His breathing turns choppy and then pleasure ripples over his face. Relaxing, he pins me for a second and then rolls to my side. I watch him as he catches his breath, eyes closed, his warm, golden skin damp with exertion. Opening his eyes again, he gives me a dopey, satisfied grin. He leans over and kisses my breasts, blowing on the goosebumps that follow. I sink my fingers into his hair.
“You have to put on a shirt,” Rigel whispers, “because I can’t concentrate on anything else right now.” My heart flip flops at the pink on his cheeks.
“I don’t want you to concentrate on anything else,” I say quietly, bringing his face up to mine. We kiss. “And anyway”—I let him sit up—“I’m not the one who took it off.”
“Oh, I take full responsibility,” he says, staring shamelessly at my boobs.
Leaning over, I grab the scrap of material that is the other half of my bikini.
“I need to go for a swim,” he says with a yawn.
“Now?”
Gesturing to his lap, he nods. “Yeah. Now.”
“Oh, right.” I stifle a giggle. “I’ll come with you.”
I’m in bed, half asleep at nine p.m., phone pressed to my ear as Camille chatters about her adventures with Nando after leaving the beach today. She giggles hysterically, bringing my attention back and making me smile in the darkness. “Right?” she gasps.
“Right...” Suppressing another yawn, I readjust the phone so it doesn’t slip.
“You’re falling asleep,” she accuses.
Letting my eyes close, I settle deeper into my pillow. “I am. Sorry, Cam...I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Did Jasmine end up staying by you?”
“Nah.” Camille sighs. “She left the beach before we did.”
“She did?” I pause, trying to remember when last I saw her.
“Orion came and got her.”
“Oh. I didn’t even see him.” I have mixed feelings when it comes to Orion. He’s good to me, but he and Rigel clash. He loves his family, but he loves running the streets, too. And he obviously has feelings for Jasmine, but he’s a free agent. I suppose she is, too, but I think we all know she’d settle down with him if he was into it.
“He was at some house party up east, so he came right after sunrise. Jasmine called him.”
I can’t say I blame her; if everyone but me was coupled up, I’d probably leave too. “How’s he doing?”
“Okay, I guess. He was in a mood, but that could’ve been from staying up all night.”
“Well…”
“Isla, she’s still there.”
“What?” Shocked awake, I blink at the phone. “How’d she pull that off?”
“I have no idea!”
“Her mom—”
“Natalie had to go into work today, so she doesn’t even know Jas is still out,” Camille says. “But listen, she texted me earlier...they spent the day in his pool. And his bed.”
Jasmine and Orion are both extremely attractive, but still. “Unnecessary visuals, Camille.”
She titters, pleased with herself. “Anyway, I’m tired, too. Let’s sleep.”
“‘Kay. Night, Cam.”
“Night, Isla.”
For a while after we disconnect, I float in the half-space between wakefulness and dreams, my mind drifting as it processes the day. Thinking about Jasmine and Orion and what they’ve been doing, reminds me of how Rigel and I started this morning, and now I’m achy and wistful, wishing he was here for me to wrap myself around.
My eighteenth birthday falls on a Thursday.
Mom makes pancakes, and then, while we’re eating, Daddy calls to wish me a happy birthday. I get texts from Sage and Morgan as I run out the door, and by the time I’m on the road, my phone’s bursting with notifications, gifs and messages. Camille catches me by my locker before homeroom, giving me a coconut tart with a candle in it.
“Happy birthday,” says Rigel, placing a pink hibiscus on my desk before he sits down.
“Thanks.” Warmed, happy, I put it in my hair, tucking it behind one ear.
Feeling his stare, I glance at him sideways. “What?”
“I’ve never really seen your hair like this.” He reaches across the aisle, touching it.
It’s straight. I haven’t bothered in months, allowing it to be curly, but today I woke up in the mood for something different. Nodding, I touch it too. “I used to do it all the time, back home.”
I want to ask what he thinks of it, but Ms. Franklin brings the class to order.
