Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (19 page)

I open my locker and an envelope falls out, landing on my
feet. I recognize Lagan’s handwriting on the outside. Wow! What special
occasion would warrant this upgrade from a Sticky Note? Only one way to find
out. I slip the note into my daily planner, shelve all my texts, and sail
toward the library in search of a secluded cubicle. I rip open the envelope
like it’s Christmas. My first Christmas card. In the spring.

Talia,

Some people
make wishes when they see a falling star or when they blow a birthday candle
out. Not I. I never make wishes. Until now. I wished for one thing. I wished
under our waterfall willow that you would trust me. I will not make a promise I
cannot keep to you.

Today is an
almost perfectly safe day for us to spend the day together. Are you game? I’m
waiting for you outside in the parking lot in my dad’s old, white Honda Civic.
Dad lets me borrow the car once in a while, when my bike or the “L” can’t get
me where I need to go. To cover your tracks in case there’s a “situation” and
you need to be back in school ASAP, I bribed the secretary in the main office
with homemade brownies my cousin Rani helped me make. Ms. Right in the
attendance office promises to call me on my cell, and I’ll have you back to
school in under five minutes—plenty of time for anyone looking for you to
not suspect a thing.
Soooo
... now that we have your
only reason for saying no to me covered, will I see you in a few? The car’s
running, and I miss you already. Hurry.

Smitten like a
mitten,

L

I shake my head no while my legs beg to differ and propel me
toward the back doors that lead to the student parking lot. I’ll just say hi
and let him know I can’t. That way I can at least see his face. The lot is less
than a quarter full, making the white Civic easy to spot. Lagan wears shades
and a navy blue sport jacket, looking like an undercover CIA agent. I open up
the passenger door to sit in order to explain my rehearsed excuse. The one I
practiced on the walk over here.

“Hi, I’m
sor
—”

“Hold on.” Lagan cuts me off, and places shades on my face
and a checkered yellow and green sunhat on my head. “Go on. What were you
saying?”

I’m looking at that dimple, and I can’t say it. I bail on
myself and rethink my plan.

“I...”
How about a compromise?
I suggest to myself. “I’ll come with
you. But I want to be back in time for lunch. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Done.” And before I can change my mind, we’re driving out
of the parking lot down side streets, listening to “Let Me Love You” by Ne-
Yo
on the stereo. Lagan’s voice singing the lyrics tickles
more than my ears as the warmth of the morning sun washes over my face through
the windshield. He flips the sun visor down and then back up. I smile. Because
he gets me.

“Umm? You forgot to mention where we’re going?” I interrupt
his concert.

“The mall.” Lagan grins while checking his rearview mirror.

“I...” I feel a need to explain why my wardrobe is so
outdated. “I’ve...never shopped at the mall.”

“We’re not shopping, exactly.”

“Okay.” I need more information to calm my jitters that
threaten earthquakes every inch we travel away from school grounds. “Why are
you all dressed up, by the way?”

He laughs. “This
ol
’
thang
? Why? Do you like it?”

“Sure. If you’re planning to cook in it.”
What’s
cookin
’, good
...
A raised eyebrow tells me this time he’s the one who doesn’t get it. “
Fuggedaboutit
,” I resort to a wannabe Italian accent to
save the moment with a back-up joke. Anything to box the rising anxiety in me.
We seem so far from school property now.

“We’re here.” Lagan shifts the gear into park and circles from
his door to my door before I unbuckle.

“Thanks.” Warmth rushes to my cheeks as he opens the door
for me.

“Can I hold your hand?” Lagan stretches his palm to me.
“Wouldn’t want to lose you in this huge structure where the sights and scents
might lure you away from me.”

“I suppose. Purely for the sake of safety. Of course.” I
collapse my hand into his, making sure my burnt arm is on the outside of us. It
still feels frozen, but in case the sensations return, I don’t want Lagan to
catch me freaking out.

