Even If the Sky Falls

by Mia Garcia

  Dedication

  For all those who kept me going

  Epigraph

  “I love you the more in that I believe

  you had liked me for my own sake

  and for nothing else.”

  —John Keats

  “Awake, dear heart, awake!

  thou hast slept well; Awake!”

  —William Shakespeare, The Tempest

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Heat of the Sun

  The Great Escape

  Do Whatever a Grown Man in a Tutu Tells You

  In Hindsight

  The Midsummer Boys

  What’s in a Name?

  Shakespeare on the Roof

  A Face in the Crowd

  Run

  I Am That Merry Wanderer of the Night

  The Holy Name of Jesus

  Sound of Silence

  Tall, Dark Strangers and Louisiana Vampires

  I’m with the Band. I Am the Band.

  The Saddest Story

  Sleep No More

  Come and Get Your Love

  Little Miss

  Global Warming

  Give Me Shelter

  Pump Up the Volume

  On My Way

  Eye of the Storm

  Good Intentions

  Washed Away

  A Crescent-Shaped Scar

  Here’s to Remembering

  Out of the Darkness

  Meet the Press

  With a Little Help from Our Friends

  The Multi-State Traveler

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Heat of the Sun

  STIFLING. CONFINING. SUFFOCATING. CHOKING. THE OPPOSITE of relaxing. Okay, I can do better with that last one.

  But if I had to pick five adjectives to describe my past week in New Orleans, it would be those. Granted, they all mean the same thing, but they’re all true—and technically, the opposite of what this trip is supposed to be. I believe what our church’s youth coordinator promised my parents was a period of introspection and serenity seasoned with a dash of soul-searching, all wrapped in a tortilla of community outreach.

  What I got was a week of hand-holding, spontaneous hugging, and people pretending they know just how I feel when they don’t.

  I cope by diving into my volunteer work, attempting to nail together a wall or floor—I’m actually not sure which, but it’s supposed to be flat—in this crazy heat and listening to the conversations of people—well-intentioned strangers, most of whose names I haven’t bothered to learn—who are way too happy way too early in the morning. The chatter and the thud, thud, thud of my hammer against the wood form an odious melody, the kind that sinks under your skin and echoes long after you’ve tried to shake it. Before I know, I am drowning in it.

  “‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, nor the furious winter’s rages.’” For some reason, the words feel right as I let the hammer fall one more time, forcing the already secured nail farther down into the wood. “‘Thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and ta’en thy wages.’”

  “What?” a voice inquires behind me.

  I turn to find Tavis staring at me, head turned to the side, examining me as if I were some odd creature. Considering I’ve been hammering down these planks of wood for the last hour like a madwoman, the wind tossing my hair every which way, a creature is probably what I look like.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, nothing sounded kinda weird.” He smiles, running his fingers over his hair, damp with sweat, and just lingers . . . waiting for God knows what. I sigh, letting the heat sear me to a nice medium rare. He’s closer than I’d like him to be—which is at least ten feet away at all times—but Tavis has a proximity issue.

  I walk farther into my work area and away from Tavis—nice, cheerful, hovering Tavis, who is not entirely unpleasant but likes to drone on about . . . actually, I have no idea. I mostly space out when he’s around. Still, Tavis believes he knows more about the world than I do, because he’s nineteen and has been out of state or whatever. But even worse than his self-entitlement is that he’s a hugger, a prolonged embrace sort of hugger that makes me feel like I’m promising something I never agreed to. He’s also a “friend” of my brother, Adam, but not really. If I mentioned Tavis, Adam would probably have no idea who I was talking about.

  Tavis is in charge of our ragtag group of . . . well, I guess you could call us a Christian Habitat for Humanity? Is Habitat already Christian? I don’t know. I don’t care. I’d needed a way out of . . . well, everything. So, when the opportunity presented itself to head out to New Orleans to help build houses for a couple of weeks, I jumped-slash-ran-slash-practically threw myself at the chance. But if I have to answer “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” as sweat stains become a permanent addition to my wardrobe one more time I might just . . . just what?

