At lunch, Nando sandwiches himself between Camille and me, bearing gifts of peanut M&Ms. Rigel drops into the seat across from me again. He chucks a wadded up napkin at Nando and then tucks into the biggest sandwich I’ve ever seen. Not that I’m staring or anything. I think about this kid way more than I’d like to admit. Good thing no one can see those thoughts...except for maybe Camille.
With Benny, there was an element of familiarity, safety; we ran with the same people. I liked him, but I knew he liked me back. Here I’m an unknown, and everything is unknown to me. Navigating this social scene, as chill and welcoming as it’s been so far, is like feeling my way through a dark room, trying not to bump into things.
So instead of staring like a creeper, I keep Rigel safely in my peripheral...the way he pushes his hair back and slaps on a fitted hat, how the stark white of his t-shirt contrasts against his deeply tanned skin. He jokes around with nearly everyone, and that just makes him even more appealing.
“You’re like…a peach,” Nando says. “A Georgia Peach.”
Scoffing, I section my orange and offer him some. “Again with the cliches, Nando.”
“What? You look good enough to eat, like a peach,” he clarifies, shoving the orange into his mouth.
Rigel coughs, loudly, and Camille whacks the back of Nando’s head, sucking her teeth. “You’re such a manwhore.”
“Everybody knows that, nena,” he shoots back, grinning. “You’re late.”
The table erupts into laughter and banter, and while everyone’s accents still take some getting used to, the sentiments are easy to understand. It reminds me of home. Nando throws his arm around me, proving some non-existent point to Camille while she playfully curses him out. I grab my juice before it spills and peek at Rigel, but he’s completely elsewhere, distracted and texting and having about three different conversations with people I still don’t know.
The end of the day finds me in yearbook. Being back amongst the nostalgic stench of processing chemicals makes me giddy. It’s a multi-grade course, so some kids are brand new to photography and film development while others, like me, are a little more seasoned. At the end of class, we’re allowed to choose a school camera. Most of my classmates go for the DSLRs, but I take a manual camera and several rolls of film. It’s a medium I don’t get to use often, and I look forward to getting dirty in the lab.
“By the way, iPhone photography is a very relevant source of material,” Mr. Barnes exclaims, waving his pencil around. “I know every one of you brings yours to school, don’t tell me you don’t. So use them! Take pictures! Capture the lives of your fellow students from moment to moment!” He gulps down the contents of his jumbo-sized coffee mug. “Your assignment, should you choose to accept it”—he pauses for effect, grinning—“is to put together a montage of the week. Each class, and the events that transpire between, should be represented…” He rambles on, giving painstaking attention to the most diminutive of details, but that’s cool. I can’t fault the man for having passion.
Wednesday.
Moment of truth.
Sitting at the edge of the pool, I dangle my feet into the cool, blue water. On the opposite end, everyone’s easing in, shouting and laughing about how cold it is, but the temperature isn't what scares me. It’s being submerged and not being able to touch the bottom.
Also, it’s looking like an idiot around a bunch of kids who have probably been swimming since birth.
Ms. Archer smiles encouragingly, squatting at my side. “Just sit here for a minute, get your feet wet. When you’re ready go on in—this is the shallow end, so you’ll be fine.”
Eventually, I psych myself up and go for it, slipping into the water inch by inch until it comes to my elbows. Thanks to the rest of my class, the water’s rough and it jostles me, sloshing around my midsection as I press against the wall. Back home, I was usually content to sit on the sidelines of pools and lakes while my friends swam. I didn’t mind, and no one really bothered me about it. I saw how people horsed around, how they dunked each other and swam out to where I could barely see, and I could envision myself sinking, no one realizing. I’d remember being little, floundering beneath the surface, and seeing sunlight above the water but not being able to get to it.
Coach Archer’s whistle snaps me back to attention. She returns to my side of the pool after calling out a set of instructions to the rest of the class. “How is it?”
Well, I’m not too cold. There’s that. “It’s okay.”
“Get over here, Stanley,” she yells suddenly.
