by Jolene Perry
His voice is quiet, but I can make out every word. “Part of me was scared to death he’d want to live on his own out there. It’s not that I don’t think he can do it, because I know he can, but the stuff available to these kids…especially the ones with money…”
“He came back with you, though. That’s something, right?”
“I think he’s using this as an escape for right now. And that’s okay. I’d rather him spend time here for a bad reason than to not spend time here at all.”
“You’ve missed him.”
“Yeah, a lot. He was always so much like his mom. I knew she’d do great with him, give him things I couldn’t. And she did.”
Part of me wonders if this is some of the reason he took off. I’m still not ready to ask, not ready to hear his answer. What if it’s crap?
“You have a lot to offer someone, Harris.”
“Hmm.”
Why didn’t Dad ever say anything? About how much he missed me? It’s so weird. We have genetics in common, and that’s really it. Well, and writing I guess. But we don’t write the same. I’ve read enough of his books to know that much. He’s a lover of the suspense. I love language. Words. Dad loves them to get his story out. This is why I don’t tell people I write. What kind of guy admits to loving the way certain people put words together?
But what do I do now? I know I could go back. I could get emancipated or whatever, but I’m almost eighteen anyway, and then what? At the same time, do I really want to stick around here? On a boat?
“Antony?” Amber’s voice calls through the boat. “You here?”
I shake my hands through my hair. I’m a complete mess. Whatever. It’s Amber. No big deal. Right. But I have these nerves that start to build in the center of my chest, because even though I don’t want it to be a big deal to see Amber, it sort of is.
“Yeah,” I call back.
“You gonna show your face or aren’t you pretty enough yet?” she teases.
“Those are the first words out of your mouth?” I chuckle as I open the door to my room, and then I freeze. She’s in a sweatshirt and teeny running shorts. I’m sure my mouth drops open, or I do something equally embarrassing because all I can think right now is how much I’d like my hands on her legs, or to have them wrapped around my waist.
“Hey, you here?” She darts her head back and forth to catch my eyes.
“Sort of.” Now I wish I would’ve taken the time to shower or shave or something.
“I’m driving up to Point No Point beach to run. I thought maybe you’d want to come along and sit. You game?” Her glass-blue eyes sparkle with friendliness as a corner of her mouth pulls up.
“To watch you run?” I’m an idiot. Why the hell did that just have to come out?
She smiles. “No. To write, or read, or sit or something. I didn’t think you liked being underwater much.”
I look down. Right. My hole in the water. The one I haven’t left in days.
“I don’t have time to shower or shave or anything.” I run my hand over my face. It feels good to know I need to shave to stay smooth.
“Whatever, Antony. We’re not going downtown. We’re going further into nowhere, okay?”
I stuff my feet into shoes and grab my iPad on our way out. This way I can read or write. One day they’ll do better screens so the sun doesn’t mess crap up.
Dad gives me a nod, so I guess he knows what we’re up to.
Once we’re in the car I realize the last time I talked to Amber was the bizarre conversation we had while I was in New York. Now what? I’m surprised that whole thing didn’t scare her away from me forever. I’m sure I sounded crazy.
“You’re talkative this morning.” She puts her old truck in gear, and we start up the road.
“Um…” Crap, Antony. Just get it out. “When you called me, I wasn’t really myself, and I’m. I guess I’m sorry.”
“I was the one who called, and I said we could talk anytime.” Her hands grip the steering wheel and she stares at the road. She’s not looking at me. What does that mean? “I meant it.”
And I’m searching her face or her body language for something, anything more than friendship. I come up empty.
“I was really messed up.”
“You said.” The corners of her mouth twist around, holding her smile.
I almost thank her because I’m pretty sure she read to me until I fell asleep, but I realize that might say something about me. “So, beach?”
“Yeah, but the water here’s freezing, so it kind of loses something with that. You know, the ability to jump in after a good run.”
