Heavenly Bodies

by Rochelle Allison

  “Orion Thomas.” She gives me a knowing look. “Rigel’s brother.”

  On Saturday, Camille picks me up around noon. I’m a little groggy from our late night karaoke shenanigans, but that’s what coffee is for. Now that I know people—kind of— I’m anxious to go out again...even if that means going to a beach I’ll never swim in.

  According to Camille, Sunday’s the biggest beach day around here, but we’re heading out today because a storm off the coast of Puerto Rico is creating larger than normal swells. I don’t know if there’s a surf culture here, but I’m looking forward to finding out.

  My enthusiasm wanes when I find Jasmine sitting shotgun, but then she gives me a friendly wave and I have to wonder if maybe she was just having a crappy week at school.

  “Gonna go say hi to your mom,” Camille says, jogging past me. Tossing my beach bag in first, I climb into the backseat. “Hi, Jasmine.”

  “Hi Isla,” she says, examining herself in the mirror. “What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  She gives me a perfunctory smile, filling the car with the scent of peaches as she slicks lipgloss on. Camille jumps back into the car, cranking the a/c higher. “Okay, let’s go!”

  “So where are we going again?” I ask.

  “Sandy Point. It’s a really cool, hidden away spot,” Camille says, turning toward the highway. “It’s just kind of a pain in the ass getting there.”

  “Kind of? It’s the longest road ever. And bumpy,” Jasmine complains, tossing her purse aside. “You’d think they’d take some tax money and pave it, but no.”

  “Yeah, it’s a national park,” Camille says, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “At certain times of year, sea turtles lay their eggs here. It’s really cool. We used to come on these special field trips for biology class, at night.”

  “Oh wow,” I say. “That is cool.”

  “Hey,” Jasmine says. “Remember the time Kendrick lost his shoes and spent like an hour searching the bush?” They dissolve into giggles, leaving me to my thoughts in the back seat. Sandy Point sounds great, but I’ve had a total of three swim days this week, only two of which were spent in the water. Today will be my second time at the beach, and while I know I can just sit it out, part of me yearns to be like everyone else.

  And who else will be there? Camille said everyone, but she exaggerates sometimes.

  From the highway we take a dusty, deeply rutted dirt road, so rough Camille drops to molasses-like speeds. Jasmine wasn’t lying. We rattle along for what seems like miles before finally pulling into a shaded grove packed with cars.

  “It’s not usually like this,” Camille says, parking. “Way too remote, you know?”

  “So remote it’s creepy—unless you’re with a group,” Jasmine adds.

  We grab our bags and lug out a giant cooler, dividing the weight between the three of us. There’s a well worn path through the trees that opens up onto an immaculate beach, and my breath catches with the splendor of it. The sand is whiter than any I’ve ever seen, water and sky an endless blend of blues.

  And there’s no shade near the water, but no one has umbrellas.

  “Because of the turtles,” Cam explains, when I mention it. “Anything that goes down into the sand is prohibited.”

  “This…is amazing.” I shade my eyes, looking down the length of the beach. “I’m going to take a thousand pictures.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Camille laughs.

  “Ugh,” Jasmine grunts, hosting her end of the cooler a little higher. “Damn. Can we just drag this thing the rest of the way?”

  “Seriously. What’s in it? Bricks?” I ask as Nando jogs over with another kid from school. Maurice, maybe?

  “Drinks and stuff,” says Camille. “I’m just trying to avoid dehydration and starvation—we’re in the middle of nowhere. Jeez and bread.”

  The boys catch up, and Nando lays a wet one on Camille’s cheek. “We got this, mama.”

  When we finally make it to the shore, Camille and Jasmine procure a huge blanket, pinning the corners down with our bags. I strip down to my bikini, eager to work on my tan. Down at the water’s edge, a pack of boys is playing touch football. It’s music video worthy, especially when I spy Rigel leading the pack, muscles stretching as he reaches for, and catches, the ball.

  There are several coolers scattered around, so it’s not long before I’m offered a beer. The legal drinking age on St. Croix is eighteen, but no one seems to abide by that. Things feel more relaxed here than they did in the states, though. Especially with alcohol.

