Heavenly Bodies

by Rochelle Allison

  The muscles in his stomach contract visibly, and he grabs my hand. “Easy.”

  “Don’t tell me that turns you on.” Biting back a smile, I lie down. I’ll have sand in my hair for weeks but it feels so good, having been warmed through by the sun.

  “Doesn’t take much.” Cool, gritty fingers dance across my belly. I catch Rigel’s hand and hold it. “Listen.”

  I look at him.

  “If you really want night pictures,” he says, “I can get us into the pool at the Palms.”

  “Orion’s talking about leaving,” Rigel says suddenly, turning down the volume.

  It’s Tuesday night, just past twelve, and we’re in his truck, zipping through the quiet dark. We’re on our way to the Palms to test my new equipment, underwater housing for my Canon. Between sneaking out of the house and into the pool, I’m a little on edge.

  But Rigel’s comment distracts me from my nerves. I peek at him, trying to gauge how he feels. “For good?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Some stuff’s been going on.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “You remember Drew?”

  One of Orion’s crazy friends; I nod.

  “He was telling me about this run-in he and my brother had a couple months back with this crew from William's Delight,” he says. “Thing is, they’ve had problems for a long time. Since...I was younger. Anyway, Drew heard one of them has it out for Orion now.”

  “Is it…” I fumble over my words. “Business or personal?”

  “It’s always personal, but yeah, it’s some bullshit about turf. And I guess it’s serious. And then last night at dinner Orion comes by and tells Mom he’s thinking of starting over in the states.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “Back to Miami, maybe, or Vermont. He knows people everywhere.” He pauses at an intersection, making a right turn. “He asked if I wanted to get a place together next year. My mother almost chased him out of the house.”

  I shake my head, confused. “Am I missing something?”

  He looks at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Orion seems to be more into your relationship than you. It’s like he doesn’t take you seriously.”

  “I think he’s waiting for me to come around,” says Rigel, hooking his fingers into air quotes. “He misses the way it used to be, and doesn’t understand why I’m over it.”

  “Or maybe he understands, he just really wants his partner in crime back.”

  Rigel’s jaw hardens. “Sounds about right.”

  We turn into the Palms. Familiar by day, it’s eerie at night. Bypassing the parking lots, Rigel continues to the other side of campus and parks as close to the pool as he can. Except for the yellow security lights scattered haphazardly around, it’s silent and dark.

  Unbuckling my seatbelt, I peer out at the shadows.

  Rigel chuckles. “You look like you’re about to walk the plank.”

  “I don’t want to get in trouble!” We’ve been having this conversation all evening.

  “We’re not going to. I’ve done this a thousand times.” Grabbing my camera bag, he hops out and leads the way, expertly navigating the unlit paths. Wispy clouds pass over a half-full moon, and the pool reflects that restlessness, wind rippling its surface. “You ready?” Rigel asks. “I’m going to turn on the lights.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He flips a switch, illuminating the water before jumping in. Meanwhile, I strip down to my suit and tiptoe into the water. It’s freezing—Rigel’s already swimming laps to warm up. Securing the equipment, which I tested in my bathtub earlier, I ease my camera into the water. And then, making sure the settings are where I want them, I take a deep breath and duck beneath the surface. I push past the momentary panic, coming back up for another breath. My heartbeat starts to calm. When Rigel begins another lap toward me, I capture several photos, using the built-in flash when he’s close enough.

  He pops up beside me, rivulets of water sluicing down his face. “Show me?”

  “How to take a picture?”

  He nods, holding his hand out.

  “It’s pretty much the same. I’ve already adjusted the settings, so…” Placing the camera in his hands, I point out the buttons and dials he’ll need and then swim a couple of feet away. I’m still talking when I hear a click, and then another. “If these are horrible I’ll just get a timer and do it myself next time.”

  “Nah. I’m good at everything, Georgia.”

  Placing my tablet on Camille’s lap, I point to my favorite shots of Rigel moving underwater. “These two, especially. He said he might use this one for his senior page.”