“Been to lots of places with hot, sandy beaches?” Places you’d wear a teeny bikini? And I can’t keep my mind out of the gutter with her, especially not with her toned thighs a mere couple of feet from me. Also, the thought is a nice distraction. It shoves the suffocation of loss aside. Not away, but moved, different.
“Mom and I were almost always somewhere hot. I mean, if you’re going to live on a boat, you should do it in the tropics, right?”
“Exactly.” That was one of my first thoughts when coming here.
“But then she found this sailboat up here, and it was exactly what she wanted. We were going to do a long trek out into the Pacific, through the Panama Canal and back to the Virgin Islands.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Your dad. I know it. But she’ll never say.” Her eyes meet mine, and that little smirk that makes her look so cute is back. I never thought I’d go for cute, but in shorts this short? Cute is pretty awesome.
“So, not only do we need to get them together, but we need to convince them to sail somewhere warm, is that right?”
“That would be ideal, yes.” She hits the turn signal, and pulls her lips into her mouth as if concentrating. “She said that things changed for her after my dad left.”
“And when was that?” I figure it’s okay to ask since she brought it up.
“Oh.” There’s surprise in her voice. Did she not mean to tell me? I wonder if she blurts stuff out around me like I seem to do to her? “I think when she was pregnant.”
I open my mouth to call him a jerk, but keep it to myself.
She pulls her car to a stop. “This is it. High tide right now. Sorry, it means most of the beach disappears.”
“That’s cool. I’m going to park myself somewhere and try to soak up some vitamin D. You run.” The weight pulling on my insides is still there, but I almost forgot about it for a minute when she was talking.
We step out of the car and walk through some tall reeds to the large chunks of driftwood and thin, long strip of beach beyond. There’s a small lighthouse on a point, and I can see the beach curve again on the far side of it. Cool.
Amber bends forward stretching, resting her forehead on her knees, which turns me on way more than it should. “See ya.” She’s up and running in long powerful strides on the upper part of the beach. Her large sweatshirt bounces with her, but her legs are strong, and push hard. And who would have thought that running in anything but a swimsuit could be sexy?
I let myself watch her run until she’s so far away that I can’t really see her anymore. I start to read, but my brain keeps going back to this little boy I met in South Africa. I keep thinking I want to write his story, only it would be a made-up story, but partially based on truth. I could do that. It’s sort of what I did with the first two I wrote.
I sit on a large driftwood tree. The boy’s voice is suddenly in my head so clearly that I have to get it down.
Mom’s mad because my brother spilled water on the clay floor. It turns it slippery and makes it hard to clean. But when she yells, the guy from next-door bangs on the wall between our houses. The noise rattles through all of us. She’s silent. Sometimes I wonder why she’s so scared of him. Maybe just because he’s an angry man. All the men around here are angry, crazy or tired...
His simplistic view of the problems facing the people of the outskirts of Johannesburg k
eep hitting me. My fingers fly across the keys on my iPad. I’m lost, taken into the world of a five-year old boy, now ten, and trying to help his mom keep them in food. Working harder than I’ve ever worked. I feel his desperation. His determination. I wonder if he’ll remain determined or if that place will beat him like it does to so many others.
People move by. Dogs run in and out of the waves. It’s like none of it’s happening. It’s all outside of the world of heat, oppression, and poverty—the world I’m writing. A life I’ve never lived, but the desperate, aching feeling in my chest pushes me further. Tells me more of his story.
There’s movement next to me, but I’m still in it. He’s twelve now and his younger brother is missing. It happens. Sometimes they’re taken. Sometimes they run away. Sometimes they just disappear. Maybe I’ll write his story next. Maybe I’ll finish with the mom’s point of view. But how do I write from the point of a view of a mom, when I’ve just lost mine? I gasp.
“You okay?” Amber whispers next to me.
“Sorry.” My eyes meet hers. “I got lost. That’s all.”
