Walk Away, Renee

Just walk away, Renee
You won't see me follow you back home

(Michael Brown / Tony Sansone)

1999

"Renee, let's get going," she calls out from the other side of the pool. The sun is toasting our skin, slow but steady. It's a dry heat, familiar but annoying, and the Middle East is famous for it. Jen is here for the tan, but I'm here for the water.

I shove myself back into the pool, and I can feel the chlorine caressing my roots. The pressure builds around my ears as I float aimlessly, eyes shut. The water is an escape from the desert heat.

I feel myself being pulled back up from the water. My skin feels fevered; wet but hot. "Open your eyes, Renee," Jen says, her skin slick against mine. "Open your eyes."

I finally obey her, squinting in the sunlight. "I don't want to leave," I say in protest, but I lift myself from the pool, my limbs heavy and clumsy. We wrap colorful towels around ourselves before running back to our respective houses, our wet footprints staining the hot pavement.

Mum's got a stew going and Dad is putting together shawarma sandwiches using leftover hummus from the fridge. I hate when it's not fresh, but I won't complain.

"How was school, Renee?" Mum asks, taking a sip from the pot. "This stew is going to be fabulous," she remarks, and my father nods in reply. She looks back up at me. "Well?"

I close my eyes, taking in the smell of food. Mum's stew is a careless jumble of food and water, cooked to mush, but Dad's sandwiches have a sharp zing to them; raw and, for the most part, unprocessed.

I wish the hummus were fresh, though.

"School was... well, you know," I say, and she looks disappointed.

I know she wants me to own this place, to call it home. I've lived here for so many years now that even my dreams of the States are just a red, white, and blue blur. Even still, I can't really call this home. It's more of what I imagine purgatory to be like. Not good, not bad, just sort of there. Hot and a little uncomfortable; an in-between while I wait for better things.

We sit down to dinner, and Mum can't let it go. "It's not bad here," she says, addressing Dad and me. "It's not bad at all. Do you think that back home, your father would have been able to afford a Mercedes?"

I shake my head dutifully.

"You think America is this amazing place," she accuses, pointing her spoon at me. "Do they have summer nights like this in America? Who am I kidding, you wouldn't even know."

"I'm going to go to college in the States," I finally say. "I was thinking about going back home to Wyoming."

Mum laughs, pulling some blond strands of hair behind her ear. "She calls it the States," she says, smirking at Dad, who is now slurping on stew.

Dad swallows and smiles too, amused by the fact that I said it like a local. "We do want you to go to school in America, honey," he finally acknowledges.

It feels good to know that there's a place I can call home, even if it's so far away from where I am now. I'm not really sure what Wyoming looks like, but I've seen pictures. I figure it'll be kind of like in the old movies with the cowboys, and maybe everyone will have interesting accents.

"Tell me about the States," I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. I've asked this question hundreds of times before. "Is it really like in those Judy Blume books?"

Mum smiles and starts to pick up the dishes. "It's huge, wide open spaces," she says, and her eyes seem to sparkle as she reminisces on the country of her birth. "It's the smell of dirt and grass. It's that fresh spring breeze."

Despite her earlier protests, she loses herself in the memory.

2000

Jen and I are interrupted in the middle of our presentation on the Nitrogen Cycle, just as I am finishing an equation on the blackboard. The principal apologizes, introducing a boy named Derek to the class. He's from Montana, apparently, and we are all advised to make him feel comfortable.

He is immediately bombarded with questions.

"What is it like in the States?" one girl asks. "Where's Montana? Is it closer to New York or to L.A.?"

He laughs until he realizes it's not a joke. He begins to draw out a map to show her where he's from, and everyone gathers around him, curious. Jen and I are obviously annoyed, but the teacher seems as enamored with the new student as everyone else, and our presentation is forgotten.

Jen finally clears her throat. "Excuse me, but we were in the middle of the Nitrogen Cycle," she says, hands on her hips. Derek looks up at her and smiles.

"Sorry, ladies," he says and I suddenly feel a little warm. He has a sweet smile, and as I realize it, my heart beats a little faster. I feel bad now, because our presentation is keeping him from telling us about Montana. Jen seems a bit thrown off by him too, and we rush through our presentation, stumbling through the long words and equations.

The only thing I can remember about the Nitrogen Cycle as I look at him is the smell of chalk and the feel of it between my powdery fingers.

Jen approaches him after school, and he tells us that he lives in the same compound as us. The news is exciting; Montana is close to Wyoming, and I'd love to hear him tell me about my home. "I'm from Wyoming," I say, as though this passes for a proper introduction.

"Oh," he says. "My name is Derek."

We walk back together towards our compound, passing by kids playing four square and footballers getting ready for practice. The sun pounds against my thin hair, edging onto my scalp, and I regret not carrying a hat with me. If the heat bothers Derek, however, he doesn't mention it.