Lagan’s warm, long fingers envelope my tiny hand, and I
silently wish he could hide me entirely. We walk into the mall through the
kitchen department of Ikea and the sight of teacups sends a shiver down my
neck. I check my watch to monitor our prompt return. Lagan catches me fidgeting
with my wrist and squeezes my hand, perhaps trying to assure me everything’s
going to be fine. What was that about a promise he cannot keep?

“Are we having fun yet?” He steers our path to the food
court area, then we make a beeline for Red Mango.

In minutes, cold vanilla yumminess tickles my taste buds and
soothes my lips. We stroll past more busy display windows until we enter
Forever 21. I’m looking at my watch constantly. Over an hour remains before the
first lunch bell sounds.

“Would you try on a dress for me, just for fun, even if only
for...” Lagan glances down at his cell phone. “Sixty-four minutes and
thirty-two seconds? Thirty-one seconds? Well, now thirty seconds?” Lagan’s eyes
plea childishly. “Don’t keep me waiting. I’m losing time by the second here!”

I love the kid in him. I don’t understand why he’d want me
to try on a dress, but if I’m Cinderella, that makes him Gus, the fairy
Godmother, and the Prince all rolled up in one. Goodness, and I thought
Cinderella had her work cut out for her.

“It depends on the dress.” I’m aware of the ever-present
conditions that outline my reality like a picture frame I cannot escape from.
“Long sleeve is about the only thing that’ll work for me.”

“Summer fashion trends make your stipulations a little
tricky, but I think I....” Lagan doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he moves
to the racks where prom dresses sparkle with sequins and satin. My insides
retract. Dad would never allow me to attend prom. Let alone the mall. Lagan’s
eyes spot me, probably making sure I haven’t run away.

“
Here.
”

Lagan hands me three different satin dresses—purple,
and pink and royal blue. The light pink reminds me of the color of roses my mom
loved. I like the simplicity of the lilac one, although it looks a tad large.
The floor-length, chiffon, blue gown is strapless with tiny rhinestone outline
on its sweetheart neckline. I’m flattered, but shake my head no.

“I’m not finished.” Lagan pushes the dresses into my arms
and nudges me toward the dressing room. “I’m going to find you a summer sweater
and black tights or stockings or whatever you girls call that stuff. I just
have to pay for the panty hose first. Some stuff they don’t just let you try
on. Good thing I have a sister and a cousin who
edumacated
me in girls’ clothes. Rani taught me how tights are a must if a girl doesn’t
feel like shaving her legs.”

I burst out laughing. The whole scenario is suddenly comical
to me. But I am impressed that Lagan contrived a way to cover every inch of me
and still give me an opportunity to wear a dress that doesn’t say eighteenth
century all over it. I comply and enter change room number five to squeeze into
the first dress. Pink is not my color. I quickly move to the second one, which
transforms me into a purple hippo with skinny legs. No to the no!

Goldilocks better be on my side today, because there’s only
one dress left. Just then I’m startled by a knock and two items being thrown
over the top of the changing room. Skin toned hose and a dainty white bolero.

“Thanks.”  

“Come out soon.” Lagan sounds as excited as my mom when she
used to dress me up for kindergarten. “I’m waiting near the cash register.”

I slip into the last dress.
It fits!
I survey myself, and apart from my
scarred arms and bony legs, beautiful almost describes the sight I see. My
plain black flats that I wear to school every day don’t match, but the blue
gown’s a tad long, covering them. I pull tights on and allow my arms to snuggle
into the soft cotton of the thin bolero sweater, extra carefully with my
injured arm. The material runs over my scars and blisters like chinchilla fur.
How can it not hurt? Closing my eyes momentarily, I whisper, “Thank you.”

I take one last look at myself, and for a split second, I
imagine Mom in her blue sari, standing next to me. Smiling. I step out, ready
to remind Lagan that I’m only trying this get-up on for a minute. Lagan leans
over the counter as he discusses something with the cash register lady, so he
doesn’t see me until I’m two feet away. Then he stops in mid-speech. His jaw
drops. The woman behind the credit card machine smiles, nods, and slides a
small shopping bag toward Lagan, although his eyes have not budged.

