Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (21 page)

Self-talk accompanies my entire jog to the store, taking all
the shortcuts I’ve learned and arriving in under six minutes. Only one person
stands in line at the cash register. I check the expiration date on the milk
and pay, holding my tongue from making small talk. Thanking the owner, my
stride slows with the jug at my hip as I race toward the south street
neighborhood behind the high school. Thinking back, I’m relieved that Lagan
made me memorize his address when I told him I’d try to attend his party. If my
mind remembers correctly, his house is only two blocks from the playground
where he pushed me on the swings. I cross the yard, aware of the changing sky
and ticking clock.

I can do this.
Slip in. Smile. Slip out.

A few houses down the street, I hear music pumping, and I
slow my pace as I approach a sea of twinkling lights, forming a canopy across
the backyard of the house. I’m here. Lagan told me his cousin Rani planned to
create a milky way experience for him and his friends.
Impressive
. The sights and sounds of how I always
imagined a party envelope me. And the music, streaming from large speakers in
different corners of the yard, moves me like I’ve arrived on the moon.

The words to a song I have never heard before play. But for
some reason, I recognize the lyrics. Of course. Lagan’s voice playing through
the sound system confirms my suspicions. He left his notebook in class once,
and I didn’t know it was his song-writing composition book until I skimmed
through a few pages before slamming the book shut. I felt guilty that I never
asked his permission. Wow! His voice sounds like a cross between Jason
Mraz
and Swedish House Mafia. Plan to suggest he learn to
carry a guitar on the back of his bike so I can hear him sing more often. As I
enter the gate, I stash the milk jug by the side fence, and scan the crowd.
Everyone in the whole school must be here.

As I stroll toward a speaker, the music pulls me in like
horizontal gravity. Lagan’s voice streams across my ears as if he were singing
to me. The words return and I sing along, softly, not wanting to draw attention
to myself. I close my eyes for a moment, disappearing in between the strum of
guitar chords around me and the starry lights above.

When I open my eyes, Lagan stands in front of me and time
stops. I am still mouthing the words, wanting him to know I love his song. The
poetry of his heart. His voice. He shakes his head in disbelief, perhaps that I
showed up. Or that I knew the lines to his song. I don’t know what overcomes
me, but I want to remember this moment. Every detail. The sights. The sounds.
The scents. So I lean forward, my cheek grazing his jawline, close my eyes, and
inhale. Deeply. Until I can inhale no more. I allow the aroma of a
peppermint-sprinkled summer night to wash over all my senses. Satisfied by the
nibble from this surprise sample of a life I thought I’d never live, I turn to
leave.

“Wait,” Lagan begs. We both know I can’t.

I continue out of the gate, scooping up the milk on my way
out. Glancing at my watch, I have about ten minutes to enter the front door
void of suspicion. I hold the jug close to me and run the whole way home,
squealing every few blocks, replaying Jesse’s gift to me. Lagan’s gift to me. I
feel rich tonight.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve as I unlock
the front door. One minute early. And as I enter the kitchen to place the
change in the correct location, Jesse sits in his chair, exactly where I left
him. Smiling. He knows. I put the kettle to boil after placing the milk on the
counter. Jesse holds up the age-old sign for okay with his thumb and first
finger kissing. I look down the hall toward Dad’s office. Nothing. He’s
absorbed in his work.

I turn back toward Jesse and mouth two words I have not said
enough to my little brother.
Thank you.
I lean over him and hug my baby brother,
and his arms squeeze back. Watching the clock continue to tick, I realize that
my heart rate takes longer to return to normal than the entire length of the
brief clandestine encounter. My heart pounds even as I lay down to sleep that
night. Escaping Dad’s radar whets my appetite. For the sparkle of stars. The
scent of peppermint. And the melody of Lagan’s voice, a lullaby that ushers me
into my dreams.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

The
routines of my life post-graduation are driven by one day alone. The
seventeenth of each month. Consistently, Dad works late into the evening,
sometimes returning past midnight. And Lagan and I meet one last time before he
leaves for overseas. At the garden, we share stories of growing-up years, most
of my stories about my fondest memories of Mom. We share sunsets, each time a
completely new display of colors across the same canvas.

