“Am I bringing you home?” Rigel asks, as we leave the silent streets of Redbrick. Up ahead, our headlights wash over a grassy area littered with trash that gives way to the beach. I didn’t realize we were so close to the water. The juxtaposition is jarring: a rundown concrete jungle against the dreamy nighttime glow of the ocean.
Orion’s fingers fly over his phone. “Yeah. Home.”
“What happened to the Tahoe?”
“Drew has it.”
We barrel down the main road, putting distance between us and whatever Orion wants to leave behind. The world is dead quiet; we pass just one car before turning onto a more residential street. Rigel’s hand grazes my inner thighs again as he downshifts, but this time he pauses, tickling me. Grinning, I grab his hand.
We pull up to a gate and Rigel rolls down his window, revealing a keypad. “Code.”
“2676,” Orion says.
Rigel jabs the numbers in, and seconds later, the gate swings open. A security guard gives us a polite wave from his booth, and as we continue on, I can see how this neighborhood differs from others I’ve visited on St. Croix. Tall, evenly spaced palm trees line the main drive, and the homes are swanky and oversized, set back from the street by circular driveways and manicured lawns. We turn down several streets, venturing deeper into a labyrinth of wealth and tidy shrubbery, until Rigel pulls up to a darkened house on a corner lot. He cuts the lights as we park in front of the garage, and for a moment, no one moves.
“Thanks, Ri,” Orion says eventually, reaching over me to slap Rigel’s shoulder.
“Don’t do this to me again,” Rigel says, staring straight ahead. “You knew I had Isla with me.”
“It wasn’t by choice, trust that.”
“There’s always a choice. You just make shitty ones.”
Orion doesn’t even wait for Rigel to finish. “Bye, Isla. Take care of him, okay?” And then he’s gone, pulling keys from his pocket as he disappears around the side of the house.
“Is there an apartment downstairs or something?”
“Yeah, but his landlords spend most of the year in New England, so he’s hooked up.”
“Lucky,” I say, but it’s thoughtless, because if there’s one word I’d choose for Orion Thomas it wouldn’t be that.
“Choices,” Rigel says, reversing out. “My father always says we are where we are because of the choices we’ve made. No one wants to accept that, but it’s true.”
“It is true,” I agree. I haven’t heard it put that way before, but it resonates. “Do you think Orion blames other people for where he’s at?”
“No. He’ll tell you in a split second he’s self-made, and proud of it. He owns it.” Rigel snorts derisively. “He wanted this lifestyle, and he got it.”
Instead of going back the way we came, Rigel heads in the opposite direction. We pass several more homes before the road darkens and starts to slant upward, the grade growing increasingly steeper.
“Where are we going?” I ask, moving back to my side of the cab so I can fasten my seatbelt.
“You’ll see.” Pulling to a sudden stop, he yanks the emergency break up and jumps out. In front of the truck, a thick rope hangs across an overgrown dirt road which is almost completely eroded. Rigel loosens the rope and eases the truck past, trading asphalt for dirt and rocks. At first it’s a tight fit, trees and bush closing in around us, but then one side falls away, and I realize we’re climbing another, steeper, hill by way of the questionable pathway carved into its side.
I’m starting to think we’ll never emerge, when we reach the summit. Well, actually it’s more of a bluff, flat and covered in a sea of long, wispy grass. It’s like water, the way the wind pushes through it in waves. Rigel cuts the engine and slips out but I just sit, captivated. There’s only a sliver of a moon, so it’s impossible to see where the ocean meets the sky, but I can hear the waves throwing themselves against the rocks below. Far away, the lights of Christiansted and its harbor twinkle, giving me some perspective of where on island we are.
After a moment I shrug into my hoodie and open the door. The grass comes nearly to my waist, and I touch the tops as I wade through to where Rigel’s sitting on the open tailgate. He helps me up and we settle in, arranging the bundle of blankets he’s got back there.
“Were you planning on coming up here?” I ask, surprised at this foresight. We’d been en route to the beach when Orion’s text had derailed things.