“May I do the honors?” Lagan asks as he closes the gap. “You
look…stunning! Just one small touch, if you’ll let me?”

He reaches into the bag on the counter and turns back to me.
After gently pushing my hair behind my ears, Lagan slips a sparkly silver
headband over my hair.

“Are you sure?” I ask, nervous about drawing more attention
to myself.

“Positive!” Lagan won’t stop staring at me. “You’re my prom
queen, and I don’t need a prom to announce it.”

“You’re hilarious.” I swallow, still aware of the ticking
clock. “Okay. Now that you got what you wanted, can I change back into my
clothes?”

“In four minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” Lagan says as he
motions to the sales rep with two fingers in the air.

She bends down to fiddle with something on a lower shelf,
and the music in the store suddenly stops. Then it starts again. This time
slightly louder. And slower. It’s this year’s prom theme song: Savage Garden’s
“Truly, Madly, Deeply.”

“Can I have this dance?” Lagan reaches for my hand, guiding
me to an opening in the racks.

“Umm.” I am as certain as I am uncertain. This boy is
definitely crazy. And I am terribly unsure as to how this will all turn out.

“Thanks.” Lagan answers for me. “I’ll lead if you let me.”

And he pulls me closer to him, putting my hand on his
shoulder and cupping the other into his. I’ve never slow-danced before, and I
feel frozen in time. But we’re moving, Lagan’s hand on my back gently helping
me to thaw as the music plays sweetly all around us. Traffic stops around us,
and a few shoppers cease shuffling through racks to watch our stumbling feet
and giggle-filled twirls.

Then as the song begins to crescendo into the chorus, Lagan
pulls me closer still, and I can feel his lips brushing softly across my
forehead, from one side to the other, ever so slowly. I close my eyes and allow
myself to soak under a waterfall of a thousand peppermint kisses.
Is
this what heaven is like?

My head lowers into Lagan’s shoulder and something sweeter
than the musical notes propels our bodies to move perfectly in sync. I open my
eyes to make sure my feet are still on solid ground. Not waltzing on water. On
the last twirl, I catch a glimpse of myself in a floor-length mirror. The crown
headpiece glitters and reflects back into my eyes. Mom always wanted pretty
things in her hair.
I am a princess today, Mommy.
If only for a moment.
My
prince came for me.
If only
for a moment.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

The
music fades and Lagan clasps my hands into his. Leaning forward, he plants a
very soft peck on my forehead. I’m not even sure you’d call it a kiss.
You
are my dream, my wish, my fantasy, Lagan.
I’m over the top and I do what I do best when I can’t handle it. I back away,
shaking my hands from his, afraid to want more. More of what I know I cannot
have.  

“Wait!” Lagan says, as I push through racks, incapable of
retracing my steps to the fitting room.

Fear disorients me. I’m so afraid to get caught, afraid of
what all this means, and afraid to believe Lagan’s words, especially the word
queen
. Most of all, I’m afraid to feel. I’ve
never held on to anything I loved. I turn to find Lagan on my heels, and as I
see myself in his eyes, I don’t fit. I crowd out his happiness and bring
clouds, storms, unrest. I retrieve the band of illusion from my hair and
clumsily shove it toward Lagan. I want to say, “Thanks for a dance across the
ocean. My ocean of despair. You held me as I danced atop the ocean that I’m
used to drowning in. Thank you for helping me stay afloat. If only for a
moment.”

Instead, I blurt out, “I’m sorry,” and run into the fitting
room I finally spot to my left.

As I change quickly, looking into the mirror, the scars on
my arms turn into ghastly tattoos with mouths and eyes and arms—tattoos
that perform a dance of victory in my blurring vision. I pull my green long
sleeve back over my arms, wanting to hide the faces and muffle the taunts.
Forgetting about the burns, I yank the sleeves down, and like power returning
after a blackout, the pain of my recently scorched skin returns instantly and
intensely. My knees buckle under the surge, but gauze and ice are out of reach
in this tiny space I’m locked behind.