“Don’t be mad,” she says, sighing. “I just don’t want you to get burned.”
“I don’t want that, either. But I can’t help how I feel.” Climbing out, I lock the door and start walking. “Is this about Mia?”
“No.” She catches right up, bumping her hip to mine. “I’m sorry if I’m being judgy. It would just really suck if you guys had a bad break up. Things would be so awkward at lunch.”
“Camille,” I say loudly. “Slow down. We can’t break up if we’re not even together.”
“Okay, okay.” She links her arm through mine, lowering her voice. “Anyway. I got my own drama to deal with, namely Kyle…and Nando.”
“Nando?!” I squeal, stopping short.
“Shh-shh,” she says, squeezing my arm. “No one knows.”
Except maybe Rigel. His cryptic comments over the past few days suddenly make sense. “My lips are sealed.”
The Upper and Lower school fields are soaked, and there is minor water damage to some of the classrooms, but other than that everything’s copacetic. I feel like I’ve found my groove in the weeks I’ve been at the Palms. I know which teachers to joke around with and which ones to avoid, which spots are the quietest for study and which are the most fun for hanging out. I’m newer than most, but I’m no longer The New Girl—and that’s, perhaps, the best part of all. I have a place here.
Rigel’s the same as always, playing footsie with me during lunch, sneaking peeks in history. I’m equal parts bummed we’re not more after the past week and glad nothing’s changed. Because the pool is still undergoing post-Carmen scouring, we spend P.E as a free period on the bleachers. Rigel sits beside me, but he’s elsewhere, messing with his phone every time Archer walks the other way.
“Are you nervous about the meet later?” I ask eventually.
“A little. Not really.”
“So what’s up?” I ask him, shading my eyes. “You seem jumpy.”
Smiling a little, he shakes his head. “Nothing.”
After school, Camille and I run to the store for my mama before heading east. McKinley’s parking lot is packed by the time we arrive, and I’m forced to circle a couple of times before a minivan vacates a space in the back.
“This is going to be intense,” Camille says, making a face at a group of girls in McKinley colors. “Whoever wins competes against St. Thomas in a couple weeks.”
Inside, we find a group of seniors from the Palms holding down a row of bleachers. They scoot over to make room for us, and then Jasmine, who shows up with Brielle. Before long there’s a bunch of us representing the Palms, mostly upperclassmen.
I spy Rigel’s father in the first row down front. He’s with a tall blonde and a slew of beautiful, mixed kids with hair like Rigel’s. It’s cool to see them here as an entire family, supporting their own.
Camille elbows me, pointing when I look up. “There’s your boy.”
Following her gaze, I find Rigel and the rest of the Stingrays making their way to the pool. With those broad shoulders, toned abs and tapered waists, their bodies are hard-won, sculpted and lean from years of training. Rigel’s v-lines alone are paradigms of perfection.
“Make sure you take pictures of everybody, not just the captain,” Camille whispers, grinning impishly.
“Shut up, I will.” I lean against her, glad we talked. I never really kept secrets with my old friends, and I didn’t like doing it with Cam.
Once the heats start, I move closer to the edge of the pool to improve my angle. The energy that crackles through the crowd is electric; it’s hard not to get caught up in it. I manage several stellar shots, and I can’t wait to get home and check them out on my computer. Coming to St. Croix rejuvenated my love of photography; yearbook has made me realize I can make a career out of it.
By the time the meet wraps up, the Palms is dominating. Everyone clamors off the bleachers to mill around the pool, spilling into the parking lot. Brielle, after talking to Rigel’s family—which, I suppose, is her family— wanders over. “Get any good pictures?”
“I think so,” I say, nodding.
“Can I see?”
“Of course.” I turn the camera back on and hand it over, looking around for Rigel.
“Ooh, this is a good one,” she exclaims, pointing to a shot I got of him on the starting block.
We’re discussing her senior portrait when movement near the changing rooms catches my eye. I’d hoped to see Rigel, but the rest of his team has filed out and he’s not with them. I refocus on Brielle, agreeing to a tentative “photoshoot” one weekend.