And on that last day, Lagan sings in my ear as he attempts
to teach me two steps, and we waltz under our waterfall willow, the shadow of
entwined arms our only audience. I muddy his shoes with my fumbling, but he
continues to sing. Tuning out the world. Tuning me into his thoughts. Writing
songs on the Post-it notes of my heart. Lyrics I memorize and replay when I
need a
gita
for my lost Gita.
Mommy
,
how I need you more than ever.
I don’t know the way to move from girl to
woman, and yet I’m here. At the crossroads without a map.

Soon college will begin and schedules will change again. My
hours will cut back, but perhaps I can request to work on the seventeenth of
the month, even if it falls on a weekend. I need something to look forward to.
One thing.

A week into August, Lagan gone and a note from Dad alerting
us that he won’t be home for hours, I decide a better time might not come. So I
tell Jesse everything. About meetings with Lagan at the garden and our brief
encounter at his party. About the gardener. And about the pain in my arm
mysteriously disappearing for a short while. He doesn’t say anything at first.
I can’t tell if he’s processing, or if I’ve upset him.

I also outline what I remember of
Amit
Shah’s letter—the information I long ago dismissed as depressing and
useless. Our grandparents’ apparent search for us surges unusual energy in
Jesse’s eyes, but I remain skeptical. A home where we’re wanted but we’ll
probably never know creates one more taunting key beyond prison bars, just out
of reach.

“Were there any letters from Benton Harbor?” Jesse’s
question confuses me.

“As in, our old neighborhood? School? Not that I recall.
Why?” Is Jesse keeping in touch with someone? Expecting someone to find us?
Him?

“It’s nothing. Forget I asked.” Jesse shuts the door before
I can open it.

But I’m not that easily swayed. “Who would write you from
back there? Come on Jess, you know your secret’s safe with me.”

“What’s the point? She’s gone. And she never tried to find
me.” My brother’s confession opens a window to his heart. Broken by a girl I
never knew. “It’s my fault anyway, so just drop it. Don’t
wanna
talk about it anymore.”

“Just tell me her name. Maybe I knew her from school.” I
just want a name. A name makes her more real. I want my brother’s chance at
love to be real. Even if the chance is long gone.

His silence answers for him. And I’m sorry I pushed so hard.
Some stories are too painful to share. Because sharing means remembering. And
remembering slows down the journey to forgotten. Something tells me this girl
is someone Jesse will never forget.

He doesn’t say much to me for many days following. I allow
the silence. The very mention of the gardener makes his eyebrows wrinkle. Like
he’s stuck behind a wall of anger so high he can’t see over it. Nor think of a
way to climb over it.

The tragedy of Mom’s separation still fails to explain why
Dad turned out the way he did, although my grandparents’ poverty might have
spurred their decision to let Mom travel overseas alone. The age old myth that
America is the land of promise. But still.
What promise
did you make them, Dad?
I
could draw up a long list of the ones you’ve broken.

One night, when Dad strolls in nearer to the 1:00 a.m. clang
of the grandfather clock, I’m wide awake with thoughts of Lagan. He’s been gone
for three weeks, and my aching for him paces like a marathon runner through my
mind.

I decide to rise and empty my bladder, but when I exit my
room, I hear voices. Dad’s not alone, and the voice sounds awfully familiar.
Jed!
That sounds just like the
cowboy who said those crass things some time ago. And he speaks with the
projection worthy of a Broadway show. I decide to leave the bathroom door
slightly ajar so I can listen in.

“Geri, she’s older than most of the girls, but she’s
beautiful and ready, if I do say so myself.”

