Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles Book 1)

by CL Walters

  “How’s the washing going,” Mr. Mike’s voice interrupts from the doorway. “Brushes getting clean?”

  “Pretty good,” Gabe answers. “We got this first can done.” He waves the first empty can.

  “Awesome,” Mr. Mike says and disappears through the doorway back into the classroom.

  “Abby,” Gabe says quietly and I can feel his intense gaze roving the features of my face but refuse to check. I don’t trust myself.

  “Please, don’t,” I say resisting the magnetic pull of him, and drop a whole can of brushes into the sink. I feel like I’ve been turned inside out with my insides exposed and raw. Finally, I look at him and say, “I don’t trust myself, what I might say. I don’t want to ruin anything else today.” What I don’t say: I don’t want to ruin what I have with you.

  His eyes search my face, the feel of their icy heat caressing my skin is almost as palpable as if it were his hands. I suppress a shudder. “You have ruined nothing,” he says and then turns back to the sink. After that, he just washes paint brushes with me, shoulder to shoulder.

  My feelings are a jumble of weeds and I don’t trust any of them. It wasn’t long ago, I thought Seth and I were something else, and now he’s ignoring me. My parents, my brothers, Seth, Gabe feel like a set of waves that have me pinned under water, upside down, and lost in the current not sure which way is up for air. How can I trust any of my feelings? How can I trust that the electricity I just felt with Gabe is real or just emotional despondency?

  He reaches in front of me for another can of brushes.

  I glance at him, and see that I’ve hurt him. The set of his jaw is tense and reminds me of the first day I ever saw him. I want to see him smile again. I love the way that his light eyes brighten and it softens his otherwise imposing features. I intercept his hand as he reaches into the water. “I’m sorry,” I say, squeeze his hand with mine, and bump against his side with my body gently. “I’m feeling sorry for myself, and you were just trying to help. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He continues washing. “You didn’t. Seth, however...” He leaves the thought unfinished and gives me a sidelong glance. The corners of his mouth shift upward. Then he flicks me with water and bubbles on his hand.

  I laugh. “Stop.”

  “I like it when you laugh,” he says and the smile slides from his face.

  Maybe it is a mistake, but I glance at him. A breath catches in my lungs and I gasp for a freeing gulp of air. The tangible energy that arcs between us is powerful but I avoid it. The pervasive vine of disorientation threads its way around my insides and I return to the task, leaving behind the intensity of Gabe’s gaze and the powerful attraction I’m beginning recognize I feel for him. An attraction that I know has been there for a while - maybe even the moment I bumped into him in the hallway - but one I can’t lie away anymore. I can’t figure out what that means about my feelings for Seth.

  After school I take Gabe home and Dale asks us to sit in the store for him. He needs to make some phone calls and disappears through the maze toward his office. I glance at Gabe who’s set his school stuff on a shelf under the counter. “Martha will be down in about fifteen minutes,” he predicts.

  I step up onto the single stair behind the counter and straighten up. The store looks different from this perspective. I supposed that life is like that though. That from a different vantage, everything would look slightly different. I think about Seth and the confusion of today of the perplexing way I feel about him, about my dad, about my own experience with the video and the bullying, about my grief over Poppa. In the trenches of the struggle, how is it possible to see anything clearly?

  “Do you even use this step?” I ask Gabe.

  He leans against the counter, writing something in a notebook. “When I was younger. Not anymore.”

  “You’re so tall, that’s why.” I smile at him.

  “And you’re short,” he says.

  “Not very,” I say defending myself. I’m feeling slightly more like myself since we’ve left school, and working side by side with Gabe at the sink, despite the complexity of my feelings and the doubt I feel about my world that is hurtling through the chaos of space, for the moment, I’m content. It’s as though just being with Gabe corrects my compass needle back to true north. “I’m five-seven.” I draw myself up to my full height.

  “Oh damn. Watch out.” He chuckles, steps up onto the stair with the balls of his feet and momentarily towers over me before falling back to the floor. He grabs the counter for balance, his forearm brushing my hip searing it with his touch.

