Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (24 page)

No one is out, except for a few kids on their sleds racing
down the empty street, no traffic to worry about. I look back to see Jesse
picking up his legs one at time to work his way toward me. His eyelashes are
covered with dainty snowflakes. Neither of us has ever made a snowman. How hard
can it be? I fall back onto an untouched area in the yard, and sway my arms and
legs, then stumble forward as I rise to look back.
My
first snow angel.
I blink
away flakes on my eyelids that get immediately replaced with fresh ones.

As I circle the scene, my eyes can barely take in the
beauty. The whole earth, every branch, every inch of earth, is perfectly white.
Perfectly clean. Perfectly lovely.

I close my eyes, pull my scarf down, and stick out my
tongue. I’m in my own world when...ouch! A snowball hits my back. Jess declares
war from a bank he’s hiding behind near the front hedges.
Forget
the snowman.
Revenge calls
my name. I hop from spot to spot,
beelining
for the
biggest tree in our yard. Jesse nails me two more times before I dive for
cover. I eat a little more than a few flakes in my ridiculous
Mission
Impossible
reenactment. Tom
Cruise would be embarrassed to have me as a partner, but the night is young. I
form several snowballs before I turn to fire them toward my enemy. Jesse
catches them like baseballs and shoots them right back at me.
Not
fair!

We’re so consumed by our war, neither of us notices the
abominable snowman making his way up the driveway.
The
mailman?
Except that he has
no mail.

When he turns, and I recognize his eyes, I point at Jesse
and scream for help. “Lagan! Get him!” I need help. I have yet to hit Jesse
once! Lagan drops down and produces power-packed ammunition within seconds.
Finally!
A little testosterone to show Jesse he
can’t push me around!

“Ouch!” A snowball nails me in the arm, and I realize that I
gloated too soon. “Lagan! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“My bad.” He laughs out frosty steam puffs. “I thought you
said boys against girls!”

Next thing I know, Lagan and Jesse fire away while edging up
on me, and I barely rise to my feet to run away when I’m tackled face first
into the snow by the boys’ team. My second snow meal today. Yum! Cold! Glad
it’s not yellow.

“No fair!” I spit snow out of my mouth and try to wiggle out
from under the weight of two sets of bulging teen biceps. “Time out!”

“We’ll let you out if you...” Lagan shifts slightly toward
Jesse, holding out an open hand while keeping the other tightly wrapped around
my knees.

“If you agree to make us hot chocolate and homemade cookies
when we go inside.” Jess fills in the blank.

“Not a chance!” I retort. “I am not rewarding this unjust
behavior!”

“Okay then…bacon. I’ll let you go for a few strips of
perfectly crisped bacon.” Lagan throws a gleeful grin my way and burrows his
head into my back like it’s a pillow. “Or we’ll just lay here till you can’t
feel your toes!”

Jess chimes in. “No can do on the bacon, but I know we have
the stuff for cookies.” Then he turns to me. “Last I heard, it’s pretty hard to
bake with frostbitten fingers.”

I weigh my options, as if I have many, and cave in. “Okay!
Just let me go already!”

We play in the snow for a while longer, until Jess feels his
legs giving out, and then we make our way to the back door. Shaking off the
snow before entering, Jess keels over when the back door opens. I remove my
snow gear quickly and race to retrieve the wheelchair, dry clothes, and a
blanket. Jess is so tired that he lets Lagan help him peel back his socks in
order to put new ones on. A sweater and slippers with a blanket over his lap do
the job. He starts to thaw, and I leave in order to get myself into dry
clothes. Lagan hasn’t removed his layers besides his gloves and hat when I
return downstairs.

“Should I stay?” Lagan needs permission.

“Of course!”

I fill him in on the details of Dad’s delay. How I wanted to
call him. How he came. “By the way, how did you know my dad wouldn’t be home?”

Lagan looks pleased with himself as he reveals his plan.
“Well, I hoped he’d be at work. But if he wasn’t, I planned to offer to shovel
your driveway. Teenagers always try to make a quick buck on snow days.”

“Hmm.” I nod, impressed with the simplicity of his idea. “If
Dad does somehow show up, we’ll have to explain why we’re feeding this teenager
before he shoveled the driveway!”