  I count to ten.

  Tavis doesn’t get the hint that I’m not interested. Though nowadays I’m not much interested in anything.

  When I look back, Tavis is inspecting me, and a shiver travels up my spine—I hope he doesn’t try to continue our earlier “let’s talk about our feelings” conversation. He does. I feel him inch closer to me as his questions get more and more detailed.

  “But truly, Julie, have you even talked about it since it happened?” The heat from his skin is more stifling than the sun. It closes the world around me, walling me in.

  “Maybe it will help to imagine yourself on that road. What if you’d been behind the wheel?” His hand reaches toward mine. “In a way do you feel like you were behind the wheel?” I bend down to pick up a saw, a move I hope seems casual, before I realize it’s a mistake. Tavis squats down beside me, and I feel his fingers graze my skin. I stand, brushing the hair off my face.

  “I’ve got to go meet my team.” My eyes dance around the half-built frame of a tiny house: all bones and angles, on the cusp of becoming something of value. “Um, Nancy is waiting for me to go over . . . hammering techniques.”

  “I’m not sure I know a Nancy.”

  “Really?” I shrug. “She loves you. You and Nancy should elope.”

  I flee to the other side of the construction site.

  I stare up at the sun, back out after disappearing behind the clouds, letting the bright rays pierce my vision. Despite the constant gusts and the promise of rain later in the day, the heat is palpable, and for a moment I let the burning sink deeper and deeper. Hell, I forgot the sun could be so . . . violent.

  “Jules?”

  I bristle. No one but my brother and friends call me Jules. No one. Especially not Tavis.

  “Julie?”

  “It’s from Cymbeline.”

  “What?”

  “What I was saying before. It’s a quote. From Cymbeline . . .”

  Blank stare.

  “You know, Shakespeare? I performed it one summer in my drama class. It’s about death and how once you’re dead you don’t really have to worry about anything anymore. Not the heat of the sun or anything. You know?”

  Pitying smile. I turn away and stumble into more smiles and soft eyes that ask whether or not I need a hug. Goddammit.

  “Never mind.” I wipe the sweat off my brow. “Just popped into my head while I was thinking of the heat.”

  “Yeah.” Tavis covers his eyes with his hand as he peers at me again. “Louisiana heat is no joke.”

  He tosses a cool water bottle my way.

  “Don’t forget to stay hydrated, right?”

  “Right!” I say too cheerfully because Tavis is nineteen and a multistate travele
r.

  I know he has more to say—he always does—each breath he takes is in expectation of something, and I can’t shake the feeling that the something is me.

  The Great Escape

  I CASUALLY WALK A WAYS AWAY FROM HIM AND DOWN THE bottle in less than a minute, ignoring the bit of my brain that says I am probably dehydrated, because that part has clearly not gotten the memo about not agreeing with anything Tavis has to say. When I look over I notice that he hasn’t taken his eyes off me and suddenly, despite the distance, I feel trapped. He smiles when I notice him and I let the corners of my mouth lift just a bit before turning to toss the bottle away in the makeshift recycle bin we put together.

  “Time for prayer circle,” he says to me.

  Great. Prayer circle is usually at the end of the day, but we’re cutting work short today for some reason or other. There might be a storm coming, but I wasn’t really listening when he was talking about it. All I know is he’ll probably want to hold my hand.

  “I’ll be there in a second.” I wait until he’s far enough away before I wipe my brow with the bottom of my shirt. This heat and humidity is going to kill me, if not from dehydration (so, so much sweating), then by burning me to a crisp. The sun has been in and out for most of the day, but I can still feel it even when it’s hidden behind the clouds. It’s been too long since I’ve been in heat like this. Abuela Julia would be disappointed by my lack of stamina.

