All the Water I've Seen Is Running

by Elias Rodriques

  You living in Central Florida? I say. Two hours from the beach?

  I’m saying though, Desmond says, we was dreaming real big. You don’t even know. Then Tati’s mom died. Her and Egypt was spending lots of time together. Sometimes I was there too, but not much. It’s too hard to talk about feeling sad and shit with niggas you ain’t that close with.

  Someone honks. Desmond jumps, then eases forward and drives along.

  Forgot we was on the road, I say.

  Ain’t forget, he says. Just ain’t care.

  We drive in silence for a little. Desmond rolls down the window, then rolls it back up, as though he were considering smoking again and then decided against it.

  Then Tati joined the military, I say.

  Right, he says. Fucked Egypt up real bad. Decide she ain’t want to transfer till Tati left. So she got a job working the front desk for some realtor. I was still working at the car wash. We was just filling our time with work and kicking it and feeding ourselves I guess. But when Tati left, I think she got scared. Her mom fell and had to get knee surgery and go to rehab and Egypt was helping her through it. Figure she got worried about what’d happen to her parents if she left.

  Or maybe the cost scared her off, Des continues. Her pops ain’t never recover from 2008, so she’d have to pay for college all on her own. The day she seen what tuition cost at UCF, all of a sudden she talking about how she could take classes at DBCC and become a nurse or a dental assistant, about how she could make good money and live cheap in Palm Coast. Sooner or later, she stopped talking about leaving. I finished my classes and did the same. We just been living that way since. Wake up, work, eat, maybe see each other, go to bed, do the same thing the next day. Maybe go to a bar or put something in the air on Fridays and Saturdays. Start the week over again.

  After a row of near identical homes in the L section, Desmond pulls into a redbrick driveway and parks behind a black SUV and a small silver coupe. The lawn here is perfectly kept, as are the hedges in front of the house, the small line of flowers in front of them, and the carefully laid stones at their base.

  Let me talk to Egypt real quick, Desmond says, stepping out of the car.

  The summer after we graduated, when Desmond got his car, she used to run out of the house and slam the grille on the front door behind her. Its clang sounded like the high pitch of a hammer striking steel. Her father always yelled about the noise, but she kept running, rolling her eyes as she did. Today, Egypt stands on the step in front of the grille, leans into the house to kiss her mother on the cheek, and closes the door softly. Desmond meets her in the driveway. She stands an arm’s distance from him. Egypt’s mouth moves quickly, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. He shrugs. She shakes her head. Desmond gestures to the car. She rolls her eyes. He kisses her on the cheek and then waves me out.

  Outside, the night is brighter than I expected. Stars cover the sky from one end to the other. I walk over to Egypt and Desmond. She smiles. At the edge of her lips, a soft pink cloud sits just beneath where her cheekbones jut out and I can see the one-half Ethiopian she would never let me forget. I wish I looked like her, I think to myself as she walks toward me, her smile growing and her steps awkwardly long like that of a child forbidden from running in the school hallways. She throws her arms around my neck, clutches tight, and then pulls away.

  Look at you, looking all grown, Egypt says. But why y’all covered in dirt?

  Ask Des, I say.

  He told me to ask you.

  He got the story.

  What’d that fool get you into?

  Egypt lets go, her hands slide to her hips, and she looks at Desmond.

  Nothing, Egypt. Damn, he says. He just kidding.

  Egypt crosses her arms. Lips pouting, she stands about a half foot beneath Desmond, letting him hold her.

  You better watch yourself, she says.

  See what I’m talking about? he says.

  I don’t want no part of this, I say.

  What you were saying about what? she says.

  Let’s get in the car, I say.

  I walk to the passenger seat and open the door.

  Out my throne, clown, she says. The Queen sits there.

  I look at Desmond and he shrugs.

  Don’t you go looking at him, she says. He knows who runs this town.