“Not tonight.” Lying back, he rests his head on his hands. “Why?”
“You just had a bunch of blankets back here?”
“I wasn’t sure what we’d end up doing, but I wanted you to be comfortable,” he says. My eyes are adjusting to the dark, and I can sense him watching me.
With no moon and no light pollution, the sky is at its blackest, clear and strewn with so many stars it doesn’t seem real. Shivering, I lie down beside Rigel and pull one of the other blankets over us. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, with Orion.”
He pauses, coming closer beneath the blanket. “I’m fine. I just don’t like when he pulls me into that shit. He knows I’m not down.”
I find his hand beneath the blankets. “He definitely knows,” I say, remembering Orion’s face the night we ran into him at Rory’s birthday party. “I think he regrets it.”
“Look at you, already believing his act,” he says, playful but meaning it, too. “The only thing Orion regrets is that I’m not running the streets with him. That’s all.”
“You think he doesn’t care?”
“It doesn’t matter whether he does or not. I don’t care.” His tone tells me we’re done talking about it.
I get why Rigel’s fed up with Orion. He’s wrong and strong, seemingly unrepentant about his lifestyle and the impact it has on the people who love him. Even so, part of me wishes they’d sort it out. They’re blood.
Then again, my brother is five and our worst fight has been over what to watch on TV.
The starry dazzle above catches my eye, and I surrender, giving it my full attention. I haven’t seen stars like this since camping at Cloudland Canyon two summers ago. Rigel points up to a constellation, waiting until I see it to whisper its stats in my ear. Leo, Leo Minor. Perseus. Cassiopeia. Sirius, the brightest star of all. It’s First Date 101 meets the Astronomy club as Rigel seduces me with ear kisses and adorably geeky recitations of the heavenlies. We kiss and we stargaze, fingers tracing lines in the sky as our legs tangle beneath.
“Orion,” I say, pointing. “Rigel glows blue, right?”
“Yeah. And see the red one on the bottom? Betelgeuse.”
I pause, smiling. “What, no sisters named after that one?”
“No sisters...maybe a horse.”
“That would be a good horse name.” A thought pops into my head and I close my eyes, shaking my head. “I just realized something.”
“What?”
“Your sister is Aurora as in Borealis, isn’t she? Not Sleeping Beauty.”
His hands wrap around my waist as he presses close. “You would be correct.”
There was something else I had to say, but we kiss and I forget.
Ms. Torino is one of the younger advisors on staff at the Palms. With her strawberry blonde side bangs and trendy, rectangular glasses, she looks more like a Starbucks barista than our guidance counselor. She sings quietly to herself as she looks over my records, alternately scrolling on the computer and shuffling paperwork.
“So, Isla,” she says eventually, catching me staring. Smiling sweetly, she offers me a stick of gum.
“Thanks,” I say, taking my time unwrapping it.
Tossing the pack back on her desk, she leans back. “Photojournalism, huh? Must say, I’m really feeling that for you.”
I sit up, surprised by her candor. “Yeah?”
She nods enthusiastically, turning her laptop around so I can see what she’s looking at. Several of the photos I’ve taken at recent athletic even
ts have been featured in the Palm’s monthly e-newsletter, and one was even put on the school’s site permanently. They’re great shots, and I’m proud of them, but they’re not exactly Pulitzer winning so it's surprising when she continues, “You’ve got a great eye, and from what Ms. Franklin’s told me, a great mind for current events as well.”
Hearing that Ms. Franklin holds me in such high regard comes as a shock. I’d never know it by the way she acts during class, and I almost feel guilty about adopting Nando’s “Cranky Franklin” nickname.
“You have plenty of time to choose a major,” Ms. Torino continues, pushing back from her desk. “There is, seriously, no rush. But I’d like to see you consider a school that can offer you a journalism major, photojournalism track. Or you could major in photography, minor in journalism, but…”
“I think I like the first option,” I say, nodding. “It makes sense, and I really am interested in current events. It’s a good fit.”
