Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (7 page)

I purposely hold my tongue. I know that Lagan’s name is on
my mind, and if I open my mouth, I will spill out the news of possibility. The
possibility of a friend. I want Jess to know. But I also hate having something
he can’t have. Guilt drives so much of my life that I waffle between telling
him and keeping my life private, knowing he lives vicariously through my life,
but fearing I might inadvertently rub it in.

That night on the roof marked Jess’s decision to get off the
fence. He jumped because Dad said no e-mail. To Jess, no e-mail equated with no
friends. Jess did not speak to anyone at school, but he e-mailed friends he met
online through video game chat rooms. He preferred friends without faces. If
they lived out of state, an explanation of his social bondage deemed
unnecessary. Now he cannot communicate with them at all. Not even get online to
tell them he disappeared. It was the death of him. Even though, technically, he
still breaths. Breathing is about all he does by himself these days, and I bet
if euthanasia was legal, Dad would have injected Jessie before he left the
hospital.

 
The staff that
demanded Jesse be home tutored failed to note one minor detail. Dad seemed to
have friends in every branch of the legal system. I’m sure it didn’t hurt that
as one of the country’s top immigration lawyers, he knew the system. And how to
work it. The threat of disruption to our perfectly orchestrated lives, Dad
being the conductor, of course, didn’t dissipate immediately as it did in the
past, and Dad refused to be bullied over to the other end of the stands. Dad
wore the bully crown, and he had no plans to share his throne. Next thing I
knew, packing topped my evening list, and two weeks before the start of senior
year, we loaded our little world into a small U-Haul and drove north three hours
to Darien, Illinois.

Dad left all of Mom’s stuff in their bedroom, instructing me
not to bring any reminders of her. I took only one thing that I am sure he’ll
never suspect. A strand of her hair. It looks close enough to my hair. I keep
it in an overdue library book I never returned—Faulkner’s
The
Sound and the Fury
. I just
flip to page seventy-one when I need Mom. I run my finger along the length of
the hair, imagining my fingers running through her locks of blackness. Mementos
would only incriminate me.
 

Like the Sticky Notes from Lagan. I reread them ten or so
times and then toss them into the wastebasket on the school grounds before my
walk home. I learned the hard way never to keep any letters from friends. The
week after Mom died, a kid at my old school named Brad befriended me, perhaps
noticing my wet eyes leaking onto my cafeteria tray. Average height,
African-American, sporting an army fade, Brad had two goals in life: to be at
the top of the Honor Role and to please his grandmother. He loved to talk about
his nana
,
who was
counting on him to get that full-ride linebacker ticket to Michigan State.

One afternoon, Brad asked me to join his friends at their
table, carrying my tray over before I could say no. He asked if I needed
anything. He genuinely seemed to care. In my weakness, I let him into my world.
More accurately, I entered his.

Each day, I found myself drawn to Brad and his crew, the
temptation to escape my reality so alluring while surrounded by a group of
lively extroverts. Like a magnet pulling north to south, the group’s carefree
temperament lassoed me in, and for a moment, I pretended to live someone else’s
life. A life where a mom made warm dinners and tucked me in at night. A life
where a dad asked how my day was and kissed my forehead when I had a rough day.
A life where a brother rode his bike to the park to play pickup basketball on
weeknights after his homework was done. A fabricated life. A normal life. A
life not my own.

One day, a few weeks into the charade, Brad wrote me a note
and secretly slipped it into my backpack. I never had a chance to read it. When
I saw Brad in math class, he wrote a “?” on his notebook and held it up to me
after the teacher turned her back to us to chalk problems on the blackboard. I
had no idea what he meant. It was in the note. The note I never found.

Later, in the lunch line, Brad asked me directly. “So,
whaddya
think?”

“About what?” I was clueless.

“My letter. I put it in your backpack. The question I asked
you. You did read it? Right?” Brad eyes widened as his voice rose an octave.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What letter?” I
felt bad, but I didn’t see any letter in my backpack. A few people were still
ahead of us, so I pulled my bag off my shoulder and fished through it for a
loose piece of paper. Nothing.

“I’m sorry.” I shrugged my shoulders. “It must have fallen
out. Why? What’d it say?”

This was the first time I ever heard smooth-talking Brad
stutter. “N-n-nothing. M-m-maybe I’ll write it again, but this time, I’ll put
it in your hands. That way you won’t lose it.”

“Ask me now.” What would be so secretive that he had to
write me a letter, anyway? Unless...

 
As Brad looked
away from me, muttering, “Forget about it,” I suspected that Brad had feelings
for me. Maybe he tried to ask me out. Transported back to kindergarten, my mind
began to think of all the reasons that I couldn’t leave my house. It was only a
matter of time when Brad would see through the excuses and conclude that I
didn’t like him.

“Well, whatever it was that you wanted to ask me, yes! If it
includes lemon ice pops.” I lied. I would cancel later. For now, I savored the
sweet nibble of an undercover crush.

Brad’s smile returned, bigger than ever, and we headed to
our usual table with our tuna casseroles, applesauce dishes, and fruit-punch
juice cartons. While eating lunch together and comparing war stories from
morning classes, Brad lightened up further. Before I knew it, he nudged into my
shoulder as he joked about how he could make a tastier casserole than today’s
main entree any day.  

“I
ain’t
ashamed to admit that I
watch Food Network! Don’t hate on a
brutha
cuz
y’all can’t cook.” Brad proudly claimed his rightful
place among guys who were in touch with their domestic side.

The rest of us laughed, and
Karie
took an unfolded napkin and crowned him “Chef Bradley.”
Karie’s
bouncing red curls only megaphoned her personality, and that day, she wore
green Nike gear that matched her mint-tinted eyes.
 

