Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles Book 1)

by CL Walters

He looks at me again, but this time his eyes linger, searching my face as though to measure how trustworthy I am. “I’ve only told one person.”

  “Seth,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to tell me?” I ask.

  “Maybe. Someday,” he says.

  I nod. I understand that. I stand up and walk around the room. “You need some decoration, Daniels.” I look at him. “Like right here,” I point to a blank place on the drywall. “Maybe a poster of flowers.”

  He wrinkles up his nose. “No.” He stands and joins me, his hand smoothing the wall near mine. “A map.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah! That would be awesome.” I turn and face the blank wall. An empty space filled with possibility.

  “Traveling sounds cool,” he says. “I could mark the places on the map I have been.”

  I turn to look at him wondering if he really thinks that. His voice has sounded like he’s unsure of his own thoughts. I have to look up at him to see his face. He’s looking down at me, his light eyes drawing me toward him, and there’s a flutter in my body that warns me this is about to take a turn that would complicate things. “I like that,” I say and turn away, working my way to another blank space. “And here?” I ask looking at him.

  He turns and leans against the wall where I’ve left him across the room. “A different map?”

  I laugh. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs.

  “You’re hopeless, Daniels. Decoration requires some creativity and variety. I know!” I say holding up my finger. “We should frame your pastels from art and hang them here.”

  He laughs then. “Martha would love that.” Silence descends around us and things grow serious again. Then he asks, “Abby? Why Seth?”

  I sigh and walk to the desk chair and sit down. I swivel to face him. “I’ve known Seth since I was little.”

  “We both have. You like him. I don’t.”

  “I think you do. That’s why you are so angry at him.”

  “I don’t.” He says it with finality.

  I drop it. I look down at my hands in my lap. Why Seth? It’s a fair question. “He makes me feel like my imperfections aren’t imperfections,” I say.

  “That’s cause his imperfections are so glaring.”

  “Who of us is perfect?” I ask. I suddenly think of my parents, my dad. Have I been expecting him to be perfect? I had expected that of myself and couldn’t do it. How unfair is it to expect that of them? I wait for an arrogant retort from Gabe, but it doesn’t arrive.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” he says. It’s a quiet statement that screams so loudly in the attic.

  “Who does,” I say flippantly, but it dies in the acoustics that suddenly seem to smother us. I look up at Gabe and see that he’s studying me, but I have the feeling that there is something I’m supposed to understand clearly, but don’t. “I’m not sure we deserve anyone,” I say. “I guess we choose. Maybe like Dale and Martha chose you.”

  Gabe searches my face. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I deserve them.”

  “And yet, they still choose you,” I say.

  Gabe crosses over to his bed and sits down leaning back on his hands. His biceps, corded with muscle pull at the sleeves of his blue t-shirt along with his broad chest and shoulders that stretch the graphics and drapes over the ridges of his abdomen. His wavy black hair falls away from his eyes. “It’s different though, isn’t it?”

  “How so?” I force myself to look away from him because suddenly my innards are jumpy and tripping over themselves thinking about his body. It’s confusing.

  “Dale and Martha chose me as a child, and I chose them as parents.”

  “Still a choice.”

  “And your parents? Is that a choice?” He leans back on an elbow and watches me.

  I swivel back and forth thinking about his question. “I see your point,” I say. “Maybe we didn’t get to choose each other at first, but don’t we have to the older we get?”

  “Which brings us full circle,” he says. “Why Seth?”

  “I told you already.”

  He scoffs at me with a grunt, and we hear footfalls on the stairs leading to his room. He gets up and walks to the opening. There’s an ache that starts in my lower abdomen as I watch him, an awareness that is beginning to nag me rather incessantly. I like the way his jeans ride his hips, not too tight, not too loose. He stops at the doorway and leans against the door frame looking down the stairwell.

  “Dinner is almost ready,” Martha calls up to him.

  “Okay. Coming down,” he says.