“I know it,” she agrees. “Okay. So, I know you’ve got your heart set on Agnes Scott and being downtown and all that, but how about the University of Georgia? Their journalism school was ranked one of the top three in the country a couple years ago. If you’re serious about focusing on photojournalism, I think they’re worth a look.”
I’ve had my heart set on Agnes Scott my whole life mainly because my mother went there. While I’m not ashamed of that admittedly childish desire, I’ve outgrown it. “I agree.”
It’s six thirty on a Wednesday evening, and we’re en route to the airport. It’s muggy and close, Alex won’t stop grousing—he skipped nap time today—and we’re running late, but none of that matters because in about twenty minutes we’ll be with my father.
I haven’t been to the airport since the day Delta flight 1752 dumped us on St. Croix, and it looks different to me now. Feels different. I suppose I’ve gotten used to the heat, the open air buildings and melange of dialects.
Mom drops me off at the curb while she and Alex look for a place to park. Hurrying over to baggage claim, I look from face to face, wondering if Daddy’s in this crowd. Multiple flights must have landed recently, because there are people everywhere. Grabbing my phone, I start to send a quick text only to see he’s beaten me to it.
Just landed! It was sent five minutes ago. I look around again, noticing that the baggage claim carousel, which had stopped, has resumed. Another wave of people gushes over to it, and then I see him — he’s gained a little weight since August. I realize it looks good on him, that maybe he was too thin before. Our eyes meet and he grins, eyes crinkling. I didn’t think I’d cry when I saw him, but I do. He catches me up, hugging me, and I push my face into his shirt, inhaling the cologne he’s always worn. It smells like familiarity, safety. It smells like the way things are supposed to be.
“I missed you,” I say, wiping my nose.
“Missed you too, Isla-girl.” He squeezes me until I can barely breathe, then sets me free, ruffling my hair the way he’s done since I was a kid.
“Daddy,” I complain, grabbing his hand as I smooth back what he’s messed up. “Mama went to park.”
“She told me,” he says, holding up his phone. Suitcases and bags revolve sluggishly by on the conveyor belt, waiting to be plucked up. Daddy finds his right as Mama and Alex find us. My little brother yells and barrels into him, making Daddy drop everything and embrace him. Mama joins in, crying, and then we’re all hugging and sniffling, our little group taking up room like a boulder in a stream, forcing people to go around us.
Having him here feels like the final piece of a puzzle, sliding into place. It feels like home.
On Thursday morning, I wake to the smell of roasting turkey and pumpkin pie. Other sweet and savory smells tickle my nose as I shuffle down the hallway, yawning, chest light with contentment. We stayed up late last night, talking way into the night—even Grandpa Harry, who usually passes out early.
In the kitchen, Alex sits on a high stool at the counter, helping my mother roll out pie crust. Daddy’s making his famous cornbread, and Grandpa Harry’s shelling pigeon peas, for peas and rice. I grimace, wondering how long they let me sleep.
“Mhm. And look what the cat dragged in,” Grandpa says, eyebrows raised.
“Morning, everyone,” I say, generous with kisses on my way to the coffee maker.
“Honey, huh? Just like your mother.” Daddy chuckles, watching me stir honey into my mug.
I smile, nodding. It’s true. I’ve picked up more than a few of her habits, I’m sure.
“There’s bread and cheese from the bakery,” Mama says, nodding toward the cutting board. I make a little sandwich and wolf it down, wanting to get to work.
“What do you need me to do? Chop vegetables?” I look around, trying to gauge. “I can get started on salad.”
“Greta’s bringing salad and baked macaroni,” Mama says, wiping her brow with the back of her arm. She positions her hand over Alex’s, helping him with the cookie cutters he’s using to make little designs for the top of one of the pies. “You can...peel and core apples. That would be a big help.”
Aunt Greta, Uncle Isaac and Camille show up around one, arms overflowing with food. I’m helping Cam bring juice and soda in from the car when a rental pulls up, and my cousin Teddy hops out. He goes to college in Maryland. I haven’t seen him in years, but he’s still as goofy as I remember.