“You’re not like this at home, are you?” She looks way too comfortable, legs crossed in front of her, leaning back on the log. How long have we been here?
“In my apartment, yes. Out? No.” This girl probably already thinks I’m insane. It’s like honestly just pours out of my mouth. Seems stupid to try and stop it at this point.
“You’re writing?” she asks.
I nod. The iPad suddenly feels heavy in my hands. I give it to her without thinking. “I’m going to walk.”
“You want to be alone?” She pushes a few damp, sweaty stray hairs back off her face.
As I look at her, I know she won’t be offended if I say yes. “I…I don’t know.” And it’s the truth.
She stands, the iPad in her hands, and walks slowly next to me. The sand is uneven, but there’s a lot more of it than there was earlier. The tide’s going out—another sign we’ve been here longer than I realized. She’s staring at the screen, clutching it tightly. I try not to think about her reading what I wrote. I guess me handing it to her was sort of an invitation. I didn’t mean for it to be. But I also don’t mind. Way too late for me to make a good first impression anyway.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and keep to the sand that’s still damp. It’s easier to walk here. My chest is so weighted and so tight, that it still feels like I’m concentrating on each breath. The air is cold, but the warmth from the sun penetrates my black jacket. The wet sand meets the dry sand, which meets stacks of driftwood and rocks, and then forest—huge old trees stand tall against the graying sky.
Mom would love this.
The thought’s hard and heavy. Will it always be? Every time I see or feel or think about something she’d love, will I feel it like this? I blink a few times and press my palm to the outside edges of my eyes. I need to shove this away. But before I can, Amber’s arms are around me, holding me tightly.
There’s no thinking, only pulling her as close as I can. I breathe in her damp hair. She’s still sweaty from running, and I love it. I love that she doesn’t care. Her arms are strong, and we’re both holding on, like we’ve become the anchor for the other.
My body shakes once. The shadow of Mom’s death hangs, hovers, and threatens to take over. Shove it away, Antony. Push it down. A sob fest won’t help anything.
“Sorry.” I jerk away, my heart racing. No way am I going to stand on some beach and cry while hugging a girl I barely know.
“Don’t be sorry.” Her forehead’s wrinkled in something that looks like confusion. “You wrote this?”
“This morning.” I nod, pressing my hands to my eyes one last time, pulling in a breath to contain the grief inside, in the cage that’s stronger by the day. I’m doing good. Eventually it’ll disappear. It has to. No one could live a whole life feeling as suffocated as I feel now.
“This is amazing. You know that, right?” Her crystal blue eyes see way too far into me.
“I haven’t read it,” I say. That seems like a safe enough answer. I know I have a good way of putting words together. I’m still slowing my heart.
“Hmm.” She folds the case over. “Thanks for letting me read.”
I don’t say anything, just keep walking next to her.
“You’ll always miss her, but it won’t hurt so much, later.” She leans toward me slowly and bumps her shoulder softly against mine.
I stare at my shoes in the sand and don’t answer. I’ve already let this girl in on way too much. I’m feeling too much, which means I’m hurting too much. Something’s gotta give, or I’m going to break apart.
- - -
Dad and I have scrambled eggs for dinner. I’m slowly learning there are only a few things he cooks well. He just doesn’t mind repetition. At all.
He cleans our plates and sits across from me before I have a chance to get up. Dad sets a stack of mail between us on the table. “Antony, I know you don’t want to deal with this, but you’re almost eighteen, and there are some things that have to be taken care of.”
“I don’t want…” I start to get up. Each letter is another reminder I’ve lost something I didn’t want to lose.
“I know you don’t want to think about this yet, but you can’t put it off forever.”
“Put what off? What on earth can’t wait?”
“Your friends from the Today Show really want you on for an interview because they want to be able to bring to the forefront the issues in Darfur your mom was going to cover.” He runs a hand through his hair that’s still neatly trimmed.