  She nods, looking through the images. There were a few duds, but I got a great set of photos from my late night pool session with Rigel. “You rocked this little photo session,” she says, smirking. “Rigel, not so much.”

  I snort; she giggles. Sifting through the blurry shots of bubbles and arms and walls, it seems we’ve finally found something in which Rigel does not naturally excel: photography. At least, the underwater kind. “Oddly he did get one of me I really like, though.” Reaching over her, I tap on my favorite: me, swimming up from the bottom of the deep end. We’d traded the lights inside the pool for the ones surrounding it, so the image is nearly leached of color, giving the faint shaft of light shining down an ethereal glow.

  “Isla,” she breathes. “Wow.”

  We look through the other photos, commenting on a couple. Rigel might not be too keen behind the camera but in front of it he’s golden and now, I’d love to experiment on everyone else. Camille turns off the tablet, tucking it into my backpack.

  “We might try it at the beach one night,” I say. “If you want to come.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Let me know.” She smiles, cocking her head. “Bet you never thought you’d be taking underwater pictures.”

  “Never.”

  “Have you seen the latest?” Megan chuckles, turning the screen toward me.

  We’re in the yearbook room, working on layouts. As the deadline looms near, senior portraits have been flooding our photo lab’s email address. One of today’s submissions is Stanley. He’s skating down a crumbling stone staircase I recognize from a building in Christiansted, probably doing the same thing he was when he sprained his ankle last fall.

  This is the third time he’s submitted a portrait.

  I turn the screen back to Megan. “Not even remotely surprising.”

  “He included a note saying this was his favorite. Like we have time to sift through his freaking portfolio!”

  “Does he want a collage or something?”

  “Nope.” She rolls her eyes, saving the photo. “Just this one.”

  My left buttcheek vibrates, courtesy of a silenced phone. Plucking it from my pocket, I peer at the message Mama just sent:

  Grandpa’s fine. Just left the doc, getting stuff for dinner.

  I close my eyes, offering up a quick prayer of thanks. This morning, Grandpa Harry woke up crankier than usual and complaining of a headache. It was so bad by the time I left for school that Mama said she was bringing him to the doctor.

  It’s one thirty now. I message her back: Thank God. How long did you wait for an appt?

  He was seen at 11.

  What did they say it was?

  His blood pressure. They adjusted his meds.

  While I’m glad it was something doctors could remedy this time, I can’t help but wonder what other scares and complications lie on the horizon. Mama might have known what she was getting into professionally when she took on this role, but emotionally? I’m not so sure.

  My thumbs hover over the screen as Megan calls over to me, asking for my opinion on a font.

  Tell him I love him. Gotta go.

  Except for the chatty clique of parents sitting at one end, the bleachers are mostly empty today. I’m finishing up French homework while the swim team practices. Palm trees rustle peacefully overhead, swaying lazily in the breeze.

&n
bsp; Rigel walks over, toweling his hair as he drips all over the concrete. “We’re done. I’m gonna go change.”

  “Okay.” Nodding, I give him a quick smile and jot down the answer to number seventeen.

  Leaning closer, he ruffles his hand through his hair, getting me wet on purpose.

  “You’re worse than a puppy!” Shielding myself from the onslaught, I hold up my French textbook. “Rigel!”

  Laughing, he struts off toward the locker rooms. Dragging the books across my lap in an attempt to dry them, I return to my conjugations.

  The Stingrays’ morning practices are on hiatus due to scheduling conflicts with one of the coaches, so Rigel’s been going in at a more humane time than usual. He picks me up most mornings and we ride in together, stopping at the bakery on Centerline Road for fresh titi bread and cheese. Sometimes, if I don’t feel like waiting through afternoon practice, I ride home with Camille. But on days like today, when it feels good to be outside and my mother doesn’t need me just yet, I stay.

  On the way home, Rigel and I stop at the supermarket so he can pick up a few things for his mother. “She always forgets stuff when she has the kids with her,” he explains, tossing a box of cereal into the cart.

  “I bet Rory talks her ear off.”

