Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles Book 1)

by CL Walters

  “He went home - to Hawaii.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

  “My dad’s a workaholic.”

  “An addict just the same, huh?”

  I nod and open my backpack where I’ve stashed some things to eat. I draw out an orange and peel it. “I think my mom is just tired of coming in second. She’s in counseling and I think he tried. That’s why me moved. My mom said we were moving and he could come with us or not.”

  “He chose you guys.”

  “Until yesterday.”

  “He loves you guys, Abby. It’s obvious.”

  “I think there’s more than that. He’s searching for something I think; he’s lost.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In Hawaiian culture there is a belief that each of us has three piko - like your belly button - and it is important to keep them balanced. The first one is the top of your head. That piko represents your ancestors, what comes before you, your knowledge, where you come from. The second one is naʻau - or your belly - the belly button we can see. You know that saying ‘follow your gut?’”

  Gabe nods.

  “That’s your instincts.” I touch my belly. “This piko is your present, your ‘right now.’ The third piko is your-” I clear my throat suddenly a little shy sharing it with him. “Your genitals.” I finish.

  He smiles. “And what does that represent?”

  “Your future, the ancestors you will be a part of creating, what comes after you.” I can’t look at him so I just focus on the orange. “I think maybe his pikos are off. When my grandpa died, I think my dad lost himself in his first piko - his head - and he hasn’t found the balance with the other too: my mom, and us.”

  We sit in silence and I think about what I’ve just said. I recognize my own journey, having gotten stuck in my own head, my first piko, the past.

  “So, your dad was an addict?” I ask and offer him some of my orange.

  He takes it. “Thanks. Yeah. Drugs. My mom too. Grew up in a rough part of Portland.”

  “How did you get out here, to Cantos?”

  “Circumstances, I guess. The system tries to keep you in your home as long as they can. And when that is impossible, then they try to find the nearest relative.”

  “I knew a lot of people back home dealing with that - parent addicts. Many were living with their grandparents or aunts and uncles because their parents were in jail. Dale and Martha are relatives then?”

  “No,” he says. “But they are by the law now since I’m adopted.”

  He doesn’t offer any more information than that. I shiver. Though the car is warm, there’s a chill that seeps through me. I change the subject “Maybe you’d like to try to eat in the cafeteria with me.”

  “Not really,” he says, “not because of you though.”

  “You take a stand by not throwing a punch, but you won’t take a stand by showing up in a place where you have as much right to be as anyone else?”

  “It just has been more hassle than it’s been worth.”

  I nod and offer him another wedge of my orange. “I hear you, but you won’t be alone anymore. You’ll have me, and probably Hannah.”

  He takes the wedge and watches me. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  It’s the best I’ve felt in weeks.

  23

  IMPERFECTIONS AREN’T IMPERFECTIONS

  “I hate this story,” Darnell says in English a couple of days later.

  I still haven’t heard from Seth, Dad is MIA and despite trying to talk to Matt and Nate, they’re stuck in their own worlds of misery. My mom is operating on survival mode. My only respites have been dates with the music in my phone, Hannah, and now Gabe who has become my lunch partner. Hannah hasn’t minded since she’s been working so hard on her community service project which is right around the corner.

  “Why is that?” Mr. B asks.

  I’m doodling circles and waves in my journal with one hand and the other is on the desktop with my head resting in my hand.

  “Tom and Daisy get away with their bullshit. Sorry, Mr. B.”

  “Did you expect a different outcome?” he asks. He leans against the wooden desk at the front of the room, though I’ve never seen him sit there.

  “Yeah. I wanted - justice.”

  “And there wasn’t any?”

  “Right,” Darnell says.

  “And do you think that when we look at our society, there’s justice?”

  The room is silent.

  “Consider what’s happening in the world, in our country, our state, our town, or school. Is there justice?”

