything,” I said, wishing I had stayed behind in the room with a book.
Stella and Liz ventured forward a few steps, and two of the men followed suit, one bolder than the other. “May I have this dance?” a soldier with a southern accent and a swagger in his step said to Stella. The other sidled up to Liz. Both women obliged.
“Look at them,” I said to Kitty. “So fast.”
Kitty was too distracted to hear me. I knew whom she was looking for. Suddenly, though, a man approached us—well, approached Kitty. I recognized him from the morning on the airstrip. “I saw your flower,” he said, bowing in an exaggerated way. Men did strange things around Kitty. “I’m Lance,” he said, extending his hand to her, and she relinquished hers, allowing him to lay a mock kiss upon it.
I rolled my eyes. He was tall and athletic, with hair a forgettable shade of brown, sharp features, and a coy smile that made me distrust him instantly.
“I’m Kitty,” she said, clearly flattered.
Lance grinned. “Would you like to dance?”
Kitty nodded, and he whisked her off to the dance floor, leaving me alone on the sidelines. I tapped my foot to the music. It was a fine band—for the middle of nowhere. I felt prickles on my arm when I heard a clarinet play the introductory lines to “A String of Pearls.” I’d last heard the Glenn Miller tune on the Godfreys’ lawn. At our engagement party. I sighed, suddenly feeling lonely. Out of place. Awkward. I tugged at my dress. I unfastened a wayward pin in my hair and clasped it back into place. Where is Mary? I looked around, but saw only strange men staring at me. Thank God for the flower.
But oblivious to the ring on my finger or the code of the flower, a man approached me. His shirt looked wrinkled, and I could smell alcohol on his breath even before he opened his mouth. “Care to dance?”
“Thank you,” I said politely, “but no. I think I’ll sit this one out.”
“You’re much too pretty to be a wallflower,” he protested. “Besides, I’m tired of wahine . I want to dance with a real American woman.” He pried my hand from my side and led me out to the dance floor.
“Well, you see,” I said, startled by his bravado, “I think I better not.”
“Nonsense,” he said, grinning. I could smell the sour odor of beer—too much beer—on his breath.
He pressed his cheek against mine and I could feel the scratchy stubble on his jawline. “You’re pretty,” he said, as the band struck up a melody. Please, not a slow song. His hands were hot and moist on my dress, and his embrace suffocating, yet I willed myself to endure; I could not cause a scene. I would have to make it to the end of the song.
But, to my horror, the song ended and another man approached, presumably a friend of my dancing partner’s, and as the tempo hastened, I found myself caught between them. One twirled me by the arm, spinning me into the other. I bobbled back and forth like a ball on a tether. I looked around desperately for Kitty, and spotted her tucked into the arms of Lance. She looked happy, amused. Don’t cause a scene. I felt a hand brush my breasts. Whose? I froze, even though my legs were still moving. My eyes darted from left to right, and another hand cinched my waist, this one firmer. The room began to
Strands of tiny white lights hung above, crisscrossing the rafters constructed of palm fronds. Men huddled together on the sidelines, whispering among themselves, as a group of nurses made their way across the lawn. Five musicians took to the stage, tuning their instruments while an announcer wielded a microphone.
“I would like to welcome the corps of nurses to our little island,” the announcer said. “Let’s show them a good time, lads.”
There was a round of cheering and applause before the band started, and for a moment, no one moved. “What are we supposed to do?” Kitty whispered. Her breath tickled my shoulder.
“Don’t do anything,” I said, wishing I had stayed behind in the room with a book.
Stella and Liz ventured forward a few steps, and two of the men followed suit, one bolder than the other. “May I have this dance?” a soldier with a southern accent and a swagger in his step said to Stella. The other sidled up to Liz. Both women obliged.
“Look at them,” I said to Kitty. “So fast.”
Kitty was too distracted to hear me. I knew whom she was looking for. Suddenly, though, a man approached us—well, approached Kitty. I recognized him from the morning on the airstrip. “I saw your flower,” he said, bowing in an exaggerated way. Men did strange things around Kitty. “I’m Lance,” he said, extending his hand to her, and she relinquished hers, allowing him to lay a mock kiss upon it.
I rolled my eyes. He was tall and athletic, with hair a forgettable shade of brown, sharp features, and a coy smile that made me distrust him instantly.
“I’m Kitty,” she said, clearly flattered.
Lance grinned. “Would you like to dance?”
Kitty nodded, and he whisked her off to the dance floor, leaving me alone on the sidelines. I tapped my foot to the music. It was a fine band—for the middle of nowhere. I felt prickles on my arm when I heard a clarinet play the introductory lines to “A String of Pearls.” I’d last heard the Glenn Miller tune on the Godfreys’ lawn. At our engagement party. I sighed, suddenly feeling lonely. Out of place. Awkward. I tugged at my dress. I unfastened a wayward pin in my hair and clasped it back into place. Where is Mary? I looked around, but saw only strange men staring at me. Thank God for the flower.
But oblivious to the ring on my finger or the code of the flower, a man approached me. His shirt looked wrinkled, and I could smell alcohol on his breath even before he opened his mouth. “Care to dance?”
“Thank you,” I said politely, “but no. I think I’ll sit this one out.”
“You’re much too pretty to be a wallflower,” he protested. “Besides, I’m tired of wahine . I want to dance with a real American woman.” He pried my hand from my side and led me out to the dance floor.
“Well, you see,” I said, startled by his bravado, “I think I better not.”
“Nonsense,” he said, grinning. I could smell the sour odor of beer—too much beer—on his breath.
He pressed his cheek against mine and I could feel the scratchy stubble on his jawline. “You’re pretty,” he said, as the band struck up a melody. Please, not a slow song. His hands were hot and moist on my dress, and his embrace suffocating, yet I willed myself to endure; I could not cause a scene. I would have to make it to the end of the song.
But, to my horror, the song ended and another man approached, presumably a friend of my dancing partner’s, and as the tempo hastened, I found myself caught between them. One twirled me by the arm, spinning me into the other. I bobbled back and forth like a ball on a tether. I looked around desperately for Kitty, and spotted her tucked into the arms of Lance. She looked happy, amused. Don’t cause a scene. I felt a hand brush my breasts. Whose? I froze, even though my legs were still moving. My eyes darted from left to right, and another hand cinched my waist, this one firmer. The room began to
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