“Shut up!” Dad sounds furious.
Beware
the kitchen, Jed. Wouldn’t put it past Dad to turn the kettle on you.
Literally. “I already told the boss that
she’s damaged. Just like Gita was. So she will never be an option. Am I
understood?”

“Boss always picks the cream of the crop when it comes to
lawyers. Bet he didn’t bank on one brilliant enough to write his own contract.
Doggone it.” Jed sounds annoyed and a muffled thud suggests someone banged the
countertop. “You and the pilot make a secret pact?
Cuz
his girl, now there’s a blond beauty I wouldn’t mind for myself.”

“You disgust me,” Dad retorts. So why bring scum like Jed
into your castle, Dad?

“I think it’s a little strange that all the women in this
house have been crossed off. Just
sayin
, my friend.”

What kind of friend makes creepy propositions like that?

“Discussion over. And don’t call me ‘friend.’ My family is
off limits. Good night.” Dad’s voice speaks with finality.

“What about the plans? The new hotel? There are plenty of
girls—
er
—cases, we have to discuss. I’m
flying back tomorrow,
Ger
—”

“I said good night. E-mail me.” A slam of the front door
puts a period on the sentence. More like an exclamation point.

What was that
about?
I close the lid
gently and leave the toilet
unflushed
before
tiptoeing back to my room. As I pull the covers over my head, I wonder what
kind of debt Dad, the financial-genius himself, could possibly get himself
into. Who owes who. And what would a pilot’s daughter have in common with me?
And what the heck were they talking about when Jed said I’m ready.
Ready
for what?

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

The
first day of college arrives, and I’m a nervous wreck. Here I go again, having
to weave my way through new crowds, inquisitive professors, and nosy college
girls. Ironically, no one really bothers me. Some students race from class to
class while others stroll at a snail’s pace, the absence of late slips offering
a new type of freedom, I suppose. And everyone is in their own world, including
the teachers. Students like me frantically copy every detail from droning
lectures, and others just lean back their heads and catch up on missed sleep. I
might not sleep well, but I can’t risk getting poor grades and Dad taking this
away from me.

My favorite class is Intro to Shakespeare, because the
playwright didn’t shy away from tragedy—the one thing I can relate to. I
find myself daydreaming about Lagan any time I read about a hero, and then
suddenly start wondering if my modern day prince has a flaw. Even a tiny one?

Autumn willow dates bring early sunsets and chilly nights.
Frost canopies Chicago, and by October 17, the garden stands void of flowers
but not of color. Reds, yellows, oranges, and browns paint every tree, and our
waterfall willow glitters a perfect blend of Crayola’s mango tango and laser
lemon. After raking the fallen leaves into a cushiony pile, Lagan and I sit
side by side to watch the sun dip behind the horizon.

When the ground grows frigid, we move to the bike rack after
brushing the leaves off our clothes. I miss one.

Lagan reaches over and slips a tiny leaf out from under my
sleeve. “Saving this one as a memento?” he asks, holding the thin, yellow leaf
up in the air.

“If you only knew what else is up my sleeve.” I lob back,
eyebrows raised.

“Are you offering a peek?”  

Hold up. How did we get here? Instinctively, I pull my
sleeves down, and refrain from responding. I’m tempted to hide behind the pink
and purple clouds overhead, the sunset inviting me away from Lagan. And his
question.

But my promise dictates my response. No more secrets. With
the absence of fresh wounds, I slowly pull up my sleeve, just an inch or two,
and reveal scars that I’d never shown anyone. I watch his eyes move up and down
my wrist. He instinctively reaches in my direction, but I pull back. I don’t
want him to touch my splotchy, rough skin.

His hand retracts, and Lagan’s eyes moisten as he exhales
one word: “Why?”

I guess by now he’s figured out the
who
in this irrational equation. “Remember
the lists I mentioned to you once?” I preface my explanation.