  I know for fucking sure that there isn’t any. My specific circumstances aside, I think about Hawaiians and what I know. About an imprisoned queen, a stolen kingdom and usurped land all in the name of white business owner greed. I think about a story I once heard about a murdered Hawaiian man in the 1930’s found not-guilty of raping a white woman; his white murders were sentenced to one hour in the governor's mansion for tea until they were shipped off to the mainland aboard a US Navy ship. I think about how learning and speaking ʻōlelo was outlawed until the language almost disappeared. I think about a majority of Hawaiians who have lost a culture, me included, who struggle to find their identity, many in drugs and loss. I know only snippets of my culture, stories told to me through my poppa, and now he’s gone. It feels like an empty space in my heart that I can’t connect to because I don’t know what it is I am supposed to connect to.

  I think about that night, the one where I’d lost myself in the attention of a boy, in the numbing of alcohol because all of the pain of losing my poppa, of my dad lost to his own grief, everything seemed so heavy. I was lost myself, unsure, broken. I think about that video and the ostracism. I think about how it’s so much easier to judge someone else than really find a way to understand.

  Patrick breaks my thoughts when he says, “Sure. All the protests and stuff, the activism, show that people are thinking about speaking for people who can’t.”

  There is a collective murmur of agreement.

  “That’s bullshit,” I mutter.

  “Excuse me? Did you say something, Abby?” Mr. Bilson is looking at me expectantly.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “No. Not a comment about the word ‘bullshit,’” he says and the class chuckles at his use of profanity. “I wanted to hear why you thought that.”

  A glance around the room and I see a continuum of looks from expectant to revolted. What the fuck does it matter anymore anyway? All of Abby agrees. Things really can’t be any worse. “There isn’t any justice,” I say looking at Mr. B directly. “And I think it’s bullshit that anyone in this room thinks there is.” I look around the room at all of the faces. Hannah is smiling at me and I feel emboldened. “How many of you have attended a rally to make a difference like Patrick suggested? Or taken it even further and actually done something beyond protest? How many of you have gone out of your way to help someone else?

  “On the other hand, how many of you have ridiculed someone here at school - a friend maybe, or an acquaintance. Maybe you've called someone a Freak or Slut? Maybe posted something on social media about someone else, or even just read something someone else posted, laughed and shared it?” Eyes suddenly dart away from me. They know what I’m saying. I look back at Mr. Bilson who is watching me. “I think people like to say that there is justice, Mr. B, because it makes them feel better about themselves, but when it really comes down to it, people are more likely to treat someone else like shit so they can feel better about themselves.”

  “Like Tom and Daisy,” Mr. B says.

  “Like Tom and Daisy,” I echo.

  “A good spot to journal, I think,” Mr. B says and leads us into a prompt.

  I lean over my journal but the page stays blank. I feel a light touch on my shoulder and look to find Darnell reaching out. He drops his hand now that I’m looking at him, and he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me his eyebrows shifting over his chocola
te eyes. I see his peace offering and respond with a slight smile and a nod. He turns back to his journal and I turn around to look at Hannah behind me. She’s witnessed the whole exchange, smiles and then shifts her attention to her journal.

  As we leave the room, Mr. Bilson stops me. “That was really profound, Abby.” He looks at Hannah who’s stayed too.

  “Thanks Mr. B.”

  “You are right,” Rachel says behind me. “I-” she stops looks down and then back at me. “I didn’t want to, but I saw myself in that statement, and I’m really sorry for it,” she said.

  I could be angry with her, because I know she’s talking about Gabe and I, offering a sort of apology. I could be indignant and self-righteous, but then I did the same thing. Why? Because I was afraid. “We’ve all done it, Rachel,” I say.

  “Those without sin, cast the first stone,” Mr. B says.

  “What’s that?” Rachel asks.

  “John 8:7,” he says.

  “The Bible?”

  “One of the greatest works of world literature, dear Rachel,” Mr. B says.

  Gabe and I sit together in art. Mr. Mike’s no-nonsense policy provides a reprieve. I wonder if speaking up in English will change things. I share it with Gabe.