  I take pictures of everyone and everything, inspired to capture the beauty and good vibes. And while I try not to be so aware of Rigel, it’s kind of impossible. He is so obviously loved by everyone else. I see how close knit the boys are, how they tease each other. I also see how some of the other girls look at him, and I wonder if I’m one of them. I hope my feelings aren’t as naked as theirs.

  The hours melt by. The park closes early in the afternoon, prompting everyone to race to the water for one last dip. Well, everyone but me. I watch, admiring how they become silhouettes against the blazing sun, how the waves shimmer and shift around them. It’s like a dream. I take my camera out and snap a series of pictures, unable to just let it happen without attempting to capture it.

  “You going in?” Rigel asks.

  I look up, surprised to him standing so close. “I’m okay here.”

  “Are you afraid?” he asks, staring out at the water.

  My stomach flutters, partly from his proximity, but partly because he really sees me. “Yes,” I say. He already knows I am.

  “Come on. I’ll be right there.”

  I’m so surprised at his offer I actually bag my camera and stand up, following him hesitantly down to the shore. The sand is soft and hot, the water warm as it laps at my toes. I’m content to stay right here, but that isn’t what Rigel has in mind. He marches right in, returning to his natural element, as I walk carefully behind, staring at my feet, grateful the water here is so clear. Once it reaches my elbows, my comfort level, I stop. There’s a pretty strong current, but I can weather it as long as I stay where I am.

  Rigel looks back at me, hand outstretched, summoning. “Just a little deeper.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m okay.”

  “You’ll float,” he promises. “The salt water helps.”

  “Come on,” sings Camille, popping up out of nowhere. She has no idea I can’t swim. “Get your hair wet! Beach hair is the best hair.”

  “This is good.” I smile nervously, trying to enjoy it.

  Rigel wades back, grabbing my hand. Admittedly, it feels good to touch him—even if this is how he touches me during swim class. Still, the pool at school is a lot different than the open ocean, and I feel myself seizing up. “Please, Rigel,” I plead, pulling back. I don’t know why he’s so insistent. Can’t he see I’m trying? This is plenty of progress for me.

  Camille stares curiously, and I just know she’s dying to ask. There are a couple of people watching, actually, though that’s likely due to Rigel’s holding my hand. He pulls me so that I’m right beside him, and then he goes further. We drift out. I feel the ground leave my feet and automatically start treading, the way Stan taught me. There’s nothing graceful about it, but I‘m able to keep my head above water.

  “See?” he whispers, cocking his head. His mouth curves into the tiniest hint of a smile. “You freak yourself out, Isla.”

  Camille swims closer, clearing her throat. “Um…you guys okay?”

  “Rigel’s teaching me how to swim.”

  “What, like right now?” she squeaks, pushing her hair from her face.

  “Like at school.” I laugh, splashing her. I pull away from Rigel, not wanting him to feel like he has to stay here with me, and he takes the hint, swimming out deeper. When he’s gone, I ease back to where I can stand, and on Camille’s prompting, plug my nose so I can douse my hair. Being out in the open water isn�
�t comfortable, but knowing I can do it at all feels good.

  “You didn’t tell me you couldn’t swim, “ Camille says quietly, steadying my arm as a small wave rolls in.

  I squint at the horizon. “It’s not something I broadcast, Cam. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have a better coach. Seriously.” She eyes me. “And I’m here if you need help, obviously.”

  I give her hand a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  “For real, though. Ri’s perfect for you.”

  I know she’s talking about swimming, but her words spark other scenarios in my mind. Fantasies. I like Rigel, damn it. A lot. Boys who look the way he does usually have big egos and even bigger followings, but Rigel’s not like that. He’s charming, but his popularity seems to stem from genuine niceness.

  “…you know?” Camille’s saying with a snort.

  I glance her way, cringing inwardly that I just missed half the conversation due to my obsessing. “Totally.”

  She ties her hair back. “I’m gonna swim out real quick before we go, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll go pack up.”

