The Small Reflection of Things

The ferry was late, a white speck of debris bobbing to the island. It worked against the coming storm, the gulf roiling with a restless rhythm. Feeling shook the marbles in his pocket with the same nervous energy. Only a dozen or so tourists had unloaded from each of the first three ferries, and his cart was still more than half full of coconut drinks. Normally, he would have sold out by the second ferry, and spend the rest of the day with his friend Driver. Feeling took off his shoes and dangled his toes off the pier. His shirt, a hand-me-down from his brother, billowed in the wind, pulling him backwards. He accepted the challenge and inched forward, testing gravity. Koh Phangan was a small island, and he'd never been farther from home than this edge. As he leaned forward a wave splashed against the cement wall. Feeling jumped back to avoid the spray, but a warm gust splattered his face with salty water. He rubbed his eyes, shook his T-shirt, and slapped his leg to check that his marbles were secure in the corner seam of his pocket.

He spent most afternoons in the alley behind the open markets watching other boys shoot marbles. But tourist traffic dwindled in the rainy season, and it had been over a week since he'd been to the alley. His father's rule, or business agreement, being that he could do whatever he wanted until dinner as long as he sold all his coconuts. He wondered if the weather knew it dampened his sales and cut into his free time.

The stubborn speck of a ferry lingered in the distance, and the storm seemed to be moving even slower. If he left for the alley now he could watch a few games and return to the pier by the time the ferry arrived.

Feeling mounted his bike, an overgrown tricycle with a cart on the back, and rode through Thong Sala, the island's port town. The main street cut through brick and glass buildings until asphalt gave way to dirt, and you were in the open markets, the twine tied, thatch-roof huts hanging with T-shirts and necklaces, or dried carcasses of fish, brown and spiny, their eyes shriveled and cracked. As he rode past, two smells fought for dominance, the metallic sting of raw seafood and the earthy spice of curry, but hidden underneath, he caught the sweetness of fresh fruit: watermelon, lychee, and pineapple.

Trip, Feeling's brother, introduced him to the marble games. After working the pier together, they'd share a sack of lychee. Trip peeled the furry, purple skin for Feeling while explaining the player's shots like a commentator at a Muay Thai fight or football game. His excitement was contagious, transmitted to Feeling from the start. At night, they'd recount the games, volleying their delight across the short space dividing their beds.

In the alley, a dozen or so boys were gathered around two people on the ground. Feeling stretched over a shoulder to see his friend, Driver, sitting at a circle drawn in the dirt. To play, you had to have at least five mibs, the smaller marbles, and one shooter, the ones big as an eyeball. The boys only played five ringer or ten ringer. The object, of course, to use your shooter to knock your opponent's mibs out the circle to claim them as your own. Driver's opponent was the best player on the island who Feeling called Lok, so named for his shooter, deep blue glass with green, smoky tendrils zigzagging through it, just like a globe of Earth.

Driver, already losing by three, scuttled around the arena, the marbles scattered like a tiny, chaotic solar system. Fiery yellow and orange Jupiter, bright red Mars, and cool, blue-white Neptune. Colossal worlds shrunk into miniature globes in the dirt, hovering just out of Feeling's reach.

One knee on the ground, the other folded against his chest, Driver positioned his fist on the ground ready to shoot. Feeling wedged himself through...