A tall, gangly boy with a milk bottle complexion and bright red hair jogs over, much to Ms. Archer’s chagrin. “No running by the pool, Stan, come on.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, flicking his hair from his face. He’s okay looking, but he’s got a great body, so I’m not surprised when Ms. Archer explains that he’s on the Palms’ swim team, the Stingrays.
“Stan’s going to work with you today, all right?”
My heart sinks. I’d hoped, perhaps naively, that she’d be the one working with me. “Oh, okay.”
“Stan’s got the patience of a saint, dontcha, buddy?” She chortles, slapping his back as he drops down into the water.
He rolls his eyes and sighs. “So, yeah. I’m Stan. You’re Isla, right? New girl?”
“Yup.” I smile, nodding, though I’d rather hide beneath my towel and never emerge.
“Cool. Well, let’s get started I guess.” He squints down to the other end of the pool for a moment before returning his focus to me. “Can you tread water?”
“Not really.”
“Okay…we’ll start with that, then. It’s important you learn.”
We work on treading water for most of the class, which is more exhausting than it looks. True to Ms. Archer’s word, though, Stanley is patient. Professional, even. He doesn’t get frustrated and won’t let me get embarrassed, which helps.
“You’re a good teacher,” I admit as he helps me out of the water after class.
“I teach little kids sometimes,” he says, shrugging. “You did good.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing. Despite my overall lack of skill, I did master treading water.
“We’ll probably work on floating next. Archer’s big on survival techniques.”
On Friday, I have swimming again. For the first time since school started, I’m not dreading it. Stanley was really nice, and it’s reassuring to know that he won’t laugh at me when I goof. I don’t see his shock of red hair when I arrive at the pool, but I’m early.
Fifteen minutes later, though, he’s still nowhere to be seen. Coach Archer gets the class to warm up by swimming laps, and then she rushes over to me. “Sorry, Isla! Busy day,” she says. “Stanley sprained his ankle, so he’s out of commission for now.”
“Oh no,” I say, genuinely sorry.
“Yeah, poor kid. Fell off his skateboard again. Anyway.” She blows her whistle abruptly. “Rigel! Let’s go.”
Wait, what? Horrified, I watch as Rigel swims over. He’s sickeningly graceful, of course, like he was born underwater.
“Ri’s on swim team too, Isla. He’ll help you out today, okay?”
“Are you sure?” This is just…not good. At all. The one person I don’t want to look like a idiot in front of is about to watch me flounder like a dying fish.
Rigel pops up, water sluicing down his face. Smiling politely, he rubs a hand through his curls, scattering water everywhere. I glance up at Archer but she’s already striding back toward the other end of the pool, where everyone else is goofing off.
“Hey, Isla.”
Hearing him say my name is weird—in a good way. “Hi, Rigel.” Saying his is weird as well. Weird and beautiful.
“So, what’d you and Stan work on last time?”
“Treading water?”
“You asking or telling?” He cocks his head, teasing.
I fold my arms, staring back. “Telling.” The sky is overcast today, and while it’s anyt
hing but cold, the sun’s absence is felt. A brisk wind skitters over the surface of the water, giving me goosebumps.
Rigel nods, running his hands through his hair again. I wonder if he wears a swim cap when he races. He must. “Okay, so you guys worked on treading water. Show me what you got.”
I don’t want to, but I do, treading for about thirty seconds before he nods and waves me back.
“Good. How about floating?”
“Like on my back?”
He nods.
Face burning, I lean against the pool wall. “I've never really tried.”
“All right.” He nods, then suddenly lies back in the pool, the way I’d lie down in bed. He does it so effortlessly, it’s hard to believe there’s nothing but water supporting his body. “See how I keep my body straight but not rigid?” he asks. “Look.”
Oh, I’m looking, I want to say, but I just nod. “Got it.”
“Arms at your side, out a little…the most important thing is to keep air in your lungs. Think of them like balloons, floating.”
“Yeah,” I agree, amused at the thought of it.