  But it’s not just the heat now that’s building. I’ve tried ignoring it all day, concentrating on the tasks at hand, but it’s still there. Between Tavis, the looks, the impromptu chats, the sweating, hand-holding, and incessant sharing of feelings—

  Has the sun always been this hot? I feel something about to bubble up from inside me. I am an animal in a zoo and everyone is watching, waiting for me to perform, to cry, to break down, to let them help me. Save me. That’s what I should want, right? Help. Pity. Absolution.

  “Anytime, Julie. Anytime.”

  “How about next Tuesday?”

  The reply leaves my lips before I can stop myself. Old Julie would never have snapped back; she would’ve apologized and rushed over. She was the type of girl who stayed late painting fake moss on rocks for a community production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. New Julie still smiles, but it never reaches her eyes. She finds excuses not to hang out with her friends and avoids eye contact. New Julie just wants to make everything go away. New Julie doesn’t want to be Julie anymore. And how exactly do you do that?

  As I trudge my way over, I notice another group—on their last day—packing up to head out into the city to celebrate all the good they’ve done on their project. I wonder if they can feel the need and desperation radiating out of me. Probably not. Tavis motions to the girl beside him, making a place for me in the prayer circle; I sigh and lock hands with him—his hands are moist yet rough, his grip weak yet stifling. Our heads bow in prayer.

  “Dear Heavenly Father,” he starts.

  The sweat works its way down my back, one rivulet after the other. I curse every single fashion decision I made this morning. Shirt? Too hot. Jeans? Clearly invented by a demon spawn from hell. The wind picks up a little but not enough to dampen this heat. Tavis gives my hand a little squeeze as I start to squirm.

  HEEL, Tavis.

  A laugh escapes, but I hide it with a cough. Don’t let anyone see cracks in the walls, Jules. People don’t like to see them. Not the true cracks that travel deep and splinter your heart. The ugly cracks that aren’t easily healed. Those you keep to yourself.

  I push the thoughts back deep into my mind and concentrate on the pinpricks that travel up and down my arms. Everything is closing in on me. Fabric too close to my skin, Tavis’s hand too hot in mine, the sun, the sweat, the lack of wind. My kingdom for some precipitation!

  Katie, Katherine? No, Katie is to the other side of me and gives me a quick reassuring smile like she for sure knows I’m about to lose it but could I please keep it together for Jesus this one time?

  Another laugh.

  Jesus, Jules, keep it together for Katie!

  I take a deep breath and with it comes Adam again, images of closed doors and red-rimmed eyes and hush-toned conversations.

  This is all a mistake. I should be home with Adam, not stuck here pretending this work is of any help. I look around. Everyone’s head is bowed, their bodies serene, as Tavis continues to pray for every single person in the world, for understanding of what the Lord’s plan is for us all.

  There is no plan. I see this now. Not God’s plan anyway.

  Behind us the other group is filing into a tiny bus that belongs in a commercial for coconut rum, their voices a cacophony of joy, ready to head somewhere fabulous on their journey of awesome while I’m caught in the grip of Tavis’s clamminess. My body leans toward them, sensing a way out.

  I feel Tavis’s grip tighten, trying to bring me back to where I belong . . . where he wants me to belong. But my body takes over. I pull away, forcing a cough and excusing myself with a few quick hand gestures. Tavis continues praying as I maneuver over to the small transport van where we keep all our stuff. I feel more in control than I have in weeks as I grab my purse, tuck in another bottle of water, and then slip behind the super-happy group heading out of the Ninth Ward. I keep my head down, and no one stops me as I board the rum bus all the way to the back.

  When the engine starts up I expect to be caught at any moment, for someone to scream, “Hey, you with the scowl! You aren’t part of the super-shiny-group-of-happiness. Get out of here before you infect us all!” But I’m not. As we head out, I inch closer to the window and hunch down in my seat.