  “Pretty awesome,” he says using his fingers to blend some pastels he’s working with. I still am not sure what he is drawing.

  “Do you think it could change things?” It strikes me suddenly that as I talk Good and Bad Abby are absent. I suppose now that my secret is out, they aren’t necessary. At the same time, their absence feels strange.

  Leaning over his work, his tongue slightly exposed as he rubs a bit of pink into the white, he sits back up. “Doubtful.”

  “Wow. Tell me what you really think.” I’m also cognizant of the fact that when I am with Gabe, I’ve never felt like Good or Bad Abby ruled me. I’ve had to hide myself in some ways, but that wasn’t the case with Gabe. I wonder about it, what it means. I wonder if maybe Good and Bad Abby are now all of me?

  “I always do.”

  “I know.”

  He looks at me, his icy eyes serious. “As long as there are people who think they are entitled to be better or people who aren’t strong in themselves and need to prove something, shit like this will happen.”

  “People aren’t better than you. Or I.”

  “We know that,” he says his brows drawing together. “God. Look at us.” He strikes a pose, and I’m struck by how handsome he is.

  I laugh. “It’s a wonder you’ve never fought.”

  “I’m a lover not a fighter,” he says.

  After class, I offer to give him a ride home which he accepts. “Come in with me,” Gabe says. “You can meet my parents, and mom makes the meanest cookies.”

  We walk in through the front door of the shop because I’ve parked on Main Street. It’s quiet and Dale is at the counter, fiddling with a trinket.

  “Dad,” Gabe says.

  Dale looks up and smooths wisps of gray hair over his white scalp. There’s a reserved smile. “Hi there.” His eyes look at me and then back to Gabe. A message passes between them that I don’t understand. “You’ve brought a friend,” he says. He straightens and then runs his hands down his crisp blue plaid shirt buttoned to all the way up to his neck to his hips and then puts his hands in his pockets. I notice the pens and pencils in his pocket along with a small tool with a yellow handle. He seems uncomfortable.

  "This is Abby," Gabe says. "You know her dad, John. They just moved here."

  Dale's face brightens with recognition. "Oh Yes. Wonderful man. I keep trying to get him to come to church with us. Tell him 'hello' for me," he says.

  "I will. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Daniels," I say keeping the news that he’s gone to myself. Maybe if I don’t say it, it won’t be real. I look to Gabe for his lead.

  "Call me Dale, please. What are you two up to?"

  "Homework," Gabe offers.

  "Get to it, then. I’ve got the shop," He says and dismisses us by helping someone who's approached the counter.

  I follow Gabe behind the counter and into the back through a maze of shelving past an office. He opens a door that leads to a staircase and we climb until we reach a doorway at the top and walk into the house above the shop. Martha is in a kitchen open to an entire shared living space, dining and living room.

  "Is that you, Gabe?" she asks and then looks up to see us in the doorway. "Oh," she says clearly surprised, but recovers. "Hello. I've got some warm cookies." She turns back to the kitchen, her house dress wrapped around her ample form and the white apron tied at the back. I almost feel as though I have gone back in time. She pulls a tin from the oven and places in on a rack on the counter.

  “This is Abby, Mom,” he says.

  She plates some the hot morsels and walks over to us, setting them on the table. “Get them while they are hot. Come, Abby.” She flutters around the table, making sure it is presentable. She’s older, like Mr. Daniel’s. Her silver hair cut in a short bob and her smile is bright.

  “We are going to work on a project," Gabe tells her.

  “Well, you need an after-school snack first,” she says pouring two cups of milk.

  Gabe rolls his eyes even though he just shared she makes fabulous cookies.

  I smile. “This smells delicious, Mrs. Daniels,” I say sitting down at the table with the red and white gingham vinyl cover.

  Martha sits down with us for a moment. “How was school?” She asks.

  “Fine,” Gabe replies.