  “She’s the worst,” he agrees, holding up two boxes of toaster pastries. “We go through five or six boxes a week.”

  “I didn’t even know there were healthy versions of those.” I grab a box, eyeing the ingredients. “The strawberry sounds amazing.”

  “So, Orion’s leaving in a few days. He’s staying with people in Miami and then maybe heading up to North Carolina.”

  Hmm, this explains why Jasmine’s been MIA lately. She’s probably hiding out at Orion’s. “Wow. That’s soon.”

  “Not soon enough—Orion’s boys had a fight with some of the crew from William’s Delight.” He scowls at his phone before pocketing it again. “Playing with fire, man. He needs to leave today.”

  Unnerved, I stop where I am. “Does your mom knows why he’s leaving?”

  Rigel scoffs. “He plays her, and she wants to believe him, so she does. My dad’s not as easy to fool, but who knows. I think they both just want to believe he’s moving on.”

  I remember Orion at Rory’s birthday, chasing that tribe of little kids around. “Maybe he is.”

  He just looks at me. Rigel thinks I can be naive when it comes to his brother. Maybe he’s right.

  I’m in the middle of dinner with my family when Rigel texts. My phone glows at me from my lap, silently beckoning, while Grandpa Harry glares at me from across the table, silently judging.

  “Put it away, Isla,” Mama says, not missing a beat as she coaxes a snow pea into Alex’s mouth. He makes a face, letting it fall back onto his plate.

  It’s Rigel. My fingers hover over the screen, itching to respond.

  She holds her hand out. “Isla.”

  “Okay, okay.” Sighing, I hand the phone over and proceed to shovel the rest of my food. Mama gives me a look. “What?” I swallow. “I love dumplings.”

  “I love dumplings, too!” cries Alex, pushing the rest of his peas away.

  The second we’re done with dinner, I swipe my phone from the counter so I can read Rigel’s message.

  You still riding with me tomorrow?

  Oui, mon petit chou.

  Was that for Camille? Because I take Spanish.

  Well in that case: yes, my darling.

  I’m on the porch with Grandpa Harry the next morning, sipping tea and talking college, when Rigel’s truck pulls into the yard. Larry gives a half-hearted bark before flopping back into the shade of Grandpa’s chair.

  Tipping the last of the tea into my mouth, I watch Rigel come up the steps. His hair, which has been growing longer and more unruly since we met, is knotted back into a bun. It looks good on him.

  Really good. My stomach dips.

  “Good morning,” he says, winking at me. He goes for Grandpa first, shaking his hand.

  Grandpa Harry sets his cup down, accepting the handshake. “Mahnin’, boy.”

  “Morning, Rigel,” I say, slipping back into the house for my bag.

  He follows a second later, hooking his finger into my belt loop. “Chou means cabbage, by the way. Not darling.”

  “It’s both.” I laugh, trying to escape his tickling. ”A pet name: mon petit chou.”

  “For what? A poodle?”

  “Hi, Rigel,” Mama calls.

  “Hi, Mrs. Kelly.” Taking my backpack from me, he pops into the kitchen to see my mother.

  Today is Senior Skip Day. It was kind of a legend back at Grady, a myth of cooler times, but at the Palms it’s alive and well. Our class voted back in November to have it today, so instead of attending class we’ll be partying poolside at Margaret Tancredi’s, the class president.

  “We don’t have to be at Margaret’s for a few hours,” Rigel says, once we’re on the road. “I was thinking we could just do our own thing for awhile.”

  “Did you have something specific in mind?”

  “I do.”

  We pull into the bakery’s gravelly parking lot. My mouth is already watering for a guava tart. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I follow Rigel inside. “Well, what is it? The suspense is killing me.”

  He grins. “I want to jump off the pier. It’s the perfect day to do it.”

  Licking the last bits of sugar from my fingers, I gaze out at the water. It glitters brilliantly below the full morning sun, so dazzling it’s hard to look at.

  “You done stalling?” Rigel asks, peeling off his shirt. We’re in his truck, parked beneath a tree near the pier. Frederiksted is quiet.