  I listen to them jabber on about what things they want to see and what they want to eat and take pictures of, and I am lulled into a sense of accomplishment, of freedom. I watch the stream of houses as they pass by: Damaged. Rebuilt. Rebuilt. Damaged. Destroyed. Destroyed. Empty lot. The aftermath of almost a decade of storms. Some homes were easier than others to fix: water damage, missing roof. Others had been torn down and built back up on stilts. They remind me a bit of the houses by the beaches in Puerto Rico that I saw when I used to visit with my grandmother, the color of guava, mangoes, and avocados. Brightened even more with touches of white, colors defiant against the past. It wasn’t just Katrina either, I learned that from the locals who drove us down to the work site each day. Nature didn’t stop after that hurricane. Nature kept coming, kept destroying. It didn’t stop, but neither did New Orleans. The city picked itself up; its heart kept beating.

  I zone out trying to find a pattern to the growth and destruction. A tingle in my stomach starts. Chatter bubbles up again, like a pot of water ready to boil over with excitement. We’re almost there. Where? I have no idea, but we’re close.

  Until we’re not, and the bus stops. I jump up from my seat, looking out the window for any clue of what’s going on—all I see around me are tall buildings, mostly fancy hotels from the looks of it. My fellow travelers are as clueless as I am, though their heartbeats probably aren’t as steadily on the rise as mine. My mind races with possibilities: We’ve run out of gas or coconut rum, or lost a spark plug or the carburetor is broken or Tavis has caught up to us, running all the way here, desperate to hold my hand in his clammy palm once again. The driver ushers everyone out—whatever stopped the bus has stopped the AC and the temp is ticking its way up to sticky and sweaty quite fast.

  I step out of the bus and pretend to head over to everyone else, but instead I round a corner and keep going. I take a chance that no one will notice the girl that isn’t supposed to be there. I’m right. No one runs after me or yells my name as I sprint away. When I finally find a street sign I know I’m somewhere on Canal Street—which means nothing to me, but should the police put on a dramatic chase for my return, I can answer without impunity when questioned that “Yes, sir, I was on Canal Street.”

  Keeping a brisk pace, I walk a straight path through the neighborhood, paved roads turning
into cobblestones, veering left away from the hotels and into the zone of smaller buildings. I don’t register which direction I’m going, just that I need to keep going until I feel—until I know—that I am as far away from the group, from Tavis, as possible.

  A strange lightness takes over my body the farther and farther I get from our construction site. Perhaps delirium or heatstroke has finally set in because my legs don’t burn or ache, but I keep pushing my body forward to freedom.

  When I finally slow down I realize: 1. I have no idea where I am (as I am no longer on Canal Street), and 2. Everything is gorgeous. I mean seriously gorgeous. The buildings, the terraces, the dangling flowers all over the houses, like whoa. I spot an entrance in one of the brick buildings leading to a wide-open courtyard—a perfect place to stop for a moment and gather myself. I walk in, pass some signs that declare it the Jean Lafitte Visitors Center, and collapse on the nearest bench. It’s quiet here and cool in the shade with the occasional breeze flowing in, making it even more of a tiny oasis.

  Done singing its song of escape, my heart finally quiets down, drifting into its regular beat of life, and I don’t know if it’s the feel of the breeze traveling along my skin or the tranquil sounds of bubbling water that do it, but before I know it a laugh erupts, then another. Because I did it! I’m friggin’ free! Sure, I don’t know where I am (minor setback) and I’m probably being tracked as we speak (future major setback) but I’m free. Only I can decide what to do next, not Tavis, not my parents, not Adam. Me.

  Go, me.

  Do Whatever a Grown Man in a Tutu Tells You

  SHORT RECAP: I AM FREE. NOW WHAT?

  Pulling the water bottle out of my purse, I swig about half of it before tucking it back in. A quick look at my phone puts me in the French Quarter, which explains the gorgeous architecture with its delicate iron balconies shaped into fleurs-de-lis and other looping forms. Even the small courtyard I’ve escaped to is breathtaking. The central fountain is tiny, nestled among various trees and potted plants; it feels like the sort of place where time is relative, a minute turning into an hour into a day, and a dangerous place to set goals. Tavis promised us a guided tour of the Quarter a few days ago but never delivered. Good ol’ Tavis.