“That’s easy. Teens always work harder after eating.” Lagan
raises his eyebrows playfully. “I’ll happily shovel for the price of a cup of
hot cocoa and a couple of warm, out-of-the-oven goodies.”

Jesse jumps in to agree. “Of course. Dad will buy that
explanation hands down. So we—I mean you—best get to baking.”

“I’ll help.” Lagan hangs up his snow gear on the back door
hook. “But I have to warn you, I need a lot of guidance in the kitchen. The
only reason the last brownies I baked turned out was because my cousin is a pro
when it comes to baked goods. Rani says you never stick to the time on a
recipe. A few minutes beforehand is better since things keep cooking on hot
trays even after you pull them out. But I’m a by-the-book type of guy. Anyway,
where do you keep your flour? And measuring cups?”

Lagan opens cabinets while Jess and I just watch silently
for a moment. Jess’s eyes say what I’m thinking.
This feels
right.
Company. A friend.
Baking together. A day of freedom tastes even sweeter than either of us
expected. Never thought it would occur inside the beehive. When the king’s
away, the peasants will play. Something like that, right?

That evening, we feast on oatmeal raisin cookies and frothy
hot chocolate. Everyone takes seconds, and then we finish off the soup I made
earlier. When Lagan checks his watch, he jumps up to start clearing dishes.

“You don’t have to...”

“Yes, I do. It’s the least I can do after such a scrumptious
dinner. But I should get going before my parents start looking for my name
listed under the newspaper’s list of SCD—Snowplow Collateral Damage.
Those guys drive half-asleep when they’ve been up all night salting the roads.”

Jesse chuckles and rolls himself into the living room to
watch TV. We’ve never had so much free time on our hands. Maybe we’ll stay up
all night too.

The clock reads 8:00 p.m., and it’s dark outside. As if
reading my thoughts, Lagan nudges my shoulder at the kitchen sink. “Don’t
worry. I’m a big boy. I’ll call you when I get home to let you know I’m safe
after dialing star sixty-seven. That way my number stays blocked from the
caller ID. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Our hands collide in a soap-filled sink, and I couldn’t have
asked for a happier day. Especially since Jesse genuinely allowed Lagan to be a
part of our lives today. Lagan shakes hands with Jess, telling him how proud he
is of his progress. “You got a killer throw, dude. You should think about
baseball. In the spring, of course, after all the snow melts.”

“Of course.” Jess smiles big, then wheels himself back to
the living room on cue to allow Lagan to say goodbye to me.

“Thanks, umm, for coming by.” I fumble for words, suddenly
aware it’s just the two of us.

“Hey.” Lagan raises my chin with his hand. “I did have a
reason for coming over.”

“All right.” I shrug my shoulders. “Are you
gonna
tell me, or do I have to guess?”

“Well...” Lagan looks away for a moment. “You see, I wanted
to ask you something. And I had to do it in person. I want to know if you’ll
let me W4U?”

“W4U?” I chuckle at his newest acronym. “I’m guessing it’s
pretty serious for you to chance turning into Frosty just to ask in person.”

“You could say that.” Lagan tips his head, like he’s
searching my eyes for permission to continue. “It stands for Wait For You.
Because I will. Wait. For as long as it takes. To be with you.”

“W4U, huh?” I’m trying to make light of the weighty words
that linger between us. The questions I can’t answer. A timeline I can’t
predict. “It might take a long time. A really long time.” I’m so close to
saying it, and then he does.

With his hands turned up and animated, he turns on a thick,
Italian accent and says, “For what? For you?
Forevah
!”

I can’t help but giggle at his antics, and then Lagan steps
closer. Gently kisses two fingers and then places his fingers on my lips and
rests them there. My broken lips. With his pulsing, unscathed fingers, he
kisses me. And I cannot breathe.

“And for the record, forever isn’t too long.” Lagan’s
fingers playfully swirl off my lips and down my chin, and then he turns to open
the back door. “I’ll see you soon. The seventeenth, if not sooner.”

The door closes and I stand there, my trembling hand resting
over my mouth.

