The opening of the school year was kicked off with an exaggerated scouting meeting. We had scrambled to the nearest mountain peak, some of us in worn-out flip-flops, as was our tradition, to hear the headmaster's briefing while the first rays of sun blessed our salvation. We were in a strange ecstasy of fatigue and exuberance at the same time, but I was leaning towards the former. With my chest in my lap, I fumbled in the soil. The twig broke and I pulverised the rest between my fingers.

"Bethel," Tracy poked me in the side, "are you this reluctant to start school again or is something bothering you?"

I shook my head and stretched.

"Just didn't sleep well. I'm okay."

The headmaster's words came to me like waves of miles above me. I found myself in the depths of the ocean, among shining dead seaweed and terrifying sea-creatures. I had not lied, because my night consisted of ruminating on the conversation between Michael and me. That seemed ages ago now, as if it were in a distant, small soap bubble, which I kept following with my eyes. When I quickly skimmed over my fellow students' faces, I accidentally looked straight into Lionel's eyes. He fleetingly raised his hand in greeting. I smiled, but that was it. On the way back to campus, he made sure to walk next to me, with Tracy's help. The bubble only got bigger, passing by me like a hallucinatory clock. I swung my lazy legs down the hill, and before I could stumble Lionel grabbed me. A firm grip on my shoulder. Something within me thought back to August.

"Thank you," I said. He nodded and folded his sleeves back to his shoulders, accentuating his broad upper arms.
"You look great, Bethel. You got a great tan." I laughed at his random remark, and shook off the last vestige of reluctance.

The existential crisis I had experienced on top of the mountain that morning slowly ebbed away, and I felt comfortable again in the normality of high school life: reciting Spanish words, a boring explanation of the anatomy of the body and lukewarm afternoon meals. There was a hubbub in the small canteen, for although there were very few students, we made noise for a state college. I watched everything silently, laughing at the jokes of my classmates, at Tracy's gossiping, and the slander against teachers. The way things always were. It was nice to be among people again.

"Hey, listen," Clark suddenly started (someone from the group of friends with whom I had never been close), and he caught the attention of the group. He wolfed down a piece of apple and pointed a finger to the right.

"Guess who the hell lives on that ranch across the street?"

I froze and unconsciously put my hand over my mouth. I pretended to cough and fidgeted in my seat, trying to posture myself.

"Michael Jackson!"

"No way," one of us began somewhat soberly, "where'd you hear that from? Ms. Tracy?"

Tracy straightened her face insulted and shook her head. If there was anyone who could gossip, it was her. Even she couldn't swallow this incredible piece of hearsay. Meanwhile, my heart was pounding: I sat on hot coals that were starting to burn warmer and warmer.

"You know," Lionel interjected, "it's actually true. My dad had to check some of the, you know, uh, lands that he's lending out. If it's still in an ok state."

Lionel's father was a police commissioner. He had a kind of villain-sheriff reputation in Los Olivos, and if it was appropriate for the times, he would have been only too happy to stroll the streets in cowboy boots and hat and shoot at any intruder. He was notorious for his disapproval of celebrities and tourists treating our picturesque village like an expensive resort, while the rest of us had long since acquiesced and saw a good opportunity in it. Tracy's eyes grew wide, growing pale, and then her neck turning as red as the Rimmel London lipstick she was wearing. She grabbed my arm and I let her.

"Oh my God, oh my God, do you know what this means?"

I knew very well what it meant; I had found that out halfway through the summer. It was clearly directed at me, but I had no desire to answer her. She had no time for interruptions anyway. I felt increasingly uncomfortable and the sense of safety I had experienced during the day had suddenly disappeared. In a strange feverish daydream, Tracy started to imagine herself as Michael Jackson's Dirty Diana and I wanted to put my hand on her mouth to relieve myself of the vicarious shame I was experiencing. I held back so as not to give myself away.

"Nah, I think MJ is more into a Dirty Dan." The harsh comment came from Clark. No one perceived it that way - after all, this was about a high-ranking celebrity who didn't even exist in their daily lives, but the remark thundered in my heart as if he had insulted my own father in my face.

"How would you know? Have you met him?" It was the first time that afternoon that I had interfered in the conversation. My silence had not gone unnoticed, and it made this sudden break in it all the more remarkable. Clark clearly felt rubbed the wrong way.

"No, but have you?"

Snap. With my jaws clamped together, I forced a smile. Yes, Clark, I did, and I'm on his God damn camera.

