“How was school?” Mama asks, taking her glasses off. Piles of paperwork are fanned around her laptop.
“Fine, I guess.” I drop my backpack and make a beeline for the fridge, hoping there’s still soda somewhere back there. “Camille got her first letter...she didn’t get into Columbia.”
“I know,” sighs Mom. “Greta told me.”
Gratified to find one can of Coke left, I grab a glass from the cabinet. “She was pretty bummed out.”
She smiles slyly. “You have a couple of letters here, too, and they look pretty official.”
“What?” Whipping around, I nearly drop the glass in my haste. Riffling through the pile, I quickly find two fat envelopes. One is from Georgia State, the other, a tiny liberal arts school in Savannah. Neither school is my first choice, but my hands shake all the same as I open those envelopes.
“Well, what do they say?”
Not expecting her to be so close, I jump. “Mama! You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry.” She smiles sheepishly, squeezing my shoulder.
Both letters start similarly:
We are pleased to inform you…
“Isla!” Mama, who’s reading over my shoulder, claps her hands. “You got in! ”
I can’t believe it. I read and re-read the letters until the words blur, overcome with relief that when all is said and done, at least someone wants me. The school in Savannah is expensive, so their financial aid package would have to be the stuff of miracles to afford my entrance, but that’s okay. Knowing it’s an option feels really good.
Mama yanks me into a hug. “We have to call Daddy,” she sings, whipping out her phone.
Later, over Facetime, I show Sage the letters. “Now I’m just hoping for UGA.”
“Isla girl—that’s great!” Beaming, she gives me two thumbs up. “You can rest easy now. Morgan hasn’t gotten any letters back.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. She’s in more extracurriculars than the two of us combined.”
Sage nods, chomping down her Twizzler like a rabbit with a carrot. She’s already been accepted into a couple of schools—mostly in South Carolina, where her mama went to school—but also Juilliard, her dream. Part of me is sad we’ll be apart, but mostly I’m just glad she’s happy. We’ve come a long way since freshman year, plotting and planning twin futures at the same colleges.
We’ll always have Inman Park.
On Easter weekend in St. Croix, thousands of people go camping. I’m blown away at what a big deal this is, at how many people go—at how fancy some of the equipment is. Our diminutive bonfire on New Year’s Eve is nothing compared to the patchwork of tent cities that bloom overnight as entire families descend upon the island’s beaches. A bunch of Rigel’s family head to the North Shore early Thursday morning to claim the Thomas family’s usual spot, a little beach called Columbus Landing.
“You’ll come, right, Isla?” Diana asks, pausing her cooler-packing and food prep to slide me a glass of passion fruit juice. “It’s just family.”
“You guys have a big family.” I laugh, taking a sip. It’s so sweet I shiver.
“There’s always room. I can call your mom, if you’d like.”
Mama’s already made plans with Aunt Greta and Uncle Isaac, though. Even Grandpa Harry’s going, per tradition, though he insists we attend church as a family on Easter Sunday. I’m in my room, considering the logistics of this, wondering if I’ll just yank a dress on over my bikini, when Mama ducks in.
“I’m going to the store to grab a few supplies. You coming?”
“No, I’m okay.”
She glances down the hall. “Grandpa’s pissed I tossed out that other tent.”
“It was moldy and gross,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose.
“I know.” She rolls her eyes, and we share a laugh. “I’ll be back. Keep an eye on Alex, okay?”
I text Rigel, letting him know our family’s camping down at Sprat Hall, and then do some packing of my own. Filling a smaller bag with toiletries, I make sure to grab the slim purple disc on my desk. They’re my new birth control pills. I’m not sure what was worse: my mother’s face when I told her I’d become sexually active, or the awkward drive to the gyno the next day after school.
She hasn’t tried to murder Rigel, but we haven’t told Daddy, and never, ever will.