  I notice that he looks at his arm, but won’t look back at me. I dismiss the fleeting disappoint at the loss of his proximity. “I’m the almost the same height as you up here.” Gabe’s gone back to leaning over his notebook. “What are you doing?” I ask and lean toward him though my vantage is higher. I notice the ridges and planes of his back, the way one of his shoulder blades juts out over the elbow supporting his weight.

  He closes the notebook and looks up at me. His right eyebrow arches over his eye. “Kind of nosey, aren’t you?”

  I smile, turn my back to the store and lean against the counter. “In Hawaiian we would say, nīele.”

  Gabe stands up, now just slightly shorter than I am tall on the step. “Nīele,” he repeats. “I like that.” I have the impression he’d like to be closer and imagine him imprisoning me between his arms. He doesn’t but my heart is still racing with anticipation.

  I tamp it down scolding myself for my fickle wandering. I’m upset about Seth for goodness sakes. “And yes. I was being nīele. And,” I say raising a hand with a pointed finger, “you decided to participate in this mysterious activity within my presence which could mean you wanted me to ask.”

  “It’s a journal,” he says and ducks his head. I have a feeling he’s embarrassed.

  I step down from the stair. “Really? I didn’t know you write.”

  With a swift glance at me and then back to the counter he sweeps the notebook from the counter and deposits it on top of his bag. “Yeah.”

  “That’s really cool,” I say just as the bell over the door rings. We both look up and watch a middle-aged man walk into the shop and disappear down one of the isles. Gabe looks up, and I follow his gaze to the mirrors set high around the perimeter of the shop. Sure enough I can see the man as he walks down an isle filled with various knobs and hinges.

  “Gabe?” Martha calls from inside the maze, her voice muted by the partitions and inventory on the shelving.

  “Fifteen minutes almost to the second,” Gabe says with a smile.

  A few seconds later, she appears with a plate of warm cookies, the scent preceding them. She’s wearing a different outfit today, a pair of blue slacks and a nice flowered blouse, her apron characteristically tied around her ample middle. She’s adorable and makes me feel warm inside like one of those cookies. “Oh. Abby!” She says and smiles brightly. “So good to see you again.”

  “Hello Mrs. Daniels,” I say.

  “Call me Martha.” She holds out the plate.

  “Would it be okay if I call you Aunty Martha?” I ask and take a cookie. “That’s how we show respect in Hawaii.” I sample the cookie.

  “Of course,” she says. “I like that. Dale’s brother Martin’s kids call me Aunt Martha. Aunty has such a nice ring to it,” she chuckles and sets the cookie plate on the counter.

  “Mmm. This is so yummy,” I say. “You’re trying to fatten me up.”

  She laughs. “You could use some meat on those bones.”

  Gabe takes a cookie. “Thanks, Mom,” he says and leans over to kiss her cheek.

  The middle-aged man, now with the items he needs unloads them on the counter.

  Gabe shoves the rest of his cookie into his mouth and helps the man by ringing up the items for him.

  “Hi, Joe,” Martha says to the customer and draws a paper bag from under the counter. She puts the finished items inside.

  “Afternoon, M
artha.”

  She offers him a cookie.

  “Thank you! I’m finally getting to those cabinet knobs on Millie’s ‘honey-do’ list.”

  They laugh like grown-ups and talk about church. I struggle to keep my eyes from Gabe whose movement is like poetry, I’ve decided. The way his body leans or reaches, the way his clothes stretch and conform, the way his eyes move around taking in everything, cataloguing it or the way his mouth, the gorgeous set of his lips, is full and soft, but usually drawn as though he’s often worried.

  Once Joe’s on his way, Martha turns back to us. “Can you stay for dinner, Abby?”

  “Thank you, but I have to pick up my brothers from practice. Thank you, though,” I say.

