And that's Volume 1 wrapped! Welcome to Volume 2, where Ryan's true journey is just getting started
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The long corridor of the house was a haven of manufactured coolness. With all the windows shuttered against the sun, the only light was a dim, dusty gold seeping through the cracks, and the only sound was the steady hum of the air conditioner. Sprawled shirtless in the middle of this twilight, right where the AC's breath was strongest, Ryan slept the deep, motionless sleep of a man at peace with doing nothing.
A small voice cut through his slumber. "Ryan... Ryan..."
He stirred, rolling over with a grunt onto his other side, dismissing the sound.
The voice came again, a little further away. "...he said he didn't want any."
What didn't I want? Ryan thought, already sinking back into a deeper sleep.
A few seconds later, his eyes shot open. Huh. That was Leila's voice.
He was fully awake now. That smurf... She's up to no good.
He pushed himself up from the cool tiles and padded barefoot towards the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway, his body still leaning into sleep. "What didn't I want?"
Leila spun around, a picture of fake surprise. Their mother was at the table, a whole, glistening watermelon before her, perfectly sliced into thick, crimson triangles. The sight of it, so cold that a faint mist clung to its surface, was the most beautiful thing Ryan had seen all day.
His eyes locked onto it. Then, without a single word, he looked down at his feet. He slid one foot out of his worn slipper, bent down, and in one smooth, practiced motion, launched it at his sister.
"You witch! Framing me!" he accused.
The slipper flew past her head. "Even a lunatic wouldn't say no to that beauty!"
He didn't wait for a retort. He was already on the move, hobbling into the room. He snatched one piece straight from the platter and clamped it in his mouth, then grabbed two more, one in each hand, juice already running in rivulets down his wrists and chin.
"Stop, you animal! Leave some for the rest of us!" Leila shrieked, but she was already mirroring him, grabbing two huge slices for herself in a preemptive strike.
Ryan hunched over his prize. "What's wrong? Never seen a cricket eat before?" he mumbled through a mouthful.
Their mother watched them, a long, deep sigh escaping her lips. She marched over and smacked Leila sharply on the back of the head. Thwack.
"Yallah! Enough!" she cried. "He is a lost cause," she declared, jerking a thumb at Ryan, "but even you now, Leila? All those years of hard work! For this? If you ever do this in front of other people, I am disowning you both! I swear on my life!"
Ryan clutched his chest in mock pain. "A beautiful lost cause." He then pointed his chin towards his sister. "But that thing over there is what you should really worry about. You know... if times get tough, we could just call National Geographic. Have them make a documentary about the weird creatures walking on earth. We'd make a fortune."
"I'm beautiful!" Leila shrieked, storming out of the kitchen in a fury.
Ryan, still calmly eating his watermelon, called after her, "Yeah, and I'm two meters tall."
Their mother watched him, the last of her patience visibly evaporating. "After you finish," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "there is a container. Take it to your father. In the garage."
"Yes, madame!" Ryan said, snapping a crisp, mock-military salute.
He wiped his mouth, picked up the container, and pushed the screen door open. The wall of heat hit him like a physical blow. He looked down at the watermelon in his hand.
"And you... you are a watermelon. That is how you identify. You cannot transition into a soup in this country. It's forbidden. You could go to jail."
He trudged across the scorching yard and pulled open the large, rusting metal door to the garage. The smell of grease and dust was overwhelming. His father was under the chassis of a car, only his legs visible.
"You have a delivery," Ryan announced.
The tinkering stopped. His father slid out on a creeper, his face smudged with grease. He sat up, his eyes landing on the container. A slow smile softened his features.
"Your mother," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "She has a sixth sense. This is exactly what I needed."
"Why can't it be your first-born son thinking of you?" Ryan asked, placing the container on a workbench. "Am I just a delivery boy?"
His father opened it. Inside were the perfect, heart-of-the-watermelon slices. Ryan peered over his shoulder. "Look at that. She gave you all the prime cuts. Love sure is blind," he added, glancing at his grease-stained father.
His father took a bite. "I want to ask you," he said, gesturing at Ryan with the melon. "Where do you think you got your looks from?"
Ryan struck a pose. "From God. Directly. He was showing off."
"True," his father said, his voice dropping. "But you look a lot like me. So be very careful of what you say."
Ryan's grin didn't falter. He pointed at his own face. "Nah. I got all of this from Grandma."
"Yeah," his father said, a slow nod. "My mom."
Ryan smirked. "Genes are known to skip a generation."
"They teaching you that in school now?" his father asked.
Ryan's face was pure innocence. "Yeah, Dad. I'm like... fourteen."
A year passed, he thought, the realization landing with a quiet thud. Time sure passed differently before COVID. Everything was so... slow.
His father observed him for a long moment. "Yeah," he said, his voice quiet. "You are." He paused. "And this year, after summer vacation... that's your last year in middle school."
Ryan's smirk returned, darker now. "Be honest. If I didn't tell you my age, you'd never guess it right."
His father observed him, then let out a slow breath, shifting the mood. He wiped his hands. "Your grades are good. So we don't have to stress about the BEM. That's one thing, at least."
(Note: For those curious, BEM (Brevet d'Enseignement Moyen) is Algeria's national middle school exam that determines high school placement like GCSEs in the UK or finishing middle school in other systems)
"Yeah," Ryan said.
He remembered his father seeing his Baccalaureate results—the biggest exam of his life—and just grunting from behind his newspaper, "I knew you'd pass." Now, a middle school exam was a noted relief.
Old fox, he thought. You weren't even stressed for the Bac, let alone this.
(Note : BAC is the Baccalaureate - Algeria's final high school exam (similar to A-Levels in the UK, the SAT/High School Diploma in the US)
He looked around the quiet garage. "Where's everyone? Why are you alone today?"
His father shrugged. "You know them. Young guys. They took the day off, went to the beach." He eyed Ryan. "I heard the kids around here are getting money together to rent a small bus, go all together. How about you?"
Ryan shrugged. "Didn't know. I'll ask the guys later."
"Yeah. Do that. Take some money from the case in the house and go. Don't always stay at home. You're not a girl."
A wide, mischievous grin spread across Ryan's face. He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. "But... my pedicure! And my nails!"
His father stared at him, his face a perfect mask of exhausted paternal disbelief. "Ugh. Do that again," he grumbled, pointing a greasy finger, "and I will send you to your grandfather in the village. A week there will man you up fast."
Ryan laughed, a real, unforced sound, and finally turned to leave. The heavy door screeched shut behind him, leaving his father alone in the scent of oil, fading watermelon, and the echo of their laughter