We’re in the library later, taking notes for Ms. Franklin’s history project, when I feel Rigel’s eyes on me again. He’s been playing with my hair since we sat down; I can’t pretend like his attention doesn’t thrill me. I look, first for the teacher—who’s disappeared, thankfully—and then at the boy.
One side of his mouth lifts in a faint smile, triggering that dimple. Turning to a fresh page in my notebook, I scribble, what’s up?
His eyes slide down to the notebook. Peeking at me, he pulls it toward him and writes something. When he’s done I take it back, anxious to read.
You don’t want to know.
Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t, I scrawl.
He pauses, chewing on his pen before he responds. Are you a virgin?
Startled, I glance back at a sheepish Rigel. It’s a valid question, just unexpected.
Is it that obvious?
Stifling a little laugh, he shakes his head and writes, no.
You’re so full of it.
We look at each other. His little half-smile returns. So is that a yes?
Yes.
He reads that and nods, looking at me as he returns the notebook. Blushing, I snatch it up and write, why, are you?
No.
Ok then. Glad we cleared that up.
He gives me a sly, cheeky grin. Is it something you want to do, or are you waiting?
I blush so hard my face throbs with my heartbeat. Rigel snorts, squeezing my knee underneath the table.
Are you asking/offering???
I meant in general.
Yes, I’m waiting. And yes, I want to.
We stare at each other for a beat, and before he can say or write anything I write it again, to make sure he understands.
Yes.
Giving in to my desire for just a little more chocolatey goodness, I leave my bedroom and sneak into the kitchen. It’s late, and the house is quiet and dark. My birthday cake—what’s left of it— sits on the counter, beneath a glass cake dome. Quietly grabbing a plate, I cut myself a slice and pour a glass of milk. I’m about to make my escape when Mama wanders into the kitchen.
“Oh, you’re still up?” She picks up the kettle, bringing it to the faucet. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”
“Uh-oh,” I joke. But not really.
She smiles tiredly at me, filling the kettle and putting it back on the stove to boil.
“You okay?” I ask, giving in and taking a bite of cake.
“Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping too well.” She punctuates this with a yawn. “I’m going to bed in a minute. But listen. I just got off the phone with Daddy. He’s found a realtor to help us with the house.”
My heart sinks, the way it does whenever we talk about selling the Inman Park house. It’s as if my concept of “back home” is starting to exist less and less, like slipping into a dream and then realizing there’s no way to wake up, that the dream is now real, and what was reality is the dream. A memory.
For awhile, my parents had considered refinancing but in the end decided to just cut their losses. I guess I’ve still been hoping that some sort of miracle would allow us to keep my childhood home.
“Isla?”
I take a bite of cake. “I’m listening.”
She leans against the counter, folding her arms. “I’m just trying to keep you abreast on what’s happening. I know you get upset when we don’t tell you things.”
I nod.
Sh
e looks vaguely disappointed. I don’t know what she wants me to say. I love the house in Inman park, and I hate that we have to sell it. Sometimes I miss my old life so badly it aches...but if going back means losing everything I’ve found here, I wouldn’t go.
I’m not sure when I turned this corner, but I did.
The kettle whistles, and my mother whisks it from the burner before it starts to screech. I watch her make tea, recalling countless memories of this scenario over the years. Evenings she didn’t have work, bustling around the kitchen while I chilled at the table. I always wanted hot chocolate. It’s why she puts it in my coffee these days.
“So, long term. Would you ever go back to Atlanta?” I ask. “Or do you think Daddy would ever come?”
“I think we’re both pretty flexible,” she says. “But there are just so many variables at play right now. It’s hard to make plans, but I’m trying not to worry too much about it.”
I guess I’ve never thought about it that way before. Kids kind of just go with the flow; parents are expected to have it together. Not knowing our next step is scary.
“Daddy’s open to coming down,” she continues. “He loves St. Croix. It depends mostly on his job situation, how quickly the house sells...and it depends a lot on Grandpa Harry, too.”