  “That reason will pass this time, but one of these evenings,” she says as she re-traces her steps back through the maze.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I call after her and then turn to look at Gabe. He’s watching me with an unreadable expression and looks away when my gaze meets his. “So…”

  “So, what?”

  “What do you write about?”

  “Stuff.”

  I laugh. “Stuff. Nice and vague.”

  He smiles but doesn’t elaborate.

  “Do you ever share what you write?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Will you with me?” I ask raising my eyebrows over my eyes.

  He shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  I slip under the counter to the other side. “Okay. If that’s how you want to be.”

  “Are you leaving?” He asks. “Because I won’t read you my journal?”

  I laugh again. “No.” I shake my head and look up at him. “I was going to look through the store. Want to show me around?”

  He answers with a grin and I have the impression that he’s released a breath he was holding. He lifts the folding portion of the countertop and walks through. “How do you want to do this?”

  “Aisle by aisle,” I decide. I follow Gabe to the front of the store. He turns at the door and faces the back. We can see all the way to the counter of the wide aisle.

  “The store is set up in rows. Each row is numbered. One is against the wall on the right side,” he says and points. I follow him. “This wall, aisle one and aisle two on this side are the home organization and decor area of the store.”

  “Is there a reason it’s right here instead of in the middle?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t know for sure,” he says. “Dad took over the store when his parents retired, and I think he and Martha reorganized it. He did say that research shows when most people enter the store they often unconsciously go to the right, so when you want to move product, like seasonal decorations, that’s a good place to put it. The main aisle, the largest one is always our power tools. Because they are expensive for us and harder to steal when they are in full view.”

  “Got it,” I say with a nod.

  Gabe walks me through the store pointing out interesting facts about product placement and quirky products sold at the store. He tells me stories about funny experiences and weird requests from customers. He laughs and is completely at ease in this environment, more at ease than I have ever seen him. It’s almost as if a light has been switched on and he’s glowing from the inside out. This is Gabe, the real one, the unguarded Gabe. He answers my questions, smiles, and jokes. I’m struck with how much he knows and how often he references what he’s learned from Dale, who is obviously a major influence on his life. Gabe’s eyes light up whenever he talks about his adoptive dad, and while I have a sense that the store isn’t what he’s excited about, his ability to help his adoptive parents is what really matters to him. It’s in the tone of his voice, the way that he touches things, and the softening of his features when he talks about them.

  After a while we reach the light bulb aisle and the memory of the first time I ever had a conversation with him surfaces in my mind. I remember how nervous I was, how bad I felt about his black eye, how confusing things were then just as they are now. “This is where we officially talked for the first time,” I say.

  “The first time we officially talked was the day you ran into me in the hall,” he says with a grin.

  “You ran into me and knocked me down.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. That was all you. If you’d been watching where you were going.” He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  “Okay. Fine. We ran into each other then.” I reach out and lightly touch his arm.

  He turns away from me and says, “I’ll concede the point.”

  “That’s gracious of you,” I say. “That can’t be the first official meeting, because we didn’t know each other’s names,” I decide.

  “But we learned them later that day - in art.”

  “True, but we didn’t have a conversation,” I say. “That happened here.”

  He turns back to me, but the levity in his countenance is gone. He takes a deep breath and I feel it in my chest. That corporeal energy between us returns and it runs over my skin like an electrical current. “It did,” he says. His gaze drifts across my face and stops at my mouth. I want him to kiss me. I want him to kiss me! Just a soon as it was there, it passes, and Gabe says, “and you didn’t know what kind of light bulb to get.”

  I clear my throat and look at the countless number of boxes. “No. I didn’t care.” I laugh. “My mom and I had gotten into it and I was just wasting time.”

  “So, you didn’t even need my help.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I say quietly, “Help me.”

  My dad doesn’t interrupt us this time, and the air weighted with our chemistry is heavy. Gabe takes a slight step toward me. I lean toward him, but then remember Seth. Seth’s palpable sadness, the bruising of his face. I readjust putting distance between us. I don’t trust myself. Seth deserves more from a friend, I decide, and I deserve a conversation to understand how I’m feeling.

