Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (2 page)

L

So he’s taking a day off from being a social butterfly,
surrounded by his high-tops-sporting teammates and
mathlete
buds to sit with me? How did he even know I would show up today? Four words
comes to mind:
get this over with
.

Tucking my lower lip under the top and reasoning that one
meeting will be enough to finish the English homework, I join Lagan at the rear
of the cafeteria. Sort of. I know better than to sit right next to him or even
across from him. Instead, I walk over to his table and sit two seats down, on
the opposite side.

He blows into his hand and sniffs. “I brushed and flossed
this morning if you want to move over. I’m not saving seats for anyone else.”

“I’m good.” I stare at my tray of food, aware that I haven’t
thought of one question to ask him.

“Well, okay then.” Lagan starts to rise up as he pushes his
tray down toward my end of the table.

Startled, I half scream, “W-w-wait!” Catching myself, I pull
my sleeves down past my wrists, push his tray back to his old seat, and lower
my voice. “I mean, let’s just try this. If it’s okay?”

Relief washes over me when he resumes his seat. He doesn’t
even ask why. Makes me wonder if we’ll end up friends someday. I don’t have any
friends, so one friend...if I keep him on the DL. My family doesn’t have to
know. Especially Dad. If he ever finds out, well, let’s just not go there,
because he is not going to find out. Ever.

Lagan speaks first when the awkward moment passes. “Let’s
start over.”

“Okay.” I look at the wall in front of me.

“I’m over here.”  I can see Lagan waving his hands out
of the corner of my eye.  

“I know.” The words leave my lips like molasses. “I see you.
I hear you. I’m.
Here.
”

“O-
kay
.” His voice falls flat with
an all too familiar sound. Doubt.

I pick up my tray to leave. Better to fail the assignment
before disappointment turns to disaster. How do I interview Lagan when I can
barely bring myself to talk to him? How else do individuals close the gap
between space and silence? People draw near to each other and communicate. Face
to face. Eye contact. That is normal. But normal isn’t in my cards. I’ve been
dealt a hand that I can’t lay down. I step away from the table and turn to face
the direction of the conveyor belt where other students are placing their trays.

“Wait.” Lagan’s voice rises.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
      

“Don’t leave yet.”

But it’s too late. I lied to myself too. Somewhere between
the Post-it notes and all the times Lagan offered to help me, the new girl, I
gave into the hope, perhaps only a crumb’s worth, that he might be different.
But if he can’t handle this, he probably can’t handle any of it.

“I’ll see you in class.” My eyes focus on the red exit sign.

“You forgot something.”

That is the first time he tricks me. I stop and turn around
to scan the table where I was sitting. Scrawling something in his lap, he
reaches over and slaps the spot where my tray lay moments ago. A little yellow
Post-it note curls up on the table. Everything inside me tells me to run, but I
have been running my whole life. I’m tired. And hungry. Flip-flopping, I return
to my spot and sit again.

This note reads:

I’m sorry. I
don’t understand. This is new. Let’s start over.

I nod. Then fold up the note and put it in the back pocket
of my jeans.

Lagan clears his throat and smiles. “Take two. Or three.
Ahh
. Who’s counting, anyway?”

Inhale. Exhale. Peripheral vision allows me to slow my
breathing to match his, my self-prescribed tranquilizer. While we eat in
silence, I paint Lagan’s features on the canvas of my mind. His earthy brown
eyes squint when he smiles. His silky black hair falls to right above his
shoulders and a few wisps fall across his forehead, over his left eyebrow.
Lagan’s skin reminds me of milk chocolate. A tiny black mole on his right cheek
dances as he chews. His thinned out goatee draws attention to his oval
jawline—a nest for breadcrumbs, which he instinctively wipes away after
every few bites. I can see his black Nike high tops extended beyond the
cafeteria table that his long lanky legs barely fit beneath. And he raises his
dark, thick eyebrows whenever he looks in my direction and smiles, introducing
a heart-skipping dimple on his left cheek.  