She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to: it depends a lot on Grandpa’s health, and, morbid as it sounds, how long he lives.
“I mean, that’s what my staying here hinges on, too,” Mama says, spoon tinkling gently against the side of her cup as she stirs.
I return to my cake, licking a glob of frosting from my fork. “Okay. Ideal scenario, then. Your deepest wish.”
She smiles, tilting her head. “Living on island with your father. Staying here to take care of Grandpa, or…” She shrugs.
“This is home.”
“Mm. I suppose so.” She sips her tea.
“I hope Daddy does come, then.”
“I do, too...” She reaches out, squeezing my shoulder. “But it wouldn’t be for awhile, most likely long after you’ve graduated.”
“I just want him with us.” My throat thickens, and I swallow, trying to force the sadness back. Every time I think I’ve gotten used to this, to our family being split up, something knocks the scab off.
Mom sighs. “I know, baby. But Daddy’s doing well and he needs to stay where he is a little longer.”
My father started counseling sessions in Atlanta the week we left for St. Croix. It’s something he talks to me a lot about, not the gory details of his depression, but the things he’s learned while talking to someone. He attends AA meetings, too, the same ones he’s gone to on and off for years. I try not to get my hopes up. He sounds healthy and sober, and my mother seems cautiously confident about his progress, but relapses over the years have taught us to be careful.
The most recent relapse was the worst for me, because I didn’t even see it coming. Part of me still feels guilty that I was so wrapped up in my own life I couldn’t see the tell-tale signs of struggle in his.
“At least he’ll be closeby,” Mom says. “You two can visit on the weekends sometimes.”
I wash my cake down with milk. “Already counting on it.”
“I know this is has been hard for you. Atlanta will always be home.” Hugging me hard, she turns to go.
“Mama.”
She turns in the doorway, glancing back at me.
“This feels like home, too.”
I’m lost down the rabbit hole of my Instagram feed again, obsessing over the kaleidoscopic blues and greens of my favorite underwater photographers. There’s magic beneath the surfaces of oceans, lakes and pools: daytime, sunlight fracturing and rippling as it hits the water, and nighttime, spectre-like shapes and shadows telling stories.
Sometimes Rigel doesn’t have practice after school, so we go to the beach to swim. He does laps while I wade around the shallow parts, dipping my hair and getting used to being underwater. I still don’t love it, but at this point it’s no longer scary. If I can keep it together long enough to master taking pictures while being underwater, I’ll have achieved a personal best.
Sometimes we end up in the little lap pool at his house. There’s barely any room there, though, and despite the constant threat of siblings, we usually end up making out.
“Have you been to Buck Island yet?” Rigel asks. We’re at his kitchen table, pretending to do homework.
“Shhhh,” hushes Rory, frowning as she points her pencil at him. “Some people are trying to study.”
He scoffs, looking at her askance. “What could you possibly be studying for, little girl?”
“I have a spelling test!” she says, flipping her wild nest of curls back.
Making a face, Rigel scoots his chair closer to mine. “Anyway, have you?”
“Not recently,” I say, remembering the island paradise turned national park just off St. Croix’s east coast. It’s surrounded by the clearest, bluest water ever. “We went during a trip when I was seven or eight.”
“You want to go this weekend? My Uncle Jimmy’s taking the boat out.”
Turns out Uncle Jimmy has an old fishing boat that moonlights as a family pleasure craft. We leave the beach on St. Croix just before noon, when the sun is high in the sky. Salt sprays up from the boat’s wake, coalescing nicely with the warm breeze. I close my eyes, enjoying the feelings and smells. In my bag is a disposable, waterproof camera I found at the dive shop last week. It’s junk compared to the equipment professionals work with, but it’s perfect for my purposes today.
