Maya stepped onto the tarmac and a burst of jasmine scent wrapped around her. A trail of red hibiscus petals lay scattered across the path, leading toward the harbor. From somewhere near the terminal, a parrot's laugh echoed through the warm air. She followed the petals, one foot after another, smiling.
At the harbor market, the vendor with flour-dusted hands held out a golden mango. Maya took it, the skin warm from the sun, and bit in. Sweet juice ran down her chin. The vendor laughed and held out another half on a leaf.
Maya slipped on the feathered mask and joined the parade spinning through the square. The drumbeat pulled her forward. She twirled until her skirt flared wide, the colors blurring into ribbons. Then something caught her eye—a painted tiger mask blinking at her from the crowd.
Maya dove into the turquoise lagoon and surfaced with a gasp. A school of silver fish circled her legs like living coins. She reached for one, but it darted away, leading her deeper toward a hidden coral garden. There, a sea turtle rested on the sandy floor, unmoving.
The turtle opened one eye, slow as a sigh, then slid away into the coral. Maya watched it go, breathless, her fingertips brushing a fan of purple coral. She wanted to stay forever. But the surface called her up, and she kicked toward the light.
Back on the beach, Maya wrung water from her skirt and padded along the white sand. The parrot called again from a nearby palm, and she laughed, waving. The tiger mask was nowhere to be seen.
Evening fell over the island. Maya sat on her bed and opened her sketchbook. The first drawing was the mango—gold skin, a bite taken out, juice pooling on the page. She colored carefully, tongue poking out.
Next came the tiger mask. She drew the black stripes, the green eyes, the way it seemed to wink. She paused, then added a tiny feathered mask in the corner of the page, just a hint.
The sea turtle was last. She drew its ancient face, the patterned shell, the way its flipper rested against the sand. She didn't draw herself in this one. Some things were better left private.
Maya carried all three drawings to the windowsill and lined them up. The evening breeze slipped through the screen, rustling the pages. Outside, the island glowed green and gold in the last light.
Far away, beyond the trees and the harbor, carnival drums began to thump. Maya pressed her palm against the cool glass and listened. The music carried on the wind, steady and bright.
She set her sketchbook down on the sill beside the drawings and closed her eyes. The drums went on, and the jasmine scent drifted in from somewhere far below. Tomorrow would bring new things to draw.