Jasmine clears her throat, touching Brielle’s arm. “Hey, I have to get home.”
“Okay; I’ll see you guys,” Brielle says, kissing my cheek. “Bye!”
And then it’s just Camille and me in the dwindling crowd. Rigel's family is gone, so perhaps he left with them.
“Ready?” I ask Camille, securing the camera back into its case.
“Yeah, girlie,” she says, fingers flying busily across her phone as she texts someone.
McKinley is about as far east as we live west. Camille and I chat the whole way home, stopping only to get milkshakes from the McDonalds drive-thru. I don’t mention Rigel, because I don’t need an I told you so, but he’s definitely running through the back of my mind. I mean, I’m a little confused. Maybe I shouldn’t be. Years of back and forth and does he or doesn't he with Benny should have taught me that there’s no certainty with boys.
But it’s a nice afternoon, the heat of the day fading with the light. The sky darkens rapidly, ruddy oranges and pinks cooling into navy and purple. I’m home in time to get Alex into his bath, where we splash and play until the water turns cold. Grandpa Harry makes his famous saltfish and dumplings for dinner, and we linger around the dinner table, talking until both he and my little brother are close to dozing.
Before falling asleep, I go online to see what sorts of liberal arts programs schools like Agnes Scott and the University of Georgia have. Minors in visual arts and film studies are compelling, and I read until I’m dozing off to fantasies of campus life.
Rigel doesn’t bring up his disappearing act the next day, and neither do I. It’s one of those things that seems bigger than it is, inflated by over-analyzation. It’s not like we’re dating.
We’re just friends...who kiss sometimes.
When I get to the pool later on, Coach Archer meets me by the locker room with a grin. “How’re you feeling today, Isla?”
“Pretty good.” I nod, returning her smile.
“Glad to hear it, because I’d like you to take your test today.”
My heart sinks. “I thought I had another week.”
“You do, but I think you're ready.” She shrugs. “And I’d like to integrate you into the regular class for what’s left of the quarter.”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I peek at the pool. The sun is blinding today, making the bright blue pool seem almost welcoming. I take a deep breath. “Okay. Can I take it again if I bomb?”
“Sure. But you’ll be fine.”
Archer dismisses Rigel a while later when he tries to get into my end of the pool. “She’s testing today, Ri. You can join the class.”
“Oh. Okay.” He glances down to me. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I stutter, teeth chattering despite the warmth. I'm jittery from nerves now, so the faster we get this over with, the better.
In the end, my fretting is for naught, because all the time Coach Archer, Rigel and even Stan have put into my lessons pays off. There’s no style to my strokes, but there is proficiency.
“That about does it,” Archer says, jotting something down on her clipboard. “You’ve demonstrated each survival technique and swimming stroke required of you. You’ve passed.”
Surreal. I can swim, well enough to pass a class. Relief, and a deep sense of satisfaction, wash over me. I can’t wait to tell my mother. Hoisting myself out of the pool, I wipe water from my face and glance at Archer’s clipb
oard. “Really?”
“Really. I’m proud of you, Isla.” She gestures to the deep end, where everyone else is swimming laps. “Feel free to join the class.”
Rigel’s eyes meet mine as I ease into the water beside him. “You passed.”
I can’t believe it. I’m buoyant, in more ways than one. “I passed.”
“I knew you would.” He smiles, hand brushing my thigh underwater.
It’s subtle, but the weather does start to cool some as the end of October draws near. It’s most noticeable at night, and really early in the morning.
With the end of first quarter comes mid-semester exams. I’m confident in most of my classes, but I attend a couple of after school study sessions anyway. The Palms has proven itself to be much more rigorous than what I’m used to, and I don’t want to fall behind. Between that and my mother’s insistence I stop visiting Rainbow Beach so late in the day, I don’t see much of Rigel outside of school. Not that it matters much. He’s been training almost non-stop, two-a-days that start with pre-class practice at the pool and end long after his teammates go home in the afternoons. I get that he’s driven, and that this is his future, but I wonder sometimes if there are other reasons behind the laser focus. Family stuff, maybe. Or school. No one trains like he does.
