Mom stayed quiet, but as I dressed her into clean, cotton pajamas, tears began to slowly slip down her cheeks. I wiped them with my kisses and told Mom, “Everything’s gonna be okay,” knowing it was a promise I could not keep. I was twelve years old. I did not even know what okay looked like. I tucked her into bed under the covers and Febrezed the room, closet, and hallway until the bottle shook empty, then headed downstairs to join Jesse in the kitchen.
When Dad came home, Jess and I clicked on autopilot, putting the groceries away and holding our tongues, hoping Dad would approve. Back to normal, Dad’s version of “normal” was the closest thing to stability we knew, and that was the best we could hope for. But normal didn’t return overnight.
Mom had her first nervous breakdown in the closet. I understood this a year later when she had a subsequent breakdown, and the signs resonated unpleasant familiarity. Two months passed before Mom spoke again. Somehow, she found the physical strength to get out of bed the next morning and pick up her list and check it off, one task at a time, as if the last two days had never happened. Her robotic, emotionless activity introduced new terror and confusion. Had Mom crossed over to Dad’s side now? Jess and I walked around on eggshells all day long now, whether or not Dad was home. Until one day in May, some two months later.
It was May 12, Dad’s birthday. Mom woke up, and like a toy with fresh batteries, she waltzed into the kitchen and cooked up a huge breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon, all before my alarm went off. In the center of the table, a homemade card for Dad leaned against the Cheerios like a paper menu at a restaurant. The cover contained the words I Love You scrawled in red lipstick. I imagined they were written with her blood, and I dismissed this as part of Mom’s new insanity. Mom’s demeanor shifted from somber to chipper, and it felt strangely worse than the silence.
“Good morning, Talia. Good morning, Justice. Come sit for breakfast.” My jaw dropped at the choice of her words. One word. “Today is a wonderful day. Do you remember that today is Gerard’s birthday? It sure is. We should all be on our best behavior as a gift to your father.” Weren’t we always?
And why was she calling Jesse “Justice?” Yet another suggestion she was on Dad’s side? Ugh! What was wrong with her?
“Sit down now. What can I get you? Eggs? Pancakes? Toast? Bacon? Milk? Juice?” And she carried on until we ascended the school bus, and she waved to us like we were leaving for summer camp, wishing us a great day and telling us to do our best in school and shouting that she’d have milk and cookies ready for us when we returned home. All the kids on the bus stared at Jess and me. Nothing unusual about that.
As I looked back at the house, I saw my dad kiss my mom goodbye on the driveway before he opened his car door, got in, and backed out. The bus driver stopped only two blocks from our street while we waited for Joey, who nearly missed his ride as he ran down the hill every single morning. I looked back at Mom, wondering if an alien had invaded her body, because I saw her kiss her fingers and blow on her hand in the direction of Dad’s car. I nearly vomited right there in the bus, swallowing to keep breakfast down and turning to face the front of the bus. Life shifted back to a new kind of normal, and I adjusted my heart’s rudder to the wind of the season. A wind that blew in temporary peace, intermittent with the usual disappointments and punishments of life as I knew it.
CHAPTER SIX
My arm reminds me that the list comes first. I race around after school to get everything done well before Dad reaches home. Jess’s eyes shift left and right as he watches me zip back and forth, from room to room. By the time I wheel my brother into the kitchen, his face displays a mix of guilt and disappointment. I don’t slow down to chitchat about my day at school, and I know that’s unfair. I am his only connection to the real world, and Jesse lives for the stories of teenagers dressed in trendy threads, teachers who make goofy blunders, even assemblies regarding new school policies.
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 y
ou. 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.”
“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.
Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) Page 5