Grinning, he lets himself down so he’s standing again. He gestures for me to come closer, and, heart lurching, I do. “I’m going to help you, okay?”
He puts his hand on my back and I stiffen. It’s not that I don’t want him to touch me, it’s that I really, really do. I’d just fantasized about different circumstances.
“Is this okay?” he asks, peering at me.
My nerves are out of control. Between my anxiety with water and my attraction to Rigel, I feel like I’m going to puke.
“It’s fine.” I clamp my mouth shut to keep my teeth from chattering.
Giving me a dubious look, he proceeds, bending so that he’s got one hand on my back and the other grazing behind my knee. I think I might die, right here, in this pool. And not from drowning. He tries to urge me back, but my body resists, flat out refusing to do what I want it to.
“Relax,” he says, his voice quiet and close. “Lie back.”
“I can’t — ” I start to say, but he’s already trying again, attempting to scoop me into his arms which sounds a lot more romantic than it actually is. Panicking, I smack him in the face. He quickly puts me back on my feet.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” I cry, mortified.
Grimacing, he wipes the water from his face and regards me. “You know I have you, right? I won’t let you go under.”
“I know.”
“So…”
“So, I’m just not used to all of this.”
“Is this a can’t swim thing, or an afraid to swim thing?” he asks.
“Both, I guess.”
His eyes track over me. “Did something happen to you?”
“Just drop it, Rigel. I’ll try again.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “You almost took my eye out.”
If there’s anyone I should share my issues with at this point, it’s him. I can see he’s getting frustrated. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I almost drowned when I was a kid.”
“That sucks.” He takes a deep breath, too. “But you need to get over it.”
I narrow my eyes, surprised at his directness. “I know.”
“Okay, so let’s do this.” His tawny eyes bore into mine, challenging me. I can’t figure out if it’s some weird motivational act he’s got going or if he simply doesn’t have the patience of Stanley.
It takes a few tries, and I stay stiff as a board, but Rigel manages to float me on my back while he supports me. He talks the entire time, encouraging me and tossing out pointers. And then it occurs to me, as he rambles, that maybe he’s as self conscious as I am. That’s oddly comforting.
By the time the bell rings, I’m nowhere near being able to float on my own. I’m frustrated, in more than one way—teaching someone to float requires touching. So much touching. I swear I can still feel his fingertips even after we’ve quit for the day.
Rigel seems unaware of my inner angst, though. Satisfied with our progress, he escorts me to the side of the pool. “It’s like riding a bike…it’s a feeling. Once you get it, you get it.”
“I hope so.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. Foregoing the ladder, he plants his palms on the concrete and hoists himself out of the pool. Standing there for a moment, he shakes out his hair, skin glistening with water and sunlight.
I take a second to appreciate, and I’m not the only one. A trio of towel-wrapped girls ogle him as they pass. “Hey, Ri,” the blonde croons, punching his arm.
“Oh, hey Becky,” he says, throwing her a lazy grin. He’s gotta know.
Snapping out of my daze, I climb up the ladder and drip my way over to the bleachers where we keep our towels.
“Well…thanks, Rigel,” I say over my shoulder. “I appreciate your help.”
“Til next time,” he says.
On Fridays, my Uncle Isaac picks Grandpa Harry up on his way home from work. They used to go fishing by the wharf in Frederiksted, but they’re taking it easy now because of the stroke. They went back to Greta and Isaac’s for dinner tonight, and the house feels quiet without him.
“What time is Uncle Isaac bringing Grandpa home?” I ask at dinner.
“Probably around nine,” Mom says, glancing at the wall clock. “Greta said she was sending some fish and fungi back with him.”
Wrinkling my nose, I say, “That’s all you, Mama.”
“Hmph.” She purses her lips. “So how was swimming today?”
Swooping a green bean through my mountain of mashed potatoes, I make sure to skim the gravy lake on the way to my mouth. “Eh, it was okay I guess. The guy who helped me last time has a sprained ankle so I had to work with the swim team captain.” I roll my eyes. “And we worked on floating, which everyone but me can do.”