  I collect my backpack and follow him out into the living space.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay Abby?” Martha asks.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Daniels, but I should get home."

  “Another time, I hope,” she says.

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  Gabe leads me through the maze back to Brutus. I thank Mr. Daniels on the way out who reminds me to call him Dale - which I will never be able to do since it isn’t the Hawaiian Way to speak so to an elder.

  “This was - enlightening,” I say and smile at Gabe as I climb into the car. “Thanks. I’m going to see if I can find you a map for your wall.”

  He smiles. "Then we can plan our first trip," he says. He walks a back into the store and I’m left wondering about his last comment and the use of we.

  24

  FROM BEHIND THE CLOUDS

  Hannah and I sit in our usual spot during lunch. Gabe has joined us after much cajoling on my part. It didn’t take much for me to point out how cold it is getting out in the junkyard. Today is the first day he’s deigned to fake being a part of our social circle, but I’m proud of him. I know how difficult the cafeteria is. So far, there hasn’t been an incident, and I suppose it is because we are a small school of fish than lone ones.

  This doesn’t mean, however, that the appearance of Gabe in the cafeteria hasn’t created a stir. The buzz hums through the space, and the eyebrow Morse code is moving rapidly. The cafeteria, however, is, for the most part, a violence free zone and that is only because of logistics: there are usually too many teachers and administrators in the zone which is why my slapping of Sara went surprisingly unnoticed.

  Hannah is busy talking about the Halloween project for which she has enlisted my help.

  “I’m so glad that you will be there. And I think it will be fun. Gabe, you should come.”

  He picks up the sandwich from atop his brown bag. He’s spread the rest of the lunch on it: an apple, a bag of chips, and homemade cookies by Martha. “Gotta work.”

  Hannah doesn’t acknowledge his response. She’s already moved onto the topic of Eric ghosting her. “This has ruined my perspective of love,” she says.

  “Who’s Eric?” Gabe asks and then leans over to me and whispers, “I forgot how much she talks. I think I’ll return to eating at the cars.”

  I playfully smack his shoulder.

  Hannah, who still seems surprised every time Gabe joins into the conversation, answers, “This boy I liked. He goes to that prep school in Newport. We met at this leadership conference. We were talking and hanging out for a while. And he just stopped talking to me.”

  “You deserve better,” I say.

  “Yo.”

  Hannah, Gabe, and I stop talking as Darnell, carrying his lunch tray, slides into the seat next to Hannah, forcing her to make room for him.

  I tense and glance to my right at Gabe whose hands have balled into fists.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Darnell.

  “Can’t sit here?” He asks.

  “Of course, you can,” Hannah says. “Just surprised is all.”

  “Let’s not make a big deal out of it,” he says and picks up his fork. “Just don’t want to be a Tom,” he says and scoops shepherd's pie into his mouth. “What did I interrupt?” He asks around his bite of food.

  Hannah and I glance at each other and both say, “nothing.” Eric dr
opped forever.

  Gabe asks, “What’s a Tom?” He puts his hands into his lap, hiding his fists but he still looks ready to bolt.

  Darnell points his fork at Gabe. “Let me tell you about that Daniels,” to which Darnell proceeds to retell the story of Jay Gatsby and the evils of Tom and Daisy.

  I listen to him, but Darnell’s words fade as I consider what he’s done. My heart, so full of pride and compassion for him and his choice to take a stand, I reach under the table and cover one of Gabe’s fists with my hand. I feel him relax next to me the longer Darnell talks, and he turns his hand over and threads his fingers with mine. There’s a spark which I attribute to a shared experience, a shared moment when the storm seems to recede, the worst of it in the distance, but the electricity lingers in my blood long after we separate. We all leave the cafeteria as a pack of four, Hannah and Darnell chatting as we walk to English together.

  Later, at home, someone knocks at my door. I toss my phone down on the mattress, having been checking for a text from Seth, again, and suppress any tears for him that surface. “Come in,” I say crawling into my bed and pulling the covers over my head before I even know who it is. It can only be one of three people.