  I slide the seat forward, climb into the back, and slouch against the worn cushions. As I shift to get comfortable, my legs feel heavy with fatigue. It would be nice to close my eyes for a minute. The adrenaline has long since worn off. But my stomach is still fluttering and my worries about dinner prop my eyes open.

  One night when I was in middle school, in the early 2000s, Mom was cooking dinner and Junior was drawing when we heard a knock at the door. Mom told me to see who it was. When I opened the door, a brown-skinned man shorter than me shifted on his feet. He wore slacks and a white button-down shirt. Laugh lines creased his cheeks and wrinkles folded his forehead. His hair was white. His deep-set eyes lit up. He reached out to touch me.

  Daniel, he said.

  Mom yelled from the kitchen, asking who was at the door. I was still shocked, so I didn’t respond as he pulled me into a hug. Moments later, Mom walked over to the door holding a glass bowl. She saw my father and cursed under her breath. She dropped the bowl and it shattered. Mom cursed again. I pulled away from my father to help her.

  She’s got it, he said.

  My father came inside and said he wanted to take us out to dinner. Mom asked me what I wanted to do. I said I wanted to go. We went to a Caribbean restaurant in Flatbush. The dinner passed in such a blur that I don’t remember what anyone said. When we left him and returned home, Mom asked Junior and me if we had given our information out. We said no. She had long since told us never to give out our address. She had our number taken off the phone books. He must have hired a private eye. We were never going to get rid of him.

  Shortly thereafter, we moved to Florida, and my father never appeared on my doorstep again. But I have spent a lot of time thinking about what I would do if he did. Sometimes I fantasize about hitting him. When I do, I eventually picture the cops pulling a young man off of a frail old-timer, removing him from the scene in handcuffs. Then I remember that I could have hit him when he showed up on our doorstep and I didn’t. I can’t believe I hugged him. Even now, sitting in Desmond’s car, I’m disappointed with myself.

  Y’all been riding around in quiet? Egypt asks.

  Tell the truth, Desmond says, I ain’t even notice.

  Pass the cord back here then, I say.

  Nigga, Egypt says, where you think you at?

  Egypt plugs in her phone. Over mid-range piano chords, a voice pitched impossibly high by autotune sings about crying. It continues at a slow pace, elongating the syllables. The processed voice sounds robotic as it sings that it cannot be there, and a human one responds that he can still dream of the other’s return.

  You got to cut the R&B, I say.

  Thought you were an R&B type of nigga, Desmond says.

  Fuck’s that supposed to mean? I ask.

  You know, now that you be fucking men and shit.

  Egypt slaps his arm and the car swerves left for a moment. Then Desmond corrects its course.

  What’d I tell you about hitting me while I’m driving?

  Just because you driving don’t mean you holding me hostage, Egypt says, and then kisses her teeth. Sorry about him, Daniel. You know how he’s insensitive and shit.

  What I’m being insensitive about?

  You know what you did.

  Sorry I don’t speak proper, Miss Brown Skin, Desmond says.

  Egypt stifles her laughter. After a moment, Desmond laughs too, like a kid who didn’t think he would get away with his trespass. In the silence, the singer recalls a conversation with his friends about his father, whom he has never known, but whom he misses all the same.

  You don’t like Frank Ocean? Egypt asks.

  That nigga like Frank Ocean,
Desmond says. He just fronting because I’m here.

  He’s your people, Egypt says.

  We crack up as we drive over the bridge connecting the L section and the F section. In high school, we spent one practice a week sprinting to the top, turning around, and jogging down. Back then, when I crested the bridge, I couldn’t feel my legs. My lungs heaved so heavily I thought they would never slow down.

  You think he’s ever going to release more music? I ask.

  Heard he’s working on some new shit now, Egypt says.

  That ain’t what I heard, Desmond says. I heard he was making a fashion line.

  I heard he was in South Korea writing a novel, I say.

  A book? Desmond says. That nigga crazy.