  She disappears beneath the surface of the water, popping up several feet away. For a moment I envy that freedom, and it’s then I realize I’m determined to do what she just did.

  Even if it takes me till the end of the school year.

  I lie in bed, running fingertips over slightly sunburnt forearms. Today was the best I’ve had yet, and tonight I’m tired in that well worn, sun drenched sort of way. Dozens of tiny, perfectly pink shells litter my desk, and sand is still falling from my hair, despite a thorough wash earlier.

  Sleepy, I let memories of the day wash over me…swimming, the weightlessness and warmth of the water. The scorch of sand beneath my too-soft feet. The summer time scent of suntan oil. The crisp, hoppy taste of beer and the gem green glimmer of the empty bottles afterward. Camille’s laugh, her perfect beach hair, and Jasmine, truly happy for once, propped up on Maurice’s shoulders while they played chicken fight with someone else.

  And Rigel. He made sure I felt safe and then disappeared, cutting through the water with practiced ease. Watching him swim, I could totally imagine him competing. I wanted to see it, wanted to cheer for him even if it was just silently and in the safety of my own mind.

  The breeze picks up outside, rustling the leaves and stirring my curtains. Camille says that St. Croix’s winters are much cooler, that sometimes she has to use a light comforter. I find this hard to believe, but if it’s true, then I can’t wait.

  I wake up the next morning to the sound of heavy rain. I lie still for a while, listening. I’ve always loved rainy days and here the raindrops bang against the roof like tiny drums. A rush of cool, clean air sweeps through the house, billowing the curtains with a damp breeze.

  Because of this, the sun never gets a chance to burn off the night’s chill and the result is a pleasantly cool morning. I pack my swimsuit, hoping that the weather holds up so that I don’t have to swim. Rigel said that as soon as I master floating we’d be moving on to breaststroke. I can’t say I’m too excited about that.

  Unfortunately, the rain tapers off right after lunch, leaving the ground as soggy as my spirits. Still, I head to the pool when it’s time for PE, determined to put forth my best effort. Rigel’s already doing laps when I arrive. He’s got a small group of admirers it seems, younger girls hanging around from last period. They stare boldly as they get ready to leave, whispering every time he passes.

  I spy Stanley on the bleachers, a pair of crutches propped at is side. Figuring I have a minute, I hurry over.

  “Hey, Stan. How’s the ankle?”

  “Oh, hey, Isla.” Smiling wryly, he unwraps his brace. His ankle is no longer swollen, but it is black and blue.

  Wincing, I shake my head. “Ouch. I did that a couple years ago.”

  “It isn’t my first time, either, but it’s messing with swimming and that’s not okay.”

  “That sucks.” I watch him re-wrap the brace tightly around his ankle, giving it an experimental roll, obviously uncomfortable. “Hopefully you’ll heal up fast, right?”

  “Hopefully.” He sits up, nodding toward the pool. “How’s it going with Ri?”

  “Rigel?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah.”

  “Oh. It’s okay. We’re still working on floating.” I roll my eyes. “I pretty much suck at that, too.”

  “You’ll get it,” he says, shrugging. “You better go change, though, before Archer…well. I guess she can’t punish you with swimming laps. She’ll figure something out, though.”

  Before long everyone’s in the water. Rigel ducks into my lane and swims over. “Hey, Isla. You all set?”

  “Yes,” I lie, smoothing my hair back.

  This time, I’m able to relax as Rigel talks me through the exercise. He keeps telling me to visualize myself floating, until finally I’m unable to keep from laughing out loud.

  “What?” he asks, grinning like he already knows what I’m going to say.

  “It’s just funny, you talking about visualizing. Is that how you win races?” I tease.

  “Nah, I win races because I’m the best,” he says, smirking. My stomach does a little flip. Yeah, he’s being cocky, but it’s appealing. So appealing. “But visualizing helps, too. My mom’s into that. I was telling her about you, and she suggested I teach you about visualization.”

  My stomach flips again. He was telling his mom about me?