“I’m sorry.” I mutter the confession, but it’s true. I am
sorry. I want to undo the last few minutes too. I don’t really know what I
want. I just—

“How’s the chocolate milk?” he asks, drawing attention away
from the past.

That’s when I know he’s different. And different has
potential.

“Fine.” A minuscule snort escapes me, and I feel something
loosen—around my heart. “Are you still buying?”

“Most certainly.”

Wow. That dimple again. As he walks back to the drinks
section of the cafeteria line, I survey the room, always aware that everything
can change, for the worse, in a fraction of a second. Nothing but noisy students
eating lunches and oblivious monitors walking around. We are safe—for
now. When Lagan returns with a carton, he hesitates. Then he places it
caddy-corner from me rather than on my tray. I fold my bottom lip inside my
top, and wait for him to take his place.

“Thanks.” My whispered word falls onto the lunch tray, but
Lagan hears it.

He coughs, “YW,” into his right fist, and we both giggle.

I reach over and drag the carton closer. I lift it up to
open it and find a Sticky Note on the bottom. The guy must keep them in his
back pocket. I peel it off and smile. I can see out of the corner of my eye
that he is smiling too.

I reread it to myself:

If I ask you
yes/no questions, you can answer yes by nodding to your food and no by looking
at the exit sign. Is that cool?

I flip the note over and there’s more:
 

And don’t
worry about me. I’m always talking to myself. No one will suspect a thing!

I resist the urge to bust out laughing when I reread the
last line. I shake my head and nod to my tray, but before he can ask the first
question, the bell rings. Lunch is over. It’s a B schedule today, so my next
class is not the same as Lagan’s. We both stand at the same time. Remembering
my manners, I fish a pen out of my book bag, write
ty
on the last Sticky Note, tack it to my
tray, and head to gym.

CHAPTER
TWO

When I
walk home that day, I squeeze my backpack to my chest in an attempt to drum
down the new voice inside me. Time is ticking. Opening the door, I silently
wish for wrong things. Things a teenage girl should not be thinking of. Things
I should be imprisoned for.

A family portrait graces the wall across from the front
door. I was three, and it’s the last picture ever taken of the four of us,
because it was the last time Mom was healthy enough to express her wants. And
she wanted a memory. One that could stop time. If only for a moment. Mom still
had her beautiful, flowing, dark black hair in the photo.

Dad rarely called her by her name Gita, but on the day the
photographer came to our house, I remember Dad sliding the blue and white
stoned barrette into her hair, and saying, “A gift for my Gita.” The glitter of
her matching blue sari fades with each day, like my memories of her, no matter
how hard I try to keep them intact. Wish I could say the same for Dad.

Gerard, my father, grew up in South Africa before he crossed
the ocean to spend seven years studying political science and law at the
University of Michigan. As far as I know, he never went back. But we’re allowed
to ask about our family history as often as we’re allowed to have seconds.
Never.
We
refers
to me and my younger brother, Jesse. He’s a year younger and looks a lot more
like Mom with skin like caramel, silky straight black hair, and a mouth that
curls down ever so subtly around the edges. In the portrait, Jess’s
two-year-old head has almost as much hair as mine. But things have changed.
Once a month, Dad pulls the clippers out and gives him a cookie-cutter buzz. To
this day, I wonder if he does it to remind us that Mom is gone—and never
coming back.

I lower my eyes to focus on my blue, little girl,
daisy-printed dress, which matches Mom’s sari. And even though I get my
definitive cheekbones, arching eyebrows, and hazelnut eyes from Dad, my mother
gifted me my long, straight, chestnut-brown hair; a soft, rounded jaw line; and
perfectly shaped feet.