Rigel messages back, and we lose time, chatting until the front door slams and Grandpa Harry yells something about his “frigging tent!” Alex darts into my room, jumping on my bed with relish until I sweep his knees from under him, making him collapse with an giddy shriek.
Where’s Nando staying? I type.
They go to Cramer’s Park. he’s staying by me tmrw night tho. We’ll break you and Cam out ;)
By the time Mama, Grandpa, Alex and I join the others at Sprat Hall on Good Friday, the sun is setting over the water. The mood is mellow, as most people have been here all day. After a meal of fried fish and johnny cakes, we take a dip down shore and then change into dry clothes. Camille and I are hanging in one of the tents, watching videos on our phones and munching on chips, when Rigel messages me.
Hey. what are u up to?
Chilling w/Cam. you?
Nando’s here. Want us to come get you?
“Tell him yes,” Camille says, from right behind my shoulder.
“Jeez, creeper.” I snicker, shoving her out of my personal space.
She shoves back. “Tell him!”
Shouldering the assault, I return to my text conversation. Yeah. when?
Half hour
Camille and I visit The Moms, who have finally stopped fussing over Grandpa Harry’s sleeping arrangements and are nursing thermoses of something steaming. I suspect hot toddies with extra rum.
“Where’s Alex?” I ask. Last I saw of him, he was running through camp with another little boy.
“Asleep, as of…” Mama looks at her watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Everything all right?” Aunt Greta asks.
“Yep.” I nod, pointing my toe and drawing shapes in the sand with it. “Is it okay if we go with Rigel and Nando for awhile?”
Mama purses her lips, like I knew she would. “For a couple of hours, Isla. You know this is a family thing. I’m surprised the boys aren’t with their families.”
Camille jumps in, which is good because not responding to my mother’s judgemental undertones is taking monumental effort on my part. “Oh, it’s cool. They’ve been doing the family thing since yesterday.”
“Hmm.” Mama sips her drink, sharing glances with Aunt Greta. I can imagine the years’ worth of non-verbals these two have perfected.
“Go ahead,” Aunt Greta says, waving us off. “Not for long, okay?”
“Thanks.” I hug her, and then my mother, sharing a glance of my own with Camille. “We won’t be late.”
Weaving between tents, we duck back into ours long enough to grab flip flops and bags. After briefly discussing the ethics of drinking (and stealing) on Easter weekend, we liberate four Heinekens from Uncle Isaac’s cooler and wait beneath a tree by the road. People are milling around, coming and going, the mood turning lively as night establishes itself.
At first, we startle at every thundering bass that passes, squinting at the headlights that sweep across the road. I look around, making sure I didn’t miss something—did Rigel mean he’d park and find us? Will they pluck us up from the side of the road?—but as the minutes tick by, a half hour turns into forty five minutes, and I’m feeling as irritable as Camille sounds.
“What the hell?” she huffs, for maybe the eleventh time.
Rooting impatiently around my overstuffed bag—it’s a beach bag doubling as a purse—I grab my phone. “I’m texting him right now.”
“Only now?” She holds up her own phone. “I’ve been texting Nando for twenty minutes already!”
I peck out a quick message: everything ok?
Fully expecting a prompt reply, I sit with my phone in hand, waiting for it to v
ibrate. But it doesn’t. Not when I wait, and not when I send two, three, four more messages.
My annoyance shifts to concern, though, when we hit the hour and a half mark. “Cam, what if something happened?”
“Like what?” she asks, rolling her eyes. “They probably went to another party.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious! Everyone’s out tonight...I can so see those two getting caught up.”
“But they wouldn’t ignore all these messages,” I say, tapping the phone’s screen. I’m not dating Nando, so I don’t know how he and Cam roll, but Rigel’s always been pretty good about getting back to me.
“First time for everything,” she mumbles, already back on her phone.
Cam might be more experienced when it comes to guys, but that doesn’t mean she’s right. Although maybe it’s better if she is.
Because the alternative is that something bad happened.