  As we descend the bridge, to our left, opposite the school, is a field of low-lying brush that looks like it belongs in the desert. The soil here is too sandy for anything with deep roots to grow. On our right, we pass the metal bleachers and the football field and the track. It looks unnaturally empty, as though someone should be out there, popping out of the blocks late into the night, chasing a faster time, a brighter future.

  You ain’t tripping though, Egypt? I ask.

  About what?

  Me being gay.

  You think I ain’t know?

  Desmond turns to her and asks, You knew?

  Seen that coming from a mile away, she says. Way back in high school.

  But I dated girls back then, I say.

  You wasn’t never really feeling them though, Egypt says.

  Desmond rolls his eyes and says, You ain’t know.

  I stay knowing a lot of things you ain’t never even thought about, Desmond Robinson, she says. I done forgot things you wish you knew.

  She called you stupid, Des, I say. You going to take that?

  You better shut your mouth back there, Baby D, Desmond says. I’m about five seconds away from pulling over, taking you out that car seat, and beating your ass.

  We keep talking as we pass our old school. A chain-link fence surrounds it. The building is a long stack of bricks that sits two floors high. Thick metal grates cover evenly spaced windows. The school was built to function as a hurricane shelter, though no one I know ever went there during one. Since I left, I read that they’ve installed metal detectors. The school security officers carry Tasers now.

  The boy in your pictures, Egypt says, the one with the Clark boots. That your boyfriend?

  He was, I say. We broke up.

  After the school, a ditch runs on our right, where one of our classmates rolled his car and died our senior year. After that, a reflective barrier went up where the road curves to announce the turn. People still crashed, but fewer died there.

  Know it ain’t my business and all, Egypt says, and I’m happy to see you and whatnot, but you look like you ain’t had a haircut in months.

  He ain’t right, Desmond says. Lost his cool about Aubrey today.

  You stop him?

  Desmond says nothing.

  Don’t even know why I’m tripping, I say. I don’t even date white folk no more.

  One Friday during the spring of my senior year, Aubrey drove us both to Saint Augustine, playing country as she sped. As we neared the city, she said she knew a secret parking lot and rerouted to A1A. At a red light, the ocean on our right and the shadowy fort looming over it in the distance, we stopped to turn into the city. I asked her to turn off the country. She turned on the radio. Over a timely snap, a high-pitched electronic harpsichord, and autotuned humming, T-Pain sang of a night at a club when he took a girl home. I joined him in falsetto.

  You’re ruining the song, she said.

  You like T-Pain?

  Aubrey shrugged. After a few moments, she hummed along. I nudged her with my elbow and she rolled her eyes. I did so again and she started singing. As I grew louder, she did too. The light went green and she turned left. We heard a honk and then the loud sound of metal crunching against metal. Aubrey screamed. A moment later, we were sitting still, the overhead light now on. Smoke or dust filled the car and glowed yellow. The airbags hung out of the dash like inflated pillows.

  Get out, Aubrey said.

  She shook me and I opened the door. When I stepped outside, the front of her sedan was crunched inward. One headlight was gone. The metal innards under the hood fell out of a hole where the bumper used to be. The car that hit us looked equally bad. Aubrey asked if I was okay. I was fine. She was too. The couple that hit us was shaken up, but no one was hurt.

  After the cops arrived and Aubrey gave them her information, we waited for a tow truck. I sat on the curb nearby. My body felt numb and my mind was blank. Aubrey walked over to me and asked how we were getting home. She tried to call Jess and I tried to call Twig, but neither picked up.

  I can’t tell my mom, I said. She’d kill me.

  Don’t worry. I’ll call my dad.

  She called him. He was on his way. After the call, Aubrey said, Glad you’re okay. They hit your side. Could’ve been bad.

  Real bad.