  “No.” Working beneath my clothing so I don’t flash the world—or at least Rigel—I trade my bra for a bikini top.

  “You ready?”

  “Not really, but I’m sensing I don’t have a choice.” I gesture toward my backpack. “Is it okay to leave this here?”

  “Better not to. Here, I’ll carry it.”

  It’s not heavy, but I allow him, going instead for the towels in the truck bed. We make our way down the pier, passing a lone fisherman. Within hours, he’ll be one of many.

  Rigel stops at a spot about halfway down. Dropping my bag, he tucks his keys inside and kicks off his flip flops. Wandering to the edge, I peer over the side, relieved to see a metal ladder leading up from the water. The water seems dark, though, and rough.

  Without warning Rigel sprints off of the pier, flipping in mid-air before hitting the water with a giant splash. Seconds later he pops up, face split into a joyous grin. “Come on!”

  “Show off.”

  “Isla…”

  My insides clench. All I can think about are creepy sea animals, or getting dragged beneath the pier by a rogue wave. “You said you’d jump with me!”

  “Okay, okay, I did,” he says, scaling the ladder. Not giving me time to back out, he takes my hand and brings me back to the very edge.

  Shivering, I stare down into the abyss. “I’ve heard there are barracudas around here.”

  “I don’t know, but there are seahorses.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re stalling again. This is just like the boat,” he says. “Remember?”

  “Pretty sure you said that was nowhere near as bad as this,” I say. “Remember?”

  “One, two…” He glances at me, eyebrows raised. I nod, immediately regretting it. “Three!” We step off, plummeting so fast my heart’s in my throat. My scream is cut off by a cold, salty slap of ocean water, and I tug my hand from Rigel’s, propelling myself back to the surface.

  It’s scarier than I imagined, and also way more exciting. “Okay! Okay. I get it.” I’m smiling so hard my face hurts.

  Rigel laughs, treading water beside me. “You good?”

  “Yes!”

  “Want to go again?”

  “I love that we have a legit excuse for skipping school.” Polishing off the rest of my roti, I grab a
napkin and begin the tedious process of cleaning curry-stained fingers.

  As usual, Rigel’s fiddling with his sound system. “You really didn’t have Senior Skip day at your old school?”

  “Not a sanctioned one. The kids that tried usually got busted.”

  “It’s tradition here.”

  “So I hear,” I say. “I wonder how it’s going at Margaret’s—I heard she got a DJ.”

  “Nando’s been sending updates.” He shows me the screen of his phone. “Almost everyone’s there, but it’s still pretty chill.”

  “Really?” I take the phone, skimming through Nando’s messages.

  “You want to head over?”

  “I do, but…not yet.” After a morning of pier jumping, and then lunch from a Trinidadian food truck, I’m satisfied and sleepy, wondering if there’s a beach we can doze on.

  He starts the truck and reverses back onto the road, leaving town to go further west. I check my phone. There’s a text from Sage, talking about airline tickets for spring break, and several from Cam, asking where the hell I am. I send her a selfie with Rigel, which he ruins with his middle finger. When he pulls off the road again, just a minute later, it’s a spot I remember well—the private cove he took me to when we first started making out on beaches.

  That seems like forever ago.

  The water is warm and clear, full of tiny silver fish like last time. We swim for a good while, Rigel getting in a few laps as I float and dip, but the midday sun is fierce. Leaving the water, I take my towel and find shelter beneath a cluster of sea-grape trees. Rigel joins me after a moment, dropping his towel alongside mine. I take a thousand pictures, drunk with the beauty of outside, grateful we didn’t spend today trapped in a series of classrooms.

  “I taste like curry,” I say, when Rigel kisses me.

  “A little.” He licks my bottom lip. “I probably do, too.”

  “And salt water,” I say, licking his.

  We kiss until we’re sandy and sweaty, and he won’t stop poking me. I can’t take it; I smile, and our mouths drift apart.

  “What’s up?” He smiles back, but he looks a bit dazed.

  Pushing my hips up, I let him know exactly what.