“Hey, Isla.” Giving me a side hug, he scoops the bags from my hands. He might be the tallest person I’ve ever seen. “How’s the car running?”
“Running perfectly. I love it.”
“She was a great car. Lots of good memories.” Waggling his bushy eyebrows, he goes on inside. I don’t particularly want to imagine what sorts of shenanigans Teddy got into in that car.
My phone vibrates against my thigh as we walk back inside.
happy thanksgiving, Georgia.
happy thanksgiving ;) how many people y’all have over there? 100?
haha. maybe 20. we’re eating outside.
Is Orion home?
All of my brothers are home.
We message back and forth a bit until Mama smacks my butt and tells me to make myself useful. Camille and I set the table, going outside for fresh blooms to decorate with. There’s so much food my stomach hurts just looking at it, and everyone—even Alex McFussyPants—has seconds. It’s not until later I realize we don’t have alcohol at dinner. No beer, wine or rum. Nothing local. Just juice and soda.
I’m not a big drinker myself, but alcohol is woven so deeply into the culture here. I’ve become used to seeing it at most social events and dinners, but I know we’re abstaining because of my daddy. He looks better than he has in some time, and I wonder again how blind I was before.
“So you’re able to stay longer?” I ask later on, curling up beside him on the porch. Alex’s asleep in his lap, curls fluttering with our father’s breathing.
“Five days,” he says, giving me a quiet smile. “I worked it out. Seemed a waste to come for just two or three.”
This gives us until Monday, plenty of time for the beach and maybe the Rainforest. Armstrong’s Ice Cream and town and the bakery, and maybe I’ll even take him by the Palms, so he can see where I spend my days. “Much better. There’s so much to show you.”
“I’ll bet there is.” He leans over, kissing the top of my head. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll just stay.” He’s being lighthearted, but there’s longing in his words. He’s a Georgia boy, born and raised, but home is where your family is, and we’re all here. I know, because having him here makes this house feel more like home than it ever has.
“You should,” I say.
In the morning, Alex and Grandpa Harry take Daddy around the backyard to see which fruit trees are flowering or bearing fruit. Grandpa lasts about a half hour, but Alex has much to say, so he stays outside with Daddy longer. They’ve got pink cheeks when they finally come back in.
When Alex goes down for his nap, I take Daddy on an exploration of my
own, giving him the tour of Frederiksted as I know it. We take a leisurely drive through the rainforest, and I park on the side to show him Creque Dam. As Rigel predicted months ago it’s now full of mossy green water due to the rainy season. There are a lot of people out and about today, so it doesn’t feel as private, but my father doesn’t seem to mind.
Back in town, I point out the convenience store where I buy Grandpa Harry’s lottery tickets. Daddy’s amused they sell tickets to me at all, and we buy a few since we’re already there. After getting gas—which he pays for; score!—we stop at the bakery to get treats for everyone.
“We’ll save Armstrong’s for another day,” he says. “Al would be upset if he missed out.”
I’ve thought about Daddy’s visit a lot, and I always assumed things would be as heavy and deep as they were when Mom and I left, but it’s not. It’s actually kind of like we were never apart. He asks about school and how the college application process is coming along, and even though I know Mom fills him him on every-freaking-thing, I indulge him and spill all.
“So, University of Georgia, huh? Mom said you were considering?”
“Yeah.” I nod, pausing at a stop sign. “Athens is a little further from the city than what I wanted, but they’ve got a good journalism school.”
“You know, I almost went to UGA.”
“Really? I thought you were Georgia State, all the way.”
“Oh, I’m Georgia State.” He smiles. “It’s what I could afford at the time, so that’s where I went.”
“That’s what it all boils down to, I guess. They all have good programs...we just have to see who accepts me and what we can afford.” I pause, ambivalent to the feeling this conversation is giving me. I’m conflicted, anxious even. “All I want is to be home again.” That’s not completely true, though. There are other things—people—I’m considering lately.
My father’s still stuck on what I just said, though, seeing it through the lens he’s always seen it through. “Your grades are good, and you’re going to a prep school now. Things are a little different than they were back at Grady, honey. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
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