I wake up around dawn, eyelids prickly from a lack of sleep. Camille’s knocked out beside me, her soft snores just audible over the perpetual push and pull of the tide. My phone’s still clutched in my hand, and I stare at it now, confused.
But then it vibrates again. Someone’s calling.
Rolling to my side in the stiflingly hot tent, I bring the phone to my ear and answer, knowing it’s him. “Rigel?”
“Hey. Hey, I’m sorry—”
“What happened to you guys? Are you okay? We waited all night, Rigel.” I know I sound slightly hysterical, but I’ve been anxious all night and it’s got its claws in me.
“Long story,” he rasps. “Are you up? Can I come now?”
“I’m up. Come.” I’m so anxious, I agree before I mean to. I want to see him, but I’m exhausted. “Is Nando coming?”
“He headed back up east.”
“He should probably call Camille. She was really pissed.”
“Yeah, well, shit went down.”
I blink at the edge in his voice, wondering what the hell happened. I’d known, though, hadn’t I? Last night?
“Isla?”
“I’m here.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You’re at Sprat Hall, right?”
“Yeah.”
He pauses. “I’m sorry you waited all night.”
Swallowing, I turn toward the water. It laps gently at the sand, gleaming dully in the early light. “Okay. I’ll be waiting by the road.”
When the black truck pulls up, sans music for once, I run to it barefoot. I see Rigel’s face the second I clamor in, swollen with a split lip and a black eye. Gutted, I’m across the seat and in his arms before he can even take the truck out of park.
“Please, please tell me what happened.” Eyes burning, I press my face into the side of his neck.
He squeezes me, kissing the top of my head. “I will. Come on,” he whispers, reaching for the gear shift.
I scoot over to give him some room, but my eyes are glued to his face. He drives further down the road, past an endless line of parked cars. Everyone’s camping. On any other day we’d have our pick of beaches, but today most of them are occupied. Even the private cove we go to sometimes is taken.
We drive far enough west, along the coast, that we begin to curve north. Rigel finds a secluded place right as the faintest glow of pink permeates the gray sky. There’s no tree line here, just open access to a little inlet. No one’s here, probably because the beach is so small. And rocky. I wince, stepping over broken shells and bits of driftwood.
Rigel ties his hair back and drops to the sand. He’s barefoot, too. Even roughed up like this, he’s beautiful. My throat tightens, like I might cry if I say anything.
“I told you about those guys from William's Delight,” he says, turning his face to the water. “They’ve had beef with my brothers and their friends since way back. Nando and I were by the pier with some people when this dude comes up and asks where Orion is. He was drunk and in my face...but Nando was drunk too, so he pushed him away from me.”
Picking up a small stone, he hurls it at the ocean. “That was it. The kid threw a punch and his friend jumped in and then there were five, six of them. They didn’t know we had people with us though, so it evened out real quick.”
“All because they were looking for Orion?”
“Yeah.” He brushes sand from his shorts. “They recognized me, you know? I used to roll with my brothers a lot back in the day.”
“How’d you break it up?” I’m glad I wasn’t there. I don’t know how I’d deal with Rigel fighting. “Did someone call the cops or something?”
“Eventually. It got broken up before that, though.” Rigel touches his mouth, wincing.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, drawing my knees up and resting my chin on them. “Or text? I sent you a bunch of messages.”
“I know; I saw them.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t stopped all night, Isla. I’m sorry.”
My heartbeat starts to even out. Easing onto my back, hands beneath my head, I decide to drop it. He’s already had the world’s worst night. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He doesn’t say anything for so long I touch his shorts. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be all right,” he says.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Orion?”
I nod.
“No.” He shrugs. “He finally got off St. Croix...last thing I need is him coming back on a vendetta.”
“He might hear about it anyway, though.”
“I’m sure he will.” He unfolds his legs and stands, stretching. “Let’s swim.”