My strongest memory of Mom when I was a little girl is from
the summer before kindergarten. Mom pushed me and Jess to the beach in a double
stroller almost every day after Dad left for work. While my little brother
slept on a blanket next to her, Mom would bury my feet in the sand and rehearse
her own mixed-up version of “This Little Piggy” as she unearthed each little
toe, one at a time. Then she’d scoot around to face me, push the bottoms of our
feet together, dig her heels deep into the sand until our big toes aligned, and
say with a beaming smile, “Look, we match!” As luck would have it, the only
attractive feature I bear remains hidden until I come home, take off my shoes,
and put on my flip-flops, or
chappals
, as I grew up
calling them.

Dad, on the other hand, looks like a Hollywood cutout, from
head to toe. He’s technically Dutch Afrikaner, tall and brawny, with
dirty-blond hair that he wears short on top and shaved close on the sides, the
consummate professional in his navy blue Armani suit, solid red tie, and
polished
Rockports
. I know it’s just a photograph,
but I feel like Dad can see right through me, exposing my every thought. Chills
race down my arms.

Oh
shnap
! How long have I been daydreaming?
I turn my attention to a precisely
creased, half sheet of paper placed on the small wooden table inside the
doorway—always waiting for me on top of the etched marching elephants
with painted flowers on their backs. Maybe someday the parade of
hathis
will carry my burdens away. For now, atop the paper, the list, numbered one to
ten with Dad’s perfectly printed handwriting, beckons me. I look into the
mirror above the table before reading it.

A smile slips over my face each time I think about the day,
the Sticky Notes, the chocolate milk, and his smile. Lagan—my little
secret. I indulge for only a moment longer, and then put on my best poker face
before walking upstairs to my brother’s room.

Jesse’s lying in his bed watching
Ellen
. Maybe he dropped the remote again. Did
Dad not make it home for lunch today to check on him? Standing in the doorway,
I knock to announce my arrival.

“Hey, Jess.” I pick up the remote and place it back in his
right hand. Under his hand really. The accident left Jesse with little lower
muscular control. Doctors warned he might never walk again. His arms are his
only fully functioning limbs, but without his legs, Jesse has little to no
motivation to do anything. And most days he doesn’t speak. Maybe the shock
never wore off. Maybe he chooses not to. I’ll never know.

Number one on the list is the same every day:
Check
on your brother, make his bed, and give him something to drink.

I don’t think twice about it. Pulling out fresh pinstriped
sheets from the second drawer, I start my daily routine. After I raise Jesse’s
hospital bed and scoot his legs over the edge, he guides himself into his
wheelchair. As I toss old sheets into the bathroom hamper, I instinctively peek
into the shower. Wet scrubs in the shower let me know Dad gave Jesse a shower
at lunch. Next I pull on new bed sheets, clear the incense ashes from the night
table into the trash, and wheel Jess over to the kitchen, all the while
wondering if he can tell something is different. Wondering if I should tell
him. Worried that the walls have ears.  

As I peel and cut up two apples to throw into a blender with
a banana, yogurt, and orange juice, the sound of the front door opening sends a
shiver down my spine, and I nearly drop the knife. Every day this week, Dad’s
been on time. Why today? Why’d he have to come home twenty minutes early today?
I lay the knife down like a sword, accepting defeat, my heart pounding to an
army drum beat announcing the arrival of the enemy. The army that never shows
up to rescue me. Because no one can rescue me.

On autopilot, I retrieve the stainless steel teapot hanging
from a ceiling hook, fill it with water, and dial the temperature to high. My
hands will not stop shaking. Opening up the canister to retrieve three tea
bags, the mugs are clean, but I haven’t emptied the dishwasher yet, number four
on the list.

I can hear Dad’s footsteps walking first to his office where
he drops off his briefcase, then to the bathroom near the back door. The faucet
turns on. Then off. His hands are clean, a daily reminder that he likes all
things clean. Next comes his walk throughout the house, inspecting every
detail. My insides retract.
The list
.