  I step a little closer, nodding. “Then I’ll try.”

  By the time PE is over, I’m able to float on my back for short amounts of time. I get the giggles, from nerves probably. Rigel watches my progress with smug satisfaction “See? Visualizing.”

  “Your mom’s a genius.”

  Coach Archer blows the whistle, calling the end of class. Scaling the ladder, I look back to Rigel. “Hey, did you…” He’s behind me, waiting to climb up.

  And he’s totally checking me out.

  On Tuesday, Mama takes me to the DMV to get my local license. It takes forever, although she assures me Public Safety is a lot more efficient than it used to be. That’s a frightening thought.

  Once I make it through the testing and paperwork, I’m awarded my license, complete with a mug shot style photo. “Now you can drive to school,” Mom says, giving me a nervous smile as we head home. I’m driving now, attempting to get used to being on the left. I just have to keep my turning lanes sorted.

  “Yep. Maybe Cam and I can take turns.”

  Mom roots around her purse, pulling out her phone. “Which reminds me, I need to call Greta about Teddy’s car. She said it was ready.”

  Camille comes by later on in her brother’s old, maroon Nissan Sentra. It’s rusted out near the back left tire, and there are rips in the front seat, but it runs and that’s all that matters.

  “I got you this, to christen it,” Camille says, hanging a slender blue crystal on the rearview mirror as I drop her back home. It’s similar to the one she has in her car.

  “That’s pretty. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” She winks, propping her bare feet up on the dashboard.

  “Your car working yet?” It conked out yesterday. Again.

  “No,” she whines. “It’s not.”

  “Want me to pick you up tomorrow?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  We start off the same as always, doing a few underwater stretches before Rigel has me tread water for five minutes. He then makes me stand against the wall as he swims exaggeratedly slow laps in front of me, explaining how to do the breaststroke. I try to mimic what I see him doing, first with my arms, then with my legs, but my lack of coordination is truly sad. He must think so too, because after one particularly horrid attempt, he practically chokes holding in a laugh.

  Caught between cracking up and crying, I splash him viciously. “Oh, shut up.”

  “You get so frustrated,” he says, pushing his curls back. “But it takes ti
me.”

  “Maybe it would help if you weren’t laughing at me.”

  “Aw, come on — ”

  “Where’s Stan? He’d never laugh at me.” I make a point to look around, finally locating Stanley on the bleachers.

  “Probably not,” Rigel agrees, finally splashing me back. “Too bad I’m not Stan.”

  I fold my arms, giving him a dirty look.

  “Let’s try again,” he says.

  I try, and try, and fail. Miserably. Across the pool, everyone else is whooping it up, having blast like always because swimming is fun for everyone but me. It’s drilled into my head every freaking time I take this class, and while I know self pity is unattractive it’s so hard not to just marinate in it.

  “Come on, Isla. Try again.”

  “I am trying,” I mutter.

  “Try harder.”

  By the end of class, though, I’m at wits end. Even Rigel seems to have lost his sense of humor. “Hey, you said Archer offered to help you after school right?”

  “Right.”

  “Take her up on it. She taught me to swim when I was little.”

  “Really?” I glance over to Coach Archer, trying to imagine her ten or fifteen years younger.

  “Yeah. Anyway, she’s good. Way better than I am at teaching.”

  “You’ve been okay,” I murmur, staring down at the glossy surface, wondering if he’s over it. “I’ll talk to her.”

  But then he splashes me again. “Good. Then we can move on to the other strokes.”

  Coach Archer agrees to start our after school sessions, so at last bell I head back to the pool and wrestle my way back into a still-wet bathing suit. The swim team is congregating near the deep end, so Coach Archer meets me near the shallow. A tropical storm is moving in overnight, and the sky looks already angry and sullen, dark clouds the color of soot.

  Coach Archer’s more methodical than the boys. Once she’s satisfied that I can tread water and float on my back, she teaches me to tuck myself into a ball and float that way.

  “It’s for survival,” she explains. “Expends the least amount of energy. Okay, now raise your chin and take another deep breath…”