The sky’s a soft, dreamy pink now, clouds the color of cotton candy. Rigel wades into the calm, glassy water, passing his hands over top of it. There are cuts on his back and a bruise purpling his shoulder blade, making me wonder how much of his fight he’s censoring from me.
How much of his life.
Rigel’s not at school on Tuesday. It’d be easy to write this off as nothing, but there are only a few weeks left and we generally spend our days prepping for finals and graduation. Besides, we’re coming off a four day weekend.
No; considering what went down over Easter weekend, I suspect Rigel’s absence hints at something unsavory. I try texting him around lunch. He responds with a prompt, “stuff came up. I’m w/my dad”, so I drop it. He contacts me again during last period when I’m elbow deep in photo chemicals. Washing my hands thoroughly, I sneak into the yearbook office to check my messages.
You going home straight after school?
Maybe. Going to practice?
Yeah.
I’ll stop by and say hi.
Hot sun on metal seats can make the bleachers insufferable during the afternoon, but the far right corner is shaded thanks to a cluster of palm trees. That’s where I sit, watching the members of the swim team as they splash and swim pre-practice.
Rigel comes over, goggles dangling from his fingertips. Even though I see him like this all the time, there’s something about the swim gear I find sexy. Then I see his bruises, and my heart sinks. “Hey.” I scan his face. No new injuries, thankfully.
“Hey.” He leans close, brushing his lips against mine. “Everything okay?”
“I should be asking you.” I wait until our eyes meet. “I missed you today.”
“I know.” He shifts closer, resting his hand on my thigh. “I was going to stop by later.”
“Later when? Before dinner, when it’s decent, or later when everyone’s sleeping?”
He shrugs, tickling my knee through the hole in my jeans. “Before.”
“So your dad doesn’t mind you skipping?” I pull back, looking him over. “You’ve got the most lenient parents on the planet, I swear.”
“Some things are more important than school.” He ties his hair back. “It’s not like I missed anything. The year’s practically over.”
I side-eye him, wishing he’d just tell me what he and his dad were up to. Coach Archer blows her whistle. She and her assistant are calling names a
s they round up the team. Rigel gets to his feet. “I gotta go, but I’ll be by later.”
I stand, too. “You and your dad...did it have anything to do with what happened over the weekend?”
Our eyes meet. “Yeah.”
“So he knows everything?”
“You can’t keep stuff from my dad,” he says, staring out at the pool. “Even if it hadn’t gotten back to him, which it eventually did, he saw me and Nando as soon as we got back to camp that night. He wanted to know what the hell happened to our faces.”
I glance over his black eye, which has faded to a mottled purple. It isn’t as bad as it was Friday, but it still hurts to look at. “What did he do?”
Rigel glances down at me, chewing the inside of his cheek. Archer calls for him, and he waves. “I’m coming.”
He’s really not going to tell me. Unbelievable.
“I gotta go,” he says, bending to kiss my mouth. There’s a smattering of applause from the sophomores sitting on the bottom bench. Archer snarks something about banning me from the pool.
Fights happen all the time, but I can’t ignore the feeling that there’s more to this story. Orion’s involved in shady stuff; is their father, too? Scooping up my bag, I follow Rigel down the bleachers. “The longer I know you, the more I realize I know nothing about you.”
Rigel grabs my arm, slowing me to a stop. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” But I am, a little. I shake him off, walking away. “I just wish you trusted me.”
“Isla.” He comes around, blocking my path. “I do trust you. More than almost anybody.”
“Like you trust Nando?”
He brushes my hair from my face. “Yeah, actually.”
Archer blows her whistle. I shift, fiddling with my bag’s zipper. “Really?”
“Mhm. And that’s saying a lot. Nando’s like...my Camille.”
I smile, imagining Rigel and Nando having sleepovers.
“Look, I’ll...” Linking his hands behind his head, he looks to the sky. “I’ll pass by tonight. Catch you up on things. ”
Heavenly Bodies Page 27