Late at night, we text. It started with a homework question, which I think we both knew was bs, and evolved into conversations that stretched over hours. It’s both better and worse: better because I’m getting to know him without being distracted by all the physical stuff. Worse because I really, really enjoy the physical stuff.
Still, I like putting the pieces of Rigel Thomas together. He’s squarely a middle child, with not just one older brother, but two. I remember Orion—how could I not? He made quite the impression—but I’m surprised there’s another one.
Really? I text.
yeah.
Is he around?
he lives in St. Thomas now. he has a different mother.
Interesting. I wonder what this brother looks like, if he’s anything like the genetically blessed brood I saw at the McKinley meet. Rigel’s father, so tall and lanky, with dreadlocks tucked up in a hat I now know is called a tam. His mother had seemed his opposite, curvy and blonde, her skin as fair as his was dark.
Rigel’s fallen quiet. It’s nearly ten, and he gets up early for morning sessions, so I know he's tired.
are you close to him? I ask.
not anymore.
“Do ya’ll dress up for Halloween?” I ask, examining the scrap of fabric Camille just called a dress. “Is this from junior high or something?”
“Or something,” she says, snatching it back. “And I haven’t dressed up for Halloween since I was twelve.”
“Really? But Halloween is so much fun,” I say, eyeing the hemline on Cam's dress as she pulls it on. “Damn, girl.”
“It’s a beach dress,” Cam says. “You know if I tried to wear it anyplace else Mom would lock me in my room.”
It’s true. As feisty as Aunt Greta is, she’s old fashioned when it comes to things like manners and dress. My mother’s not much different; it’s how they were raised.
“There is, however…” Camille’s muffled voice trails off as she disappears into her closet.
I follow her, watching her hang freshly laundered clothing. She’s got an outfit for every day of the year, I swear. “There is what?”
“A dance.” She glances back at me. “Not a school dance. A jam, at a club downtown.”
“And we can get in?”
She hangs one more blouse and pushes me out of the closet with a scoff. “Five dollars at the door, ladies half off until midnight. They do it every year.”
I’ve hung out downtown with Camille and Jasmine a couple times, but not to go clubbing. I’m surprised Aunt Greta is even letting Cam go, seeing as it’s a school night. Hopefully that’ll grease the wheels when I ask my own mother.
Halloween falls on a Thursday. A parade of little kids from Lower School wends through the Palms for most of the morning, showing off their costumes as they collect candy. Stunned by Cranky Franklin’s downright gooey niceness as she bestows Skittles on a tiny mermaid, I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like growing up here.
“So you guys used to do this, too?” I ask Camille.
“Camille always wanted to be Barbie,” snarks Nando, grinning when she narrows her eyes at him. “Always. Some things don’t change, right, muñeca?”
“Twice, Nando. I dressed as Barbie twice, and at least I didn’t moon the school when my clown pants fell down!”
Laughing at their increasingly hostile banter—the sexual tension is so apparent I don’t know how I missed it before—I peek over at Rigel. He’s already looking my way, and he leans forward when our eyes meet.
“You doing anything later?” he asks, inclining his head toward me.
“I might. Cam says there’s a party downtown?”
“At Baobab Club.” He nods, chewing his pen. “Nando wants to go…we might pass by.”
Of course Nando wants to go. He and Camille probably agreed to meet up. They’re stealthy, but they’re consistent—unlike Rigel and me; I don’t know what we are. I can’t say I wouldn’t love to kiss him again, because I would, but there’s something intimate about our late night messaging, too. We talk about our families, growing up, siblings and irritating things mothers do. Little things, big things. Pancake syrup. College.
We talked more last night about his oldest brother, Daniel, and how close they’d been when he was younger despite the eight year age difference.
why aren’t you close now? I’d asked. because he moved?
because he changed.