“No.” No way I’m doing that. How the hell am I supposed to hold myself together while talking about Mom and why she di… But even the word gets caught in my brain, unwilling to be heard, even by me.
“There have been offers on the apartment and—”
“And it’s not for sale,” I say, folding my arms. I’m doing my best not to look at the stack of envelopes—each one of those papers is simply another reminder of what I’ve lost. How I’ll never get it back and how I’ll never be the same.
“That’s a lot of money every month.” He clasps his hands together over the table.
“I have money. I’m not giving up the apartment.”
“Fair enough.” He sighs. “I’ve sorted out the junk mail. This is what’s left. The letter from the attorney is there.”
Each one of Dad’s words tightens my resolve. Nothing needs me right this moment. I need to make sure I can actually deal with it before I start.
“I know what it says.” This is all pointless and is simply forcing us to talk about the one thing I don’t want to talk about.
“What’s that?” Dad’s eyebrows rise, incredulous.
“Mom was meticulous about her money and her will, Dad. I get everything.” I stand up, needing out. Needing air.
“But…”
“Later. I’ll do it later.” When everything stops feeling so fuzzy, and when I stop hurting so bad. Later. Right now, I need the dark quiet of my miniature room.
Eight
I push my legs up the hill to the coffee shop, not an easy feat before my first shot of caffeine for the day. I glance up just before grabbing the handle to see Amber standing next to Kent. He’s smiling and looking down. She’s smiling down and looking up and then he leans down and kisses her cheek.
My brain starts to swirl around in the same ridiculous emotional mess that my chest and gut are in. I want to puke. Really, I should have known that was coming, and it shouldn’t hurt like it does.
“What can I get you?” The guy behind the counter asks.
“Chai Tea Latte and a Cappuccino.” It rolls right off my tongue.
“Yeah, no problem.” He picks up two cups. “Chai Tea…”
Chai Tea…Mom’s drink. My heart hammers, making me dizzy. “Just the Cappuccino.”
I ordered for Mom.
It hits me hard. What a stupid thing to make me feel like this—like I’m drowni
ng waiting for a coffee.
“Have a seat. I’ll bring it out in a sec.”
I stand by the window, afraid to sit, but not wanting to leave without my drink. My sanity is shaken. As soon as the cup hits my hand I’m out the door. No tip, no look, no thanks. Just out.
As I breathe in, the air burns. Did I forget to breathe before? It’s like my chest is too small, too tight. It’s the little things that are going to get me in the end. The re-play of her coffin being lowered now finds a place in my head. My body starts shaking with anger. Like if there was something to hit or kick or anything…
I walk fast, forcing one leg out in front of the other, determined to keep moving until the out-of-control pictures running through my head go away.
“Antony! Wait!” Amber calls.
I don’t know if this is good or bad, but it’s definitely distracting. My feet stop moving. Guess I’m waiting for her. Maybe I’m looking for a different kind of torture—one where her kissing another guy hurts me in a way it shouldn’t. But it’s still not enough to distract me from the real pain. One damn order of Mom’s coffee, and I’m about to lose it again.
“Hey, what’s up?” She smiles wide as she catches up.
“Bad day.” I shake my head and start walking again. Her smile definitely isn’t helping, because her smile is for everyone. Or, at the very least, divided. Maybe now’s when I need to admit I like her more than I should. But shit, I barely know the girl really. I should focus more on that.
Her brow comes down and her face is laced with all Amber sweetness.
What am I supposed to say now? “How’s Kent?” I’m stupid.
“I still don’t know how I feel about him. But I don’t want to talk about that, I’m worri—”
“Then that should be your first clue,” I snap. I don’t mean for it sound angry, but it kind of does.
She doesn’t move, but the distance between us expands to miles. “That, what?”
I stop and turn toward her, pissed at the world and ready to state the obvious. “Don’t mess with him like that. Don’t let him kiss you unless you really want him to. Otherwise you’re just screwing with his head.”