  “Abby?”

  Nate.

  “What? Talk to me now?” Over the last week it has been nothing more than grunts, avoidance, and polite interaction when necessary for the sake of appearances with mom.

  “Can you look at us?”

  I flip the comforter down and see that Mattie is also in my room, leaning against the closed door.

  “We’re sorry,” Nate says.

  I harrumph under the covers having pulled them up over my face again.

  “See,” Matt says to Nate. “Told you she’d act like this.”

  I flip the cover down again and sit up. “Like what?”

  Matt looks away from me.

  “Like what, Matt?” I say again. I climb from the bed and stand in the middle of the room. “Like I’m not even welcome in my own house with my own family? How the fuck am I supposed to act?”

  Matt’s face turns red along with his eyes. He looks at me then, and I see his unshed tears. “How was I supposed to act when I saw that video, and then bitch breaks up with me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t know.” I put my hands over my face and sob.

  Nate puts his arms around me. “I shouldn’t have abandoned you, Ab,” he says. “I just didn’t know what to do and then all the stuff with Mom and Dad.”

  “I was stupid. Fifteen and stupid. And it will never go away.” I continue to sob into my hands leaning against my younger brother.

  “I’d like to beat the shit outta that guy,” Matt sniffs.

  I hug, Nate, and look at Mattie over Nate’s shoulder. I hold one of my hands out to him. Matt pushes away from the door, and joins our hug. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too, sis,” Matt says.

  “Kristin was a stupid bitch,” I say through my tears.

  “You right,” he says through his, and laughs. “Dodged a bullet.”

  We all crack up and like that find our way to each other again.

  Nate becomes serious. “What are we going to do about Mom and Dad?”

  I’m reminded of when we were all little, the three of us, in our living room of our Hawaii home, the Tradewinds moving through the louvered windows, the sounds of roosters in the neighborhood. We’d sit on the floorboards, or lay on our bellies, with the toys of the day, making up games. “I don’t know if there is anything we can do. They’ll just have to grow up.”

  25

  HARDWARE

  When Seth returns to school, he avoids me, even though I catch glimpses of him. His eyes slide away from mine. It hurts because I don’t understand it having thought our relationship was stronger than the way he’s behaving and there are no words to help me understand. Another instance of my naʻau not working. It’s very evident he’s avoiding me. He doesn’t meet me before school which I learn is because his mom is driving him to school. He doesn’t join Hannah and I at my locker like before. He doesn’t sit with us at lunch, having gone back to his original table, and won’t meet my gaze. Sara is triumphant, looking at me like she’s finally won, but he doesn’t sit with her either. I could feel glad about that fact, but I don’t. I just feel confused.

  I can see him from where I sit at a table now not only with Hannah and Gabe, but Darnell, a couple of his football friends that he’s introduced us to, Matt, Nate, and Rachel. I’m not sure where the school of fish came from, but it’s a pretty amazing group, now. Except I can see Seth across the room, who should be there too. What’s clear to me, besides the avoidance, is how Seth doesn’t seem like himself. It’s as if he’s empty - a shell of his former self that’s imploded.

  He’s been hurt, which is clear. The pallor of his face still tinged with the yellow hue of healing bruises. The rumor mill has said it was a “surfing accident,” but I know better. When I try to find him as we leave the cafeteria, he leaves from a different entrance. Crushed, it’s all that I can think about through English, worried about seeing him in art. What will I say, the hurt mingling with anger? But he doesn’t show up there either, and I’m strung out like a wet threadbare towel wrung tight and ready to tear under the emotional ache. The last time we were together, the friendship, at least, I thought was something more meaningful than what this is. How do I begin to understand the mixed message of our time together, his support, with his new behavior?

  “Abby?” Gabe pulls me from my thoughts.