  But you’re still here, she said. She put her palm flat on my chest as if to feel for an injury I wasn’t aware of. I looked down at her hand and then up at her. When we made eye contact, she pulled her hand away and made a joke about her driving. I told her it wasn’t her fault. She rolled her eyes, said we both knew that wasn’t true. I shrugged. She prodded my side with her elbow. I tried to scooch away but fell off the curb. As she chuckled, I shook my head and sat next to her. She put her head on my shoulder. I was as still as possible so as not to disturb her. We were quiet.

  About a half hour later, Aubrey stood up. She figured her dad would come soon. He arrived a few minutes later. He was polite to the officers and the couple that hit us. When the car was towed and the debris cleared, he told me to get in the back of his car. Inside, his face contorted.

  Fuck were you thinking? he said.

  I’m sorry, Daddy.

  You totaled my car, he said, riding around with this piece of shit?

  The whole drive back, he yelled at her for wrecking the car and for driving with me alone. She said nothing was going on between us. He didn’t believe her. He couldn’t believe his daughter was a whore. He didn’t raise her like this. Her mom didn’t raise her like this. He ought to make her walk home. Then Aubrey yelled she wished he would. She wished he never came back. I was silent as they went back and forth until we got back to Palm Coast. Just past the exit, I told him to let me out. Aubrey said he could drop me at my home, but I didn’t want him to know where I lived.

  When I saw Aubrey next, at school, she apologized about her father at length. I acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t want to talk about it. Then she said her father was an asshole. I worried he was abusing her and implied as much. She said everything was fine. I tried to tell her that I understood—my brother was locked up too; he hurt me too—but she changed the subject.

  I let out a deep exhale and shake my head. A few minutes later, we arrive at Twig’s house. Desmond honks. A new song fills the silence, the music a score for the night. Desmond bobs his head to the up-tempo, happier beat. Over the song, the rapper speaks in a nasally voice, somehow deep and high at the same time, about a night cut short by the sun, when he goes to see a girl instead of returning home. He has not seen her in a long time. He assumes she has written him off.

  What you put on this light-skinned man for? I ask.

  Nigga, you a few shades away from Steph Curry, Desmond says. And you stayed at a white boy’s house last night, so who you fronting on?

  Just because you brown-skinned don’t mean you tough, Egypt says.

  Oh, so you like them light-skinned? You think he tough and shit.

  Don’t listen to him, Des, Egypt says. I’m sitting in your car.

  Until Drake calls, I say.

  Twig walks out wearing a white T-shirt and cargo shorts. No camo hat. Egypt steps outside and Twig gets in the back next to me. He shakes Desmond’s hand and nods at me.

&
nbsp; Ain’t Jess running the restaurant tonight? Twig asks.

  Ain’t open tonight, Egypt says.

  You been? I ask.

  Yeah, I been, she says. Food’s good. Looks nice in there.

  Who you go with? Desmond asks.

  Don’t get jealous, she says. Went with Tati before she left.

  We pass our high school again. An electronic screen sits out front. Red letters scroll across a black background, advertising upcoming events: a play, a basketball game, and FCAT tests. We turn left onto Matanzas Woods, past the route where Coach Howard made the sprinters do long-distance runs as he rode along on his bicycle. Once, a white sprinter we called Ghost twisted her ankle on the run. Coach had her sit on the seat and he rode his bicycle standing up all the way back. I know he lost his job for sleeping with Tati, getting her pregnant, and paying for her abortion, but I wonder if anything happened with Ghost.

  How’s Ms. Henriquez? Twig asks.

  She’s all right, I say. Tell the truth, she ain’t want me to come. When I left for college, she said there wasn’t nothing here for me and never would be.

  What you think now? Desmond asks, watching me in the rearview.

  Think I know some things she don’t, I say.

  After a pause, Twig says, Thought your mom liked us.

  I did too, I say.

  Ain’t about her liking us, Egypt says. Already got one son locked up down here. Probably ain’t trying to lose another.

  I shrug and run my finger along the window’s cool glass as I say, She might lose me anyway. Now that I’m here, I want to move back.

  Could live with me, Twig says. Extra room at my spot since my brother moved out. Mom would love to have you.