She plopped down next to Brad to interview him like a talk
show hostess. “Step-by-step instructions, please.”
Karie
used her thumb for a
mic.
“For us little people out
here who don’t know the difference between butter and shortening.”

The growing volume of our laughter blinded me. That’s why I
didn’t notice. Until I noticed.

Dad showed up at school, carrying a briefcase of anger along
with a small, folded-up piece of loose leaf paper. He spotted me and
beelined
to our table, waving the note. The note that Brad
had written.
Of course.
Dad must have snooped in my bag. I smelt
burnt flesh. And I wasn’t even on fire. Yet.

“Which one of you students goes by the name Bradley?” asked
Dad in his steady, stern, lawyer voice.

I didn’t know whether to run away or scream. I imagined
slipping under the table and disappearing through a trap door. As usual, there
was no escaping Dad or his collateral damage.

I stood up to leave with Dad, trying to make eye contact
with Brad and mouth, “Don’t say anything,” but it was too late. Dad saw me
motion to Brad, walked over to our side of the table, tore up the letter into a
hundred pieces, then dropped it onto Brad’s tray, all over his food.

“Don’t even think about it.” He looked directly at Brad, and
if his eyes were swords, the fencing tournament was over. Casualties lay all
around me. If only death were my reality.

Instead, Dad proceeded to grab my tray with one hand, and
with his other hand on my shoulder, he nudged me from behind along the back of
the cafeteria to an isolated table. Then he gently placed my tray down and
nodded his head to the spot in front of it. This was to be my new seat. At this
empty table. Alone.

“And this is where you will sit daily.” He looked into my
eyes with unwavering authority and spoke just loud enough for me to hear. “By
yourself. And for the record, if this boy or any other boy ever tries anything
like that again, you will be homeschooled. By me. Am I clear?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.” Aware of the entire cafeteria staring
at me. “Crystal.”

“Go on. Eat.” Dad stood next to me and watched. And what?
Hoped the dust from his twister entrance would just settle and life would go
on? Same old, same old?

“Is there a problem, Mr. Vanderbilt?” Joanie, the cafeteria
manager, approached from behind Dad, her hands clasped at her waist.

“No ma’am. Leaving now. Have a good day.” Like a light
switch, Dad’s voice softened, and he eased his eagle eye stare when he blinked
and smiled at her.

“You too, sir. You too.” His tone assured her that
everything was fine, so she turned to return to her post by the main cafeteria
doors.

When she reached far away enough to be out of earshot, Dad
turned to punctuate our meeting. “I’ll be checking in on you. Don’t test me.
Stick to the plan. And put the kettle to boil when I get home tonight. I plan
for you never to forget this day. My rules. My words...”

Like a bad commercial I couldn’t fast-forward, the stares of
students drowned me. What I could tune out was his voice. I already knew the
last two words. The scars of “or else” pulsed like surgery wounds on a rainy
day. Brad’s tiny pursuit of me brought on the first time boiling water rained
down on my arm. My personal weather forecast all week, every week simply
became, “Rainy with a ninety-five percent chance of...more rain.” No surprises
there.

The little sunshine I knew for those few weeks teased me
like a trip to Southern California. But there was no going back. My friends
quickly drifted away from me. Who wouldn’t retreat from a girl with a freak
dad? And Brad? He avoided my eyes, but he and I both knew there was no point.
He never rewrote the letter. I would never know for sure. Dad had complete
control of my life, and Brad walked away. It was easier to walk away. I
understood. I might have done the same thing had the tables been turned.

And then the tables changed. From the wooden, splintering
tabletops of Benton Harbor to the smooth,
Windexed
laminate tops of Hinsdale North. Table for two had a fresh coat of paint on it.
And this girl had to do next to nothing. Besides never sit right next to
someone. Keep a watchful eye. And just show up.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Leaving
Benton Harbor was easy enough. I had no friends. I had no mom. I had nothing to
look forward to and nothing to live for. Until now. Until Lagan. Close to two
years have passed since a boy, any boy, paid two seconds of attention to me.

Each time that I peel off a Post-it note addressed to me,
Dad might emerge from behind my locker. Each time I eat a few seats down from
Lagan, Dad could turn up in the cafeteria, just to “check on me.” I remain on
guard always, and without spelling it out, Lagan adjusts to my pace, even when
my heart crawls slower than a limping snail. And yet, over several weeks, the
small doses of nods and exchanges amount to something I experience for the
first time. Ever. Friendship. A friend.

The whole thing makes no sense. But Lagan, no matter how
many roadblocks I construct, continues to press on. Maybe he likes a challenge.
Or maybe he actually wants this. Each time I answer no, I wonder what makes him
return to me. To the possibility of me, that is.

“Do you have a cell phone?” He interrupts me during American
History with a fresh set of questions, no assignment pending.

“No.” I don’t bother looking up from my text to answer.

Ms. Rose flips through a
Time
magazine at her desk.

“Do you have an e-mail address?” Lagan asks his second
question.

“No.”

“Fax machine?”

“Nope.”

“Internet access?”

“Nada.”

“Are you allowed to get snail mail?”

“Not unless it’s my report card.”

“Do you want to go to the movies?”

Wouldn’t that
be fun!
“Yes. But no
thanks.”

“Are you allowed to go out with friends?”

Pause.
Do you have to make me say it?
Sigh. “No.”

Then a breakthrough. Sort of.

“Are you allowed to go to the library?”

I think about this. For most of my school projects, Dad
purchased extensive encyclopedia software. If I can think of something I need
for school that isn’t covered, the library has potential. Still seems risky,
though. Dad would probably accompany me and stay until I checked books out.
“Maybe.”