Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (8 page)

“Is your dad a cop?”

“No.” More like an armed felon hiding under a fancy suit, I
want to say. “He’s a lawyer. Immigration Law.”

“Close enough. Maybe it’s the whole overprotective dad
thing?” Lagan’s voice strains as if he’s reaching for the sugar on the top
shelf. Problem is, poisonous pellets fill the sugar tin. And he has no clue.

“Something like that.” Actually, I don’t know that I have
ever thought it through. It is all I know. I learned at an early age not to
question Dad. I don’t know if I have ever asked myself why Dad does what he
does. Does he take home all his pent up frustrations from work, perhaps from
representing overseas clients who are never awake during Central Standard Time?
Mom told us once that she met Dad at work, but the story ended there. Maybe Dad
missed Mom and took it out on us? My eyebrows must have burrowed into each
other, showing my dislike of the question.

“Sorry for asking.” Lagan looks genuinely sorry, his averted
eyes accompanying his lowered voice.

“No. It’s just. I don’t have a good explanation. It’s just
my life, I guess.”

***

These
are better days—we have graduated from nodding to cafeteria trays. I
still discern where and when I’ll risk real conversations. Unforeseen
opportunities arise in English Lit circles, Science Lab, during assemblies, and
occasionally in study hall in the school library, if we secure two side-by-side
cubicles.

I love how Lagan creatively tells me about himself while
asking me about me. During a team math competition, he quickly moves his chair
next to mine. He has no intention of winning. He has every intention of digging
deeper.

After knocking a geometry proof out, he scrawls,
Chocolate
or Vanilla?
on the scratch
paper.

I circle
Vanilla
and write the words
of course
underneath.

He puts a question mark after my words.

I scribble back,
Everyone loves chocolate
. Vanilla seems lonely. I prefer to
represent the underdog. I shrug to let him know it might not make sense, but it
makes sense to me. He changes my period to an explanation point. He either
approves or he’s excited. Doesn’t take much, apparently.

After the second question,
Comedy or
Suspense?
appears from
beneath his writing hand, I have to think back to the last time I saw a movie.
It was with Mom.
The Fisher King.
A nineties flick starring a comedian Mom
used to love.

I cross out
suspense
and write
romantic
in front of
comedy
.

He smirks and writes,
CIA Suspense like the Bourne Trilogy,
but I like those too.
Shhh
. don’t tell anyone. Have a
rep to uphold. Don’t want the guys to know I’m into chick flicks
, and then proceeds to black out the
words
chick flicks
as he surveys the room suspiciously.

By the time I answer ten questions, all the teams have
handed in their contest sheets. We’re last, but I don’t care. We have a few fun
facts to walk away with.

I prefer spring. He likes autumn.

He plays basketball. I can run. Pretty fast if I need to.

He plays the guitar. Writes his own music, apparently. I
play a mean vacuum.

I can bake from scratch. He has mastered mac and cheese from
the box.

He chooses bacon over sausage any day. I prefer bacon, too.
But turkey. He’s all for the pig’s contribution to the best scents to radiate
from a kitchen.

He loves music: to sing it, dance to it, or
just listen to it all day long. So would I if I had time. Not sure about the
dancing thing, though.

He owns an iPod. I listen to the radio of my
alarm clock.

I read fiction. He doesn’t like to read. Well, there’s one
book he reads every day. A little weird, but okay.

I investigate further that day during lunch. “What’s it
called?”

“What’s what called?” Lagan needs to work on his short-term
memory is what I’m thinking.

“The one book you read?” Duh!

“Oh that. It’s nothing. Just a little book on life and war.
You probably wouldn’t get into it.”

“Try me. I don’t mind a story on war. Who’s the hero?” Heck,
any war story that isn’t my own would be a nice diversion.  

“Heroes. Plural. That would be you. And me. And the
gardener.”

Speak for
yourself. I’m nobody’s hero.
I roll my eyes and say, “Whatever. So what’s the gardener’s name? Does he fight
with a spade or a rake? Do you even know the difference between a weed and a
flower?”

Lagan holds his hand over his heart and throws his head back
before saying with theatrical gusto, “Ouch! Feeling my heartbeat slowing
to..a
...”—he falls off his stool— “stop.”

“Now if I ROFLOL, the school newspaper will report a
cafeteria poisoning. That might get us a better menu. Hmm? Now there’s food
for...What were we talking about?”

Back upright with his lower lip slightly jutting, I wonder
if he’ll ever get used to a girl who is not easily impressed.

He answers my question. The next day at lunch, he hands me a
book.

“
The Beautiful Fight
by Blank,” I read aloud. “Sounds
violent.” Besides, how can there be anything beautiful about fighting? “Who’s
Blank? Is he a one-name wonder like Madonna or Sting?”

“
Haha
. Blank is where you fill in your
name. Because you’re part of the story.
Wanna
borrow
it? I put Sticky Notes to mark my favorite parts.” He slides it over to my side
of the cafeteria table.

“With all my free time...” I’m pretty certain that between
Dad’s lists and homework, I’ll never get to it. I pick up the book and check
the Post-it notes. They’re blank, like the author name. “Okay, on one
condition.”

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Lagan says, “I don’t need it back
anytime soon. I have a second copy. Keep it. Or not.”

“Yeah. That’s what I was
gonna
ask.”
How did you know?
I don’t do well with deadlines. And sounds like that’s the case, so... “Thanks.
I think.”

I turn over the average-sized book that has a plant budding
from the earth with a brilliant red sunrise in the backdrop. Pretty. On closer
examination, that’s no plant. It’s a sword, the sun’s rays creating a brilliant
metallic luster when they hit the emerging weapon.