My eyes snap open when Uncle Jimmy yells over the grind of the motor, instructing Rigel and his cousins to ready the anchor. Several other boats float along the shore. A small group of snorkelers lingers nearby, red and orange breathing tubes bobbing in the waves. Before we’ve even stopped anchor, most of the cousins have already dived in, slick as seals as they glide through the water. I watch with a frisson of trepidation, wishing we’d anchored closer.
“It’s not as big a jump as it looks.” Rigel kisses my neck. “Come on. We’ll jump together.”
“This is as bad as the pier.” I stuff my clothes into a bag and straighten up, chewing nervously on my lip. “I thought we’d wait…”
“Not half as bad.” He grabs my hand and brings me to the side.
“Wait, I need sunblock.” Fishing the bottle from my bag, I slather the goopy wet mess all over my arms and face, asking Rigel to get my back.
“Want some?” I ask as he obliges.
Working quickly, he spreads goo all over my back and arms and tosses the bottle down. “No, I want to get in the water.”
“You’re being pushy again. Remember where that got us last time.” My heart pounds and my insides liquefy. This might be worse than the Great American Scream Machine at Six Flags.
“On three,” says Rigel, fingers tangling with mine.
Uncle Jimmy watches with interest from the wheel, shading his eyes from the sun. “You don’t like the water?”
“I like it, just…”
“She just learned how to swim,” Rigel says. “And anyway, she’s a Statesider.”
I roll my eyes as he grins at me. “Is that suppose to be reverse-psychology?”
“Yeah. Is it working?”
“Kind of.” I look back at Uncle Jimmy. “Rigel taught me to swim, actually. At school.”
“That’s a real case of opposites attract,” teases Jimmy, cracking a smile. “Go on, Isla. This boy won’t let anything happen to you.”
I don’t know when I make up my mind, but I do, stepping off the edge and pulling Rigel down with me.
“I sent my last application in.” I draw my finger through the soaked sand at the water’s edge, idly crafting designs. We’ve been at the beach all day and, despite sunscreen, my shoulders and cheeks sting slightly, having borne the brunt of the sun. Rigel’s slightly pink, too, and his hair blonder than ever.
“Yeah, me too. My mom was on top of me to get it done.�
��
“Mine, too. And my dad.” I sigh. “And my grandfather.”
“How many did you send out?”
“Five. You?”
“Seven.”
“Oh, wow.” Nodding, I erase my sand picture and start over. “Which schools made the cut?”
He pushes his hair from his face. “UCF, USF, UF, SC”—he pauses, squinting—“UGA, UNC and the University of Charleston.”
“Chapel Hill?” I clarify, but that’s not what I’m really stuck on.
“Yeah.”
“You applied to UGA.” I peek up at him, smiling.
“Heard good things about it.” He smiles and tugs one of my curls, still wet from our last swim. “You applied there, right?”
Nodding, I gaze out at the water. The sun is low in the sky, a ripe orange ready to be devoured by the sea. “So, I’ve figured out what I want to do for my senior portrait.”
“What?”
“An underwater portrait. You know the girl I showed you online...the one I’ve been following....something like that.” I toss the disposable camera back and forth between my hands, wondering how many of the pictures we took turned out. It’ll be fun to see. I love the immediacy of digital, but there’s something about the anticipation of waiting for film to be developed. “I want to play around with it...get underwater housing for my camera.”
“Yeah, that sounds like you,” Rigel says, sitting up. I brush off the sand that’s stuck to his back. It’s been an indulgent day of swimming and lazing around.
“I wish I could do it here. It’s perfect.”
“It is,” Rigel agrees. “Park’s closed at night, though. Even if we had a way to get here.”
“Aw, really? No one ever comes out at night?”
“People do, they’re just not really supposed to.” He tosses a broken shell toward the water. “I think the Coast Guard might patrol at night. Make sure no one’s doing drug runs and shit.”
“For real?”
His eyes cut to me and then drift down to my chest. He touches my clavicle, pulling my bikini strap aside. “You got really tan today.”
Pleased, I mimic his touch, tracing my fingers along the line left by his board shorts. “You, too.”
Heavenly Bodies Page 24