It was not long before news of Michael Jackson's semi-presence in our village spread like wildfire. The idea that it could be kept quiet had been a vain hope that Michael's bodyguard had expressed when he brought me home that first time. It was not something that went around as juicy gossip, however, but rather as a funny notion. We laughed and nodded and went on with our business. What were we to do with a celebrity so many miles away? No, we saw him as an absentee king on a hill, but we were no subjects. I found it strange to hear him mentioned so casually in conversation, and even the fact that we had dined with the remote persona could not remain a secret. It was Elijah who spouted it to his friends with no ill intentions, and of course he was crowned the most popular boy in the class. Sons told their fathers and daughters told their mothers, and soon enough my mother had to justify herself to her friends and my father to his neighbours. With a subtle, "so, what's he like?" the case was dismissed. But that was all, thank God. The levelheadedness of Los Olivos was still very much alive, even if it were President Bush himself who moved into our community. What I was preparing myself for was the day I would have to tell Tracy. But it was not yet that day...or so I thought.

I came home that afternoon, agitated, and I threw the bike against the railing of the decking. The fact that I was so upset by Clark's remarks only made me more so. I passed my house and, running through our vast vineyards, made my way to the garden shed where my sister had been living since she had her child. The converted garden house was a clear compromise between my sister's desire for independence and my mother's compulsion to keep an eye on everything. My sister was still young, twenty, and having a four-year-old child on her hands gave her a huge and misplaced responsibility that she alone had to bear - but mothers are mothers, and mine was happy to keep an eye on things. Bilhah enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face, sitting on a flimsy garden chair by her humble abode's window. Jeremiah played with his carts, pulling them across the land as if he alone were responsible for its cultivation. With a cursory greeting, I plopped down next to my sister, began aggressively picking the pollen that still floated through the air at that time of year from my clothes.

"Jeez, Bethel. Has the war started?"

"No, Rhett."

I sighed, resting my body and staring into the distance. Far away from us, amid the glints of the sun, I saw my father's silhouette routinely checking the vines. The hat pulled deeply over his eyes so that the sun would not block his vision. My mother appeared in my field of view, holding a glass of water intended for her husband. In this light, her skin seemed to spread a brown glow, and my father pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I don't think I'll ever have that," I said, somewhat randomly. I didn't really know why I said it. The soft tapping of Bilhah's slipper against her heel, Jeremiah's imitation of forklift noises. My sister's dark eyes focused on me, and I looked away. She resembled Mother more than I did, with that all-searching gaze that seemed to guess everything correctly. Before I understood it myself.

"Why not?"

I shrugged. I had never been good at explaining myself. Understanding the world was easier than understanding myself. Bilhah waited patiently.

"Can I say something absurd...? Something totally dumb?"

"Promise me you'll do only that," she encouraged me. I blinked in the direction of the bright sun, almost wanting to shake it off when I realized I didn't quite know what to to say.

"I'm embarrassed, but...I somehow feel like this summer changed me completely."

Bilhah didn't need to guess what I was referring to. Yes, nevertheless, it was true. I had once learned about something called the butterfly effect - that small things can have big effects. A butterfly flaps her wings and mountains can be moved. I found it extravagant to doom my situation like this, and yet I felt a stirring within myself that had only one reason, and which I caught myself taking more seriously than I wanted to.

"How so?"

"You know how you feel something just...makes you feel different? Like everything's going to be different. Even though you don't know in what way."

Bilhah, who through her young motherhood had taken on a seriousness that only exists in courageous women, along with a perception for the wonderful things of the world that children inspire within us, was not to be shaken with such swarthy talk as I did.

"Is that how you feel? About meeting Michael, you mean?"

I acknowledged her somewhat laughingly, because by putting it in such concrete terms I thought it sounded ridiculous. I saw my sister take a thoughtful breath and look at her handsome son. If anyone knew anything about life-changing events, it would be her.

"I know you're not a bigoted, emotional person, Bethel. So you saying this means something, to me anyway."

For a moment she reached for my hand.

"But don't take it too seriously. If it does mean something, this feeling that you have, you'll eventually see what exactly. No need to think about it too much."

I shook my head and was grateful for her wisdom. No, no need to think about it too much. Somewhat relieved, I got up again to stroll through the fields, with Jeremiah in my wake. The day was beautiful, the sky was blue and the sun promised to make my skin darker than it already was. As all things had always been. My heart expanded with gratitude for the most basic things - my nephew's soft humming, the green leaves that were slowly losing their color, and then him again. The way he had looked at me when I sat on one of his Clydesdales, almost imperceptible through the low-hanging clouds. My heart jumped up and I smiled involuntarily. There was nothing wrong with the pleasure I derived from such memories. I said a little prayer of thanks in passing, a natural habit I have never lost in my life. I was startled by fleeting steps that moved in my direction, louder and louder, joined by weary panting. After a few seconds, I saw Tracy's feral face before me, red and wild but above all very sad, and in a shaky voice she asked me:

"Bethel! How come you've never told me you fucking had dinner with Michael Jackson?"