When I get home, I carefully move Mom’s precious strand to
Lagan’s book. Now I have two people to think about each time I open this book.
Whether I read it or not is TBD.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

The
date is February 7. We’ve been playing these games for five months, and
 
Lagan still has no clue regarding the
hell I return to each day after school. I shake my head, Etch –A Sketch-style,
and soak in Lagan’s latest innovation to enter my head and heart. He names our
conversation over lunch today, “Face-to-Face,” giving me two Sticky Notes
during math class—one with a happy face and one with a sad
face—with instructions to bring them to lunch with me.

Basically, I put one face on each side of my tray: on the
left sits the happy face, and on the right, the sad one.

“If the word I say makes you happy, put your hand on the
happy face. If it makes me sad, cover the sad face.” Lagan smiles, and I nod.
Simple enough.

I pick up a spoon heaping with applesauce. My lips are well
scabbed over for a change, so they don’t sting as I eat today. I swallow a
second spoonful and wait for the first word.

Lagan clears his throat and looks up at the ceiling.
“Blueberries.”

I move my left hand over the happy face. I prefer
raspberries, but blueberries are a close second.

After looking side to side, Lagan says his second word:
“Swimming.”

I put my hand back on the smiley face. Swimming reminds me
of Mom. Plus I love that the world becomes silent underwater. I think of the
beach near our Benton Harbor home. The last time I swam was over five years
ago, when Jess wasn’t bedbound. I have no idea when I’ll swim again, but if
given a choice, I’d choose the life of a fish any day.

“Reading.” Lagan’s next word pulls me to the surface of my
shallow dive into the past.

Another easy one—happy face covered again. Although I
do hate reading one thing: the lists with Dad’s perfectly legible cursive
letters.
Curse those lists. Curse Dad.

“Homework,” Lagan says, reining me back.

I think I surprise him when I cover the smiley face again.
For me, homework means that many fewer minutes I spend doing housework.
  

Lagan raises an eyebrow and then shrugs his shoulders.

“Home.” Like a log falling on the tracks, Lagan derails my
train of thought.

I expect a curveball at some point, but I don’t expect to
hallucinate. I see the etch of the sad face on the Sticky Note turn into Dad’s
head with a finger raised to his lips, warning me to give nothing away.
Instinctively, I flip the Post-it note over and put my hand over it. I hide
Dad’s face when I come out of hiding. I’m not exactly sure why I choose to
cover the sad face, knowing that Lagan might suspect something. The fact that he
never pushes me for details helps. He just allows me to peel back my heart, one
thin layer at a time.  

I keep the frowning, face covered, when I hear Lagan’s next
word: “Jesse.” I look at my hand on top of the sad face as I realize that I
feel both when it comes to Jess. I flip the sad face upright again, cover it,
and move my other hand. Now both the faces are covered. Lagan knows I have a
brother at home named Jesse. But he has no idea why he isn’t attending school.
Or the fact that Jess is the sole reason that I can’t run away.

Wanting to run away now, I decide that detective Lagan had
collected enough clues for today. I look at the clock on the wall. I pull my
hands into my lap, then start organizing the garbage on my tray. The lunch bell
won’t ring for another ten minutes. I stare at the simple round faces. One
happy. One sad. Life in 2-D appeals to me. I would trade my reality for this
alternative any day.

“No more words,” I say. I’m done. I have no more to give.

We eat in silence as the minutes pass.

Bell about to ring now, I rise from the table.

Lagan rises too. “Last two, I promise.”

“No.”
 

“Lagan,” he says the first. His name.

I look up and scan the room. Deep breath. I look back at
Lagan, into those dark brown, almond-shaped eyes, perhaps for the first time,
and smile. My hand slips over the happy face and the bell sounds.

He smiles back and reaches over, placing his hand on top of
mine. “Say your name.”

It’s time to go. My heart pounds a mile a minute. I can feel
heat seeping into my hand, and I am melting. Escape or chance passing out.

“Please.” Lagan’s hand wraps a little tighter around mine.
“Say your name.”

“Umm. Uh. Okay.” I stutter, trying to find my voice.
“Talia.”

Lagan slides my hand off the happy face with his hand. And
moves his hand to cover it. Smile stretched wide, he picks up the yellow
Post-it, holds it to his chest, and taps a playful heartbeat over the note.
Over his heart.

I shake my head, look up to the ceiling, and half expect a
ton of confetti to rain down. Warmth spreads over my face. As usual, Lagan
takes my tray for me in exchange for a Sticky Note before we head out of the
cafeteria. This one has just one word on it:
Like.

I am still blushing when I look up to see Lagan’s back
walking away. Luckily, blushing isn’t too dangerous for this bronze-toned teen
girl. A blush feels like a spreading heat wave without the rosy cheeks. If this
is what it feels like to be struck by lightning, I’ve been struck twice in less
than a minute. First his hand on mine, then his animated exit. I rub the back
of my hand where his hand rested and raise it to my healing lips. Yes. I draw
an imaginary check mark in the air. Definite
like
.

I fingertip tap into my palm, my imaginary iPhone, to update
my status: “Met a boy that makes me smile. Sure do hope he stays a
while.” Not wanting to get ahead of myself, I alter the word
Single
to
It’s complicated
.

CHAPTER
NINE

Walking
home, my mind hurdles back and forth between two bridges, the gap between them
so wide, each leap reminds me that failure to return to the correct side in
time will cost me. Yet, for the first time ever, risk appeals to me. Perhaps
this little taste of happiness is worth the fall from Dad’s grace that
threatens my every breath. I inhale deeply and jump.