  I look at him, but I’m struggling to focus. I hear his voice, calm and solid, and it’s the sound that I hold onto. I feel like I’m underwater and he’s the only way up and out.

  “Mr. Mike says we can go wash brushes if you can’t create today,” Gabe says. I can see that he’s worried. His eyes droop at the outer edge and his eyebrows are drawn together, but also raised slightly with an arched question mark.

  I nod and follow him through the door behind Mr. Mike’s messy desk. Inside is a small, narrow room not much more than a closet. The walls are dark, covered with a myriad of colors painted over the drywall as if someone went through testing colors. Shelves run the length of the room opposite the Kelly green cupboards over the counter where the sink is located. A window near the door provides light, but the only other light source is a small light above the sink and glass windows that run the length of the room a couple of inches from the ceiling above the shelving which steals light from the classroom on the other side of the wall. The sink is overflowing with art implements that need attention. There’s barely enough room for the two of us.

  I follow Gabe, and stand next to him at the sink. He seems so large in the compact space but I find his presence comforting.

  He removes the coffee cans of used art tools from the sink and sets them on the gray Formica countertop with Kelly green flecks in front of me. Next, he turns on the water facet, and waits for the water to warm up.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “He was there for me, you know, before. I don’t understand what’s different.”

  Gabe removes his sweatshirt, his elbow bumping against my shoulder. “Sorry,” he says and sets the sweatshirt on the shelves behind us. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him without his sweatshirt, but it is the first time I’ve seen him remove it at school. I notice the way that his white t-shirt pulls around his bicep, the fabric stretching, as he stops up the sink with the rubber plug and squeezes in soap. It bubbles. Then he says, “That’s kind of his thing.”

  “What?”

  “He’s messy.”

  I watch the bubbles grow as the sink fills.

  “He either draws others into his mess, or makes a mess and leaves it.” Gabe turns off the water. I notice his hands, strong and lean with veining so different from mine. His fingers are long and tapered, masculine. “Hand me something.”

  I turn, pull some brushes from the can
and drop them in the water.

  Gabe reaches in and retrieves one. His hands submerged in the water, he washes it. I watch him, the water and bubbles climbing up his perpetually tan forearm which gently tapers from his elbow to where it disappears in the water. “You going to help me?” he asks. “Or just watch?” He’s smiling.

  I smile in return but it’s weak, and I reach into the water to find another of the brushes.

  “You’re strong, Abby,” Gabe says. He continues washing.

  “I don’t think so,” I say thinking of how easily I fell to the wiles of Kanoa. How I misread everything between Seth and I. How I’d cowered in Hawaii because of how I’d been treated. How I’d even tried to hide when I moved to Oregon.

  We continue to wash brushes. Gabe reaches past me for more, his arm grazing mine. The contact lingers like a developing polaroid photo. It warms me in spite of myself.

  He drags another bunch of art implements into the sink. “Disagree,” he says as though he’s written the book about it. “You came to Cantos High and turned it on its head. You stood up to the assholes who wanted to tear you down, got me sitting in the cafeteria again, and not by myself, but with a pack of people including Darnell Jackson - star running back for the Mustangs, and Rachel Porter - valedictorian-in-waiting. What have I been doing for the last three years? Hiding in the junkyard.” He puts the clean brushes on towel he’s laid out on the counter to his right.

  I look up at him and reach for another paint brush. My hand inadvertently caresses his in the sink. He freezes, looks down at me, his beautiful eyes meeting my own, and then his fingers entwine with mine in the water. With my hand in his, he caresses my palm with his thumb. I imagine the hand I’d just admired and stars shoot up my arm. I pull away, confused by the racing of my heart. I can’t align the hurt I feel that’s wrapped up in Seth with the explosion of fireworks that just occurred in my belly.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean-”

  I shake my head. “Don’t.” I don’t want to hear his apology. He hasn’t nothing to be sorry about. “It’s okay,” I add and say, “I’m sorry. I’m in a bad place today. It isn’t you.”