  “Gabe?” Dale calls from the back of the store.

  He studies me, but answers his dad, “Right here.”

  “Thank you for watching. I got the counter if you’ve got homework,” he says.

  “I should go,” I tell Gabe and smile at him. “I have to go get my brothers anyway.”

  He nods.

  “By Uncle Dale,” I call stepping into the main aisle where they keep the power tools.

  He smiles and waves. “Thank you, Abby.”

  Gabe walks me out to the Brutus. “Thanks,” he says as I climb into the car.

  “Thanks for the tour,” I say.

  He shuts the door, leans in. “You’re welcome. Now we can put you to work.” He smiles and I laugh. He walks to the door, waves, and disappears into the shop.

  26

  UNTANGLED

  Trying to untangle my feelings is about as clear as attempting to untangle the math problem I’ve had to redo over and over because of my lack of focus. I sigh and erase the work I just tried. Doing homework was a terrible idea because I have no answers to my conundrum. I don’t have any clarity on why Seth has changed so drastically, and I can’t deny the charged attraction I have for Gabe.

  When I first moved to Cantos, I spent so much time trying to cage a part of myself in the name of self-preservation, the part I labeled “bad.” With my secret out, what I am I protecting now? It’s clear I don’t have to live by the rigid rules I’d set for myself to be “good.” Rules that I’d made to hide myself. Rules I’d made that hurt Gabe. Rules I’d made that turned me into the very person who’d hurt me. That person - the hiding girl - isn’t who I ever was when I was younger, at home in Hawaii, but now, here, I’m not so sure who I am.

  I think about Poppa. His smile. His wisdom. I think about sitting in the surf with him and listening to him break out in Hawaiian Songs, the mele telling stories. “He lei ʻāʻī ʻoe na ke kūpuna, he milimili ʻoe na ka mākua, pūlama ʻia ʻoe me ke aloha[2]” he would sing to me, “you are the lei for the grandparents, a darling for your parents, cherished with love.”<
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  I remember asking him, “Poppa, why do you only sing Hawaiian songs?”

  “Why should I sing any other song, Tita? I’m Hawaiian.”

  “But don’t you like other music? I really like that song on the radio right now.”

  “Sure, baby.”

  “So why don’t you sing that kind?”

  He sat for a long time, quiet, the swell of waves rolling underneath us like the gentle lull of a rocking chair. I wondered if maybe he hadn’t heard my question, but then he spoke. “When I was young, your age, I wasn’t allowed to speak ʻōlelo. My mākua and kūpuna spoke it, but for me it was forbidden both at home and school. We would get hit if we spoke it.”

  I tried to understand him, but never having learned the Hawaiian language, I didn’t completely comprehend him. I could understand, however, the idea of being punished for speaking and it bothered me.

  He looked at me and spoke with his hands. “It was banned, you see, and it wasn’t until 1978-”

  “1978?” I say. “That is so long ago.”

  “Yes. It does seem like a long time ago. That was when ʻōlelo was returned to the people as the official language of Hawaii. By then,” he said, “it was almost dead, gone.”

  “No one could speak it?”

  “Only a few. There is anʻōlelo noʻeau that says ʻI ka ʻōlelo no ke ola; i ka ʻōlelo no ka make.’”

  “What does that mean, Poppa?” I’d asked.

  He ran his dark hands through the water and got as close as he could sitting on his surfboard. “Come closer,” he urged and then leaned toward me as though imparting a secret. “It means that in language there is life and in language there is death.”

  It all seemed so confusing to me. “So what I say means I can give life or death?”

  He nodded. “And it can also be that in our language - the Hawaiian language - there is life for our culture. That without it, there is death.”

  “Oh,” I said thinking I sort of understood him.

  “So, Tita,” he said, “I’m an old man now, and I sing Hawaiian because that is how I keep my culture.”