"All you need to know about Montana," he says offhandedly, "is that there are rodeos. Rodeos and serial killers." He laughs and we laugh too, even though I'm not really sure what a rodeo is, and I doubt that killers are unique to Montana.

Life goes on as normal, except that Derek is here now. He laughs at my enthusiasm for a home that I have never known, but sometimes he indulges me and tells me about how the weekends are different days of the week, or why it isn't cool to listen to pop music anymore. I listen to his every word, throwing away my Backstreet Boys CDs in favor of 'alternative rock'.

A part of me thinks that I love him, even though I'll never tell him. Perhaps it's the definition of a platonic love, though I can't be sure, having never studied Plato. I just feel like I worship the things he says, the places he's been.

Is that love?

The more he tells me about the States, though, the more I'm afraid of what it'll be like when I get there. I don't know if they even sell fresh hummus in Wyoming.

2001

Mum misses Wyoming, but she likes it here too. I think she might actually be more into the language and culture than I am, even though her Arabic will never be as proficient as my own. I have the advantage of youth, I suppose.

I don't always know what she sees in this place; it would be a stretch to call the desert beautiful by any traditional standards.

The man who calls the desert his home wears its harsh terrain in the hard lines of his face; it is the mark, the beauty even, of survival. I suppose one could say that there is that there is a beauty in everything, even if it's not the beauty that can be found in a post card.

Mum's been going to the desert more often these days. Sometimes she takes Dad along, but most of the time, she goes by herself. Part of me thinks that it's because of what happened on 9/11; she wants to keep herself distracted from it, to forget the crime that took place on her own American soil by bonding with a different land.

I admit, when I first saw the news on BBC World, I cried like a baby. The news is a bit less raw in my mind now, the horror less fresh, so I'm able to go through my day-to-day life without breaking down about it all the time.

Derek makes fun of the Arabs in some kind of weird get-back strategy. We're at the food court of our mall, and Derek can't help but point out every woman in voluminous black robes. He takes a long sip of his soda and taps his foot against the floor repeatedly. "Look at her," he says, pointing out a particularly slim woman with a pretty face. "I wonder if her husband keeps her chained up at home?" He smirks at his own words and then begins chewing on a greasy chicken stick.

Jen laughs, but I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I don't say anything, choosing instead to play with my ketchup and fries. They are ugly words, but I know he doesn't mean them. I hope he doesn't mean them. Jen and I have lived here long enough to know better than to believe stupid stereotypes, but it occurs to me that Derek might not.

Still, I don't set him straight.

None of the Arab kids at school really say anything back when they hear comments like Derek's, though now and then they make fun of our "McDonald's culture" or call Bush a terrorist. I know that their defensiveness should offend me, so to speak, but I let their comments slide, just like Derek's. We are all friends and neighbors, and we're not at war with each other.

And it's worth noting that the Arabs feel a lot of sympathy for us, too. I guess you don't have to be American to sympathize with a tragedy. Jen cried about 9/11, but she's actually French, and her real name is Genevieve.

Sometimes, though, I feel like she can't understand the States the way I do. I'm afraid that maybe Derek thinks the same thing about me.

2002

It's past midnight, but Jen and I are in the swimming pool. In the summers, unless you want to get burnt silly, it's best to be a bit nocturnal about things. That's one thing a tourist never quite figures out; you have to be a local.

Jen is practicing her swimming technique, while I am simply floating around, enjoying the feeling of things. The water is warm from the summer heat, but it feels cleansing against my skin. The lack of sunlight makes me feel better about my hair as well. For once, it's not being bleached to high heaven.

Jen stops and wades towards me, her slim body illuminated and distorted by the lights of the pool.

She turns in to me, her nose near my shoulder. "I think I have a crush on Derek," she whispers, leaning into my ear.

I close my eyes.

"Open your eyes, Renee," she says, and I do. We look up at the stars in the night sky and I make a wish that someday she feels the hurt that she has just caused me.

2003

A school field trip is probably the only good excuse for going into the desert, unless you're a nomad or a crazy travel show host. Nevertheless, as much as we dislike the desert, we love it too. It is everything uncomfortable and aggravating about living here.

I'm lying down in the sand, the sound of the fire crackling near my ears, successfully tuning out all the ruckus. To my left is Jen, presumably doing the same thing, not that I care. She leans over me and smirks, the corner of her lip curving upwards; devilish. Her eyes are illuminated in the firelight and she glows, even as the sky darkens around us. She pours a fistful of sand over my t-shirt. "I'll bury you. Grain by grain by grain by grain..." she whispers softly, but I shove her off of me, annoyed.

"Yeah, whatever," I mutter.

She's like the grain of sand in my eye, the irritant, except that there's no pearl being formed. I try to like her, but it's hard. Is every friendship a treasure?

The sound of a drum beat alerts both of us to the other students around us, and we lazily sit up off the sand. Jen shakes the sand out of her dark hair, but I don't bother with my own. No one to impress, I tell myself.