Nothing like a snow day to make my first snow angel.

To taste a kiss on my lips.

To flirt with forever.

Nothing like a snow day.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

The
last time this much snow surrounded us was the winter before Mom died. The fall
preceding that bitter Benton Harbor December marked the last season Mom had
hair and the last time Dad yelled at her. Jesse and I were thirteen and
fourteen years old, respectively. The neighbors across the street had moved out
a month before, and a Penske truck pulled up one October day unannounced. We
watched the moving guys take trips back and forth between the truck and the
house from our kitchen window. Dad wasn’t back from work, so all three of us
finished our chores and enjoyed a few moments of peace while the driveway lay empty.

I saw the way Mom’s eyes shifted from our driveway to the
mom across the street. She wanted to meet her. She needed an excuse. She looked
at the clock, wondering if she should gamble. I’d seen this look in her eyes
before. She had an idea.

Mom opened up the cupboards, pulled out a platter and asked
Jesse and I to quickly grab one of each type of fruit from the produce basket
in the fridge. Jesse washed the fruit while I found the extra cutting boards
stored under the kitchen sink. With all three of us chopping away, we had a
colorful ensemble ready in no time. Mom fiddled with the Glad wrap while Jesse
and I washed the dishes, threw out peels, and wiped down the
counter—experts at getting rid of evidence. Stealing glances between the
clock and the movers, I knew that Mom only had fifteen minutes to play with if
Dad returned at his usual time of 4:45 p.m. The clock on the microwave flipped
to 4:31.

“You two run along to your rooms and do your extra reading,”
Mom said. “I’ll be right back.”

Jesse and I exchanged glances, then looked at Mom, wishing
her luck with our eyes, and scurried on up to our bedrooms. As soon as we heard
the front door shut, we raced back down to watch Mom meet the family through
the kitchen window. Seeing Mom make a friend was better than watching TV. Jesse
put his arm around my shoulder, and for a brief moment we tasted the crumbs of
possibility.

Instinctively, my eyes shifted among three spots: from Mom,
to the clock, and to the driveway. “Hurry,” I whispered, as we watched Mom smiling
and our new neighbor giving her a side hug.

Dad’s black Acura pulled up into the driveway. Early. The
clock read 4:40. And just like that, the sun turned black and the crumbs turned
poisonous. Death came a-knocking, and Jesse and I flew like our tails were on
fire up to our rooms. We knew better than to be in each other’s room, but I so
wished for Jesse’s hand to squeeze. My nails dug into the pages of John Green’s
Paper Towns
when I heard the front door slam shut.
Dad.
Seconds later, the door opened and shut again.
Mom.
The air smelled noxious with
uncertainty. Only thing I was certain of: it was
gonna
be bad.

A little over two years after the closet incident and Mom’s
crazed recovery, when the new neighbors moved in across the street, the wind
changed direction again—this time into a twister that none of us would
ever recover from. I heard Dad’s footsteps making his rounds to his office,
then to each room, checking and double-checking our workmanship. When he made
his way back to the kitchen, I snuck down to the first floor to peek in,
staying hidden by crouching in the stairwell. I could see Mom standing with her
hands gripped on the sides of the kitchen sink. The water was running, and
someone had pulled the curtains shut.

Dad was at the other end of the kitchen, and I watched his
back as he opened the cabinet to remove a stack of Corning Ware plates. He held
a single dish up in the air, smashed it against the granite top, and
then—to my horror—he turned and threw the jagged, broken plate like
a dart at Mom’s back. The dish made a dull sound against Mom’s shirt before it
shattered to pieces as it hit the tile floor. She buckled over the sink, then
pulled herself back to a stand like a wounded soldier trying to save her
dignity. Then a second. My eyes blurred instantly and I couldn’t watch any
longer. I bit my lip to keep from screaming and ran back up to my room and
waited for the sound of the last breaking dish. They just kept coming. And with
each sound wave of broken glass, I punched the carpet floor by my bedroom door,
wishing for the impossible. That Dad’s sadistic appetite could be quenched
sooner rather than later. For Dad to cut himself on a broken dish and bleed to
death. For time to rewind.