“It’ll get better,” she says, nodding in approval. “About time, right?”
“I guess.”
“I want to swim,” Alex announces. “Camber swims. Camber has a pool.”
“Maybe we can put you in classes,” Mama says, tapping his fork. “Couple more bites, Al.”
Mama enrolled me in swim class one summer, but I begged out, going to a soccer camp instead. I was nine.
“Do they have swimming classes at the Palms, you think?” Mom asks, turning to me. “After school, perhaps?”
“I’ll ask Coach Archer.”
“Ask your friends, too. Might as well.”
“My friends?”
“Yes.” She nods, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Like the one teaching you to swim.”
Camille comes over after dinner, picking through my closet until she finds a dress she likes. She slides into it, examining her butt in the mirror. “Thoughts?”
“You know it looks good on you.” I fix her tag, tucking it in. “Everything does.”
“Not too short?”
Smirking, I eye the hem. “You’re taller than me, so yeah, it’s a little short.”
“But not too short.” She nods. “Let’s roll through town. I’m bored.”
“If you’re changing, I’m changing. Give me five minutes.”
We’re halfway to “town” when I realize Camille meant Christiansted, on the east side of the island. Unlike quiet Frederiksted, which is closer to us, it’s lively and loud, streets lined with all manner of restaurants and bars.
Cam parks in the Market Square, which is crowded but well lit. Like a lot of Christiansted, the surrounding buildings have maintained their original, Danish architecture from the 1700s. It’s like stepping back in time, if you can ignore the music, the cars, and the hole in the wall restaurant boasting Bachata and fried chicken. A group of guys posted up on the wall watch as we pass, catcalling their appreciation: psssst...hey, girl. Lookin’ sweet…
“Do you like karaoke?” Camille asks, linking her arm through mine.
“Not really.” I snort. “I’m the worst singer ever.”
“That�
�s the whole point,” she says. “There’s this little place we go sometimes. It’s fun.” We stroll a couple blocks, chatting as we near the wharf. It’s quieter on the side streets: less bars, less action. A rogue wind kicks up, sending several empty cups scraping down the street.
There are sounds of a scuffle between buildings as we pass, cursing and then broken glass. Startled, I grab Camille’s arm. She glances back, urging me close. “Come on.”
We cross over to the other side of the street, but not before a heavyset boy comes barreling out of the alley. He shoves roughly by, nearly knocking us over in an effort to get away. A lanky guy with a blond fade chases after him, yelling and cussing.
“Hey!” cries Camille, tightening her grip on me so I don’t fall. “Watch it!”
“You alright, Camille?” A low, smoky voice drifts from the silver SUV idling at the curb. It’s a Tahoe, and I feel like I’ve seen it before.
“Oh. Hey, Orion.” Flustered, she pauses near the open door, looking at the driver. “I’m fine, but what the hell? Was that Drew just now?”
“Yeah. He was just dealing with that dirty lil’ fucka.”
Curious, I peek over my cousin’s shoulder. With cafe-au-lait skin and bright green eyes, Orion is certainly not unfortunate looking. But he’s got the driver’s seat pushed back all the way, and he’s rolling a blunt from the mountain of weed in his lap. I avert my eyes and step back, scandalized he’d do that out in public.
“I don’t even want to know,” Cam says. Up the block, Orion’s friend Drew is walking back.
Orion pauses, glancing at me as he reaches for the beer in his console. “Who’s your friend?”
“My cousin,” she says. “Isla. We’re gonna go sing karaoke.”
“Hi, Isla,” he says, cracking a smile. He’s gorgeous, but his eyes are hard.
“Hi.” I give him a wave, but the whole situation makes me nervous. Between the shadiness in the alley and Orion’s apparent apathy toward marijuana laws I feel like I’ve entered a parallel universe.
Cam must feel the same, because she leans in and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “We’ll see you around, okay?”
“Who is that?” I whisper as we walk away. “He’s a little intense.”
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