The boys have started dancing around the fire, laughing and grinning while trying to keep pace. Most of the boys are Arabs, but Derek has joined them, and for a moment, our eyes meet and I feel as though I can't breathe. In the firelight, he reminds me of a young Lawrence or Thesiger, struggling to belong in a world which is not his own. The Arab boys encourage him, and he seems completely at home, looking up to smile at Jen.

He trips, and I laugh. Loving him has made me mean.

Derek and Jen are dating now, in part thanks to myself. Sometimes, I think that he always liked Jen better, but it hurts, because he's my friend and I want him to like me more than anyone else.

I feel like I love him, more than I will ever love anything or anyone, but at the same time, I can't even imagine kissing him. It's a selfish love, where I don't want to give any of myself, but I want all of him. I love the way he makes me feel like a real American. When I'm around him, I feel like I have a piece of home. I didn't grow up in the States, but he did, and he's my connection to that life, that culture.

He dusts himself off and then rejoins the boys in their dance, a smile on his face. My mother would have traded me for him in an instant, I realize. I grab for a falafel sandwich and take a bite.

2004

Mum is helping me prepare for college. With my private school background, I've been accepted into fairly prestigious schools, but I want to go to Wyoming, so that's that. Mum doesn't mind my decision, for the most part. She shows me pictures and home movies, and sometimes she tears up, just a little. I ask her if she wants to come back to the States with me, but she laughs it off and says that this has become her home, now. She even tries to convince me to stay, but I won't hear it.

I think she misses Wyoming almost as much as I do, though I have the advantage of not being able to remember it. Actually knowing something can disillusion you and make you immune to it's charms, after all.

For our senior project, Jen and I work together, like we always promised each other we would. Despite the ups and downs we've faced, she's still Jen, and I'm still Renee, and I feel like I begin and end with her.

Our project is about "Third Culture Kids", the idea that children who are raised outside of their culture take parts of the cultures their parents come from and parts of the culture they are raised in to create a unique third culture outside of both realms.

When we are done presenting, it is Derek who applauds the loudest, though I wonder if he can really understand what we are about. This is a topic that has hit home with nearly every single student in the room, however, and one of the girls, British, I think, even has to wipe her eyes in the end. I suddenly feel a great deal of empathy with her, even though I'm not really sure of her name. I know she feels the same homelessness that I feel.

Jen, Derek, and I walk home together, now a tradition.

"Care for a swim?" Jen asks, after Derek has already gone into his house.

I don't really want to swim with her. I feel like the fact that I did the project with her is enough, but I decide to humor her anyway, and we go get our swimming things before getting into the pool. I begin my slow laps around the pool, aware of the sun on my blond head. Jen swims up next to me and pulls at my elbow.

"Renee, Renee," she says.

I wipe the water out of my eyes to look at her. "Jen." For a moment, we're both silent. The pool water is in my eyes and it stings a little, though I can't let my eyes tear up in front of her. I feel like we're being slow cooked in the heat, but Jen doesn't mind it; she loves the feeling of getting a tan.

"Renee, you've been shutting me out," she finally says. "And I think it's because of me and Derek." As she says the words, a loud hum fills my ears. I'm not exactly surprised that she noticed, but hearing her bring it up feels as though I have heard the death knell of our friendship.

I close my eyes. "I love him," I admit. "Maybe not the same way you love him, but I feel like I love him better." I feel like I love him better, just as I feel like I know America better.

"Open your eyes, Renee," she commands, and I do. She is centimeters away from me, and I can feel the heat coming from her body, the heat all around us. I want to duck into the water, but her grip on me is firm.

She is frowning and her eyes are narrowed. "Open your eyes. You can't have him."

As she says the words, I realize that she's right. Maybe, all these years, I've just been deluded. Maybe Wyoming isn't my home, and maybe Derek and I don't really have a special connection. Maybe this swimming pool, this vague dissatisfaction, is the closest thing I'll ever have to a home.

"But what do I do?" I ask, and I bite my lip. It tastes like chlorine.

She leans back into the water and begins to float towards the other side of the pool. "You're leaving soon anyway, Renee," she points out with nonchalance. She's right, of course. Both she and Derek are going to school here, in the Middle East, but I'm leaving.

I look around us, at the houses in the compound and at the blinding sun, and I realize that this is simply purgatory. Maybe Wyoming won't be home either. Maybe my entire life will simply be me passing through, waiting for something better, but that's all right.

"So I just walk away from all this?" I ask.

She is silent for a moment, her dark tendrils of hair floating through the water like a Mucha painting, a triumphant goddess in the neighborhood swimming pool. "Yes. Walk away, Renee."

Author Note: For the record, I am not Renee. However, for those of you who are wondering what happened to Renee: I never realized how much I loved the Middle East until I left it.