He’s chatty today, telling me about his dad, and the truck, and how they’re fixing something that’s gone wrong with it. I like who Rigel is, not just the way he looks, so I try to be a friend and not just a girl crushing...but it’s a tricky balance. It’s hard to play cool when he turns those tiger eyes on me, or when he steals chocolate from Ms. Franklin’s Halloween stash and stuffs some of it into my pocket.
And especially when, on the way to lunch, he slides his arm over my shoulders as we walk.
My mother is not impressed that Camille is going to a bar on a school night.
“It’s…not a bar, really. It’s more like a party,” I mumble, chewing on my lip.
She gives me the side-eye, barely missing a beat in the rhythm of her laundry folding. In the next room, Grandpa Harry curses at the television, berating someone for being an idiot.
I pick up a towel and fold it halfheartedly. “I always did stuff back home on Halloween.”
She opens her mouth and closes it, and I think maybe I’ve won. But then she shakes her head. “Isla, you went trick or treating back home. Or to a friend’s house. I know what the Baobab Club is. It gets a little wild, even when they aren't catering to your age group.”
“Can I just go for a little while? I’ll drive, so I can come home early,” I plead. “Please?”
“If I let you go, I’d actually prefer you rode with your cousin.” Sighing, she reaches for her phone. “Let me call Greta, okay?”
I immediately send a text to Camille: looks good! fingers crossed she lets me go.
In the end my mother relents, assuaged by Aunt Greta’s reassurances that we’ll be home no later than eleven, and that we’re riding together. The good old buddy system.
“No drinking, Isla.” Mom watches as I get into Aunt Greta’s car, which Cam has borrowed for the evening. “I mean it. That goes for you too, Camille!”
The Baobab Club is bigger than I expected, though there are so many people milling around it’s hard to move. It’s also mostly outdoors, a bar tucked into one side and a massive courtyard in the middle. Jewel toned twinkle lights are strung across the dancefloor, tiny rainbow stars beneath the open sky. There’s a DJ in one corner, and people both in and out of costume, dancing. I adjust my brown bunny ears, which I’m using as a headband. The
y’re my little brother’s, but he generously lent them to me for the occasion.
Jasmine and Brielle meet us near the door. We weave through the crowd, looking for people we know. Camille loves being the center of attention, so she and Brielle go dancing while Jasmine and I hang back, chatting with kids from the Palms.
The DJ announces a break and a slow reggae song comes on, mellowing the mood. Camille joins us, sweaty from her dance-a-thon and complaining about the heat. “Do you want something to drink?” she asks, nodding toward the bar. “I’m dying over here.”
The crowd surrounding the bar is about three deep. We join the mob, waiting impatiently until we’re finally at the front, where we order a couple of sodas. Jasmine gets a beer before wandering off. I’m guessing she doesn't have a suspicious mother waiting up for her.
A familiar face materializes from the crowd. “Where’s your costume, Camille?” Orion grins, kissing her cheek. Unlike the last time I saw him, he seems friendly tonight. Relaxed.
“Hey, Orion,” she says, kissing him back. “What’re you doing here?”
“You know. Some old, same old.” He winks, taking a sip of his drink. Now that I know he’s Rigel’s brother, it’s hard not to search his face for similarities.
Camille rolls her eyes, but it’s indulgent. “Slumming it with the peasants?”
“You again,” he says suddenly, throwing me a wolfish grin. “Isla.”
“Good memory,” I say, nodding.
“Pretty faces are easy to remember,” he says, eyeing me intently as he clasps my hand. What a flirt! Startled, I glance at Camille, who just shakes her head and whispers something to him.
“Seriously?” Orion says, visibly amused as he lets go of me. “I just saw him.” He looks around, searching the crowd.
“You did?” Camille frowns, pulling her phone from her pocket. “Where?”
“Hey.” I sip my soda, watching as she texts. “What am I missing?”
Orion cocks his head, watching me. “So, you go to the Palms?”
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