  Her smile waivers but she looks at the table top and smooths it before looking at me again. “You’re the first friend, Gabe has had over since…”

  “Mom,” he says. His deep voice is even but tinged with mortification.

  “A long time,” her words fade out. She stands and returns to the kitchen. “I’m just making some spaghetti for dinner,” she says. “You’re welcome to stay, Abby.”

  “Oh. Thank you. I have to get home soon.”

  “We better get started,” Gabe says. “Thank you, mom.” He walks over and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

  When he turns around, back toward me, I see her look at him. It is a look that makes me feel sad, but I don’t know why.

  We climb a narrow set of stairs that takes us to an attic. “Got to work on the project,” I say with a smile as I follow him up the stairs.

  He glances back at me with a smile, but it’s a little sheepish at the fib he’s told.

  His attic room is a sparse space, but with an aesthetic that seems romantic in the sense of the lonely artist in the 1800’s. The light is dim, but for two small windows. There is a desk against one wall on which there is a laptop, a dresser and a bed nestled between two dormers. In one corner is a big overstuffed chair stacked with clean clothes, blue curtains frame the windows, a matching patchwork comforter on the bed and an oval gray rag rug in the center of the room.

  "What a cool room," I say and walk past him. “Are you a guest?” I ask and turn to him to smile.

  “Very funny,” he says, takes the clothes from the chair so I can sit and turns on the lamp near his bed and on the desk. It creates an ambient light that I find relaxing.

  “This isn’t how I would have pictured your room,” I say. I watch him put the clothes away into the dresser and hang a few items on the clothing rack that serves as a closet against a wall. Other than those things, I wouldn’t be able to tell that this is a room that belongs to anyone. It is a strange realization and I look at him. Who is Gabe, really?

  He rubs his hands down the front of his jeans and then pulls the chair at the desk to sit down. I see his nervousness. What seems like could be insignificant, his movement is suddenly highlighted in my mind and it creates a whirlpool in my insides that spins me around making me feel unsure, but it isn’t unpleasant. Instead it sends a current singing each of my nerve endings and opening them up for a new message.

  “How would you have pictured it?” he asks and draws the hoodie ove
r his head.

  The t-shirt underneath catches on the sweatshirt riding up, and I glimpse his skin, the ridges of his stomach. My own stomach flips over on itself and I look away glancing around the room at everywhere but him. “Oh. I don’t know. Posters of Emo bands and half-dressed women splayed on cars.”

  He laughs, but it changes as quickly to clearing his throat. He says, "I've never had anyone up here before. Except Seth and that’s a long time ago, now.”

  I look back at him. He sets the folded sweatshirt on the desktop behind his seat and swivels back around toward me. This isn’t the calm, cool, collected Gabe I’ve seen at school. This isn’t the comedian Gabe from the junkyard. He’s spent so much time insulating himself - like me - that I recognize his survival technique. I suddenly want to know him, everything. I want to delve into the reasons he is who he is and it is unsettling, but I can’t identify why that is so.

  I change the subject. “Dale and Martha. They are really nice.”

  He smiles. “Yeah. Pretty much saved me.”

  “From what?”

  He swivels in the chair so he faces the window. I can only see his profile. He doesn’t answer right away and I can tell he’s thinking about how to answer it. “Life, I guess.”

  “So cryptic,” I joke, but I can’t seem to get him back to the levity of earlier.

  He pulls a pencil from a canning jar on the desk and twirls it in his fingers.

  “What’s wrong, Gabe?” I ask. “I’m not here to hurt, you. I promise.”

  He nods. “They adopted me when I was twelve. They weren’t able to have children of their own.”

  “Has that been hard?” I ask.

  “No. They’re great. I’m the difficult one,” he says and glances at me for a moment before returning to the pencil. I have the impression that he might be considering telling me more, but doesn’t. The look in his eyes hopeful but wary.

  I ignore his comment about himself for the moment recognizing that it won’t get me anywhere. He’ll just shut off. “What happened to your real parents?” I ask.