Learning to Breathe

by Janice Lynn Mather

  The door opens and I turn away. I’m not in the mood to listen to Smiley crow over some dress or shoes or nail polish.

  “Here.” Uncle’s voice surprises me. I sit up. He’s holding out a plastic bag. I peer into it while he stands there, shifting nervously. Three new toothbrushes, a pack of pens for school, three washcloths, a bar of chocolate, a fashion magazine. I reach in and bring out two bars of Pears soap. “I know your grammy buys that kind,” he says. It’s an odd collection. It’s been months since I got anything, since I unpacked my one bag of things from Grammy, that first day here. I didn’t expect this.

  “Something else in there,” he says, reaching over and pulling out the magazine. I take it; something’s nestled between the glossy pages. I bring out a white envelope. It has my name on it, in familiar handwriting.

  “Grammy!” It’s not that Uncle’s never snuck me a letter from Mariner’s before. He knows Aunt Patrice always keeps everything Mamma sends; since my first few weeks here he’s been going through the mail before he gives it to her, carefully sliding me an envelope here and there with Grammy’s cursive across the front. But Grammy’s envelopes had stopped coming too. Getting this letter now is a promise. She still remembers me.

  “Cecile!” Aunt Patrice calls from the front of the house. “Where your cousin is?”

  “I don’t know,” she yells back, “but look what Daddy bring me!”

  “She’s outside, Pat,” Uncle calls, stepping back out of the room. He nods at the envelope. “Don’t let your auntie see.”

  Alone, I tear the envelope open. Inside, this time, there’s no note. Only two ten-dollar bills, and a five. I tell myself not to be stupid. This is the first time she’s sent something without writing, and I need this money. Even the biggest bra she sent me here with is starting to get tight already. I decide I’ll get a new one this week. I hold the envelope to my chest, but without her words, it feels empty.

  • • •

  The clinic door opens and an older lady comes out, wig slightly askew, a straw hat perched on top. I say good morning; having manners is the fastest way to get adults to ignore you. Her hat wobbles as she nods her head at me. After she passes, I check that no one’s watching, then discreetly dig at the back of the bra where the tape is itchy. I bought this bra with those last three bills Grammy sent me. If I’d known I would outgrow it so fast, I wouldn’t have wasted the money. The door opens again.

  “W-w-wait, Junior. D-don’t go out there by yourself.”

  I’d know that stutter anywhere. A little boy, maybe three, dashes out into the parking lot, and sure enough, running after him is Churchy. Twice in one day and neither time at school.

  “H-h-hold on, hold on,” he says, catching hold of the kid. He hoists him onto his shoulders before he sees me. “D-D-Doubles. Wh-wh-what y-you doin outta school?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Who’s this?”

  “What y’all out here for, I tell you my ride comin for me, we might as well wait inside and stay cool,” a girl’s voice interrupts, following behind him. She appears, all sleek weave and overzealous face powder and bright red lipstick, in hot-pink pants. “Hey, don’t put him up there, it ain safe.” She reaches to lift the boy off Churchy’s shoulder. The boy sets up an unholy wailing.

  “L-leave him, he fine. Y-you know D-D-D-D-DD-D-D-D-D—”

  “Indy,” I interrupt.

  “D-D-D-D-Doubles from home, right?” he continues stubbornly. The girl smiles faintly at me. “This my sister. You remember her?”

  I do. Their mother sent for her from Nassau a few years ago. Mrs. Whyms would mention her in passing, mostly as a warning against going astray. And here is the reason for that, I guess, drumming enthusiastically on Churchy’s head and jostling his glasses. I’ve never seen Churchy look anything less than pulpit-ready, pressed and neat, his jumpy speech the only thing out of place. The boy’s doing his best to mess Churchy up. Churchy bears it with dignity.

  “Hey, s-see your d-daddy comin,” he says as a car swings into the parking lot.

  “D-Daddy!” the boy parrots cheerfully.

  “Look how you got my boy stuttering,” Churchy’s sister complains, sauntering up to the car.

  He turns to me. “Y-y-you want a r-ride back to school?”

  I look at the car as it pulls up alongside us. The tints on it are dark, heavy enough that no one can snap a picture of me and send it back to Aunt Patrice. I decide to make another exception to my No Rides rule. At least I know Churchy, and that’s good enough, even if he was skulking around in the bushes this morning. Besides, I feel light-headed from the walk, and making an exception has to be better than passing out on the road. I get into the back and say good afternoon to the guy in the driver’s seat, then buckle up beside Churchy and the little boy.

  “So you always cut school?” I shout over the music. Churchy cups his hand over his ear like a deaf old man. I rummage around in my backpack until I find a school exercise book and a pen.

  You always skip school? I write.

  He reads my note, then reaches for the pen. Jr. was sick and she thought she couldn’t get off work. He glances over. What are you doing out?

  I pause, contemplating the consequences of honesty. Someone asked me for some help.

  You ever missed before? he writes back, before shifting over so Junior can rest his head against him. I write No, unless you count Burst Buttons Day, but Churchy’s so busy with the little boy he never reads it, and then the short drive is over. We part ways, me heading to the classrooms the long way, around behind the PE building and along the fence, him gliding up the driveway, controlled and upright, backpack clutched to his chest like a missionary clinging to a Bible as he walks into some war-torn country that never asked for salvation.

  • • •

  I get to math class a moment after the bell’s rung. Everyone’s shuffling books around and bumping their way to their desks. I take my seat and keep my head down, pretending to look for a pen in my bag and hoping no one will notice me. I hear whispers sliding around me. It’s not about you, I tell myself. It’s not about you.

  “Look who showing her face,” Samara says loudly.

  “Ain her face I see showing,” someone calls out from the other side of the room. I pull my exercise book out, focusing on the paper. I can do this. I scrawl today’s date at the top of the page and flip the textbook open.

  “All right, settle down,” Mrs. Jones says from the front of the classroom. “Indira, it’s nice you could join us today, but you may find a math book a little more useful.” As the teacher turns to the blackboard, the class titters.

  “You gotta excuse her, Mrs. Jones,” I hear Tamika call out. “She got a lot goin on.”

  I shove the history textbook into my bag, slouching down in my chair. I don’t belong here.

  • • •

  The minute class is over, I head for the door, rushing to be first out of the room. I bump into Tamika on the way. I don’t mean to do it, but she elbows me hard, pushing past me.

  “You in a hurry to go throw up, hey?” she tosses over her shoulder. “I don’t know why you don’t stay your pregnant self home.”

  Outside in the corridor, I head for the bathroom by the library.

  “Indira!” Someone calls behind me. Ms. Wilson. I pretend not to hear her as I speed up, but a cluster of seventh graders spill out of a classroom, nearly tripping me.

  “Indira, I need to speak with you,” Ms. Wilson says, closer now. “Wait right there, please.”

  I turn around to face Ms. Wilson as she bustles toward me. “You made it in today.”

  “I have to pee.”

  “I think you can hold it while we discuss your situation here. Come to my office, please.”

  “I can’t go to the bathroom first?” I plead.

  Ms. Wilson tilts her head to one side. “You can go after,” she says. “Come on.”

  By the time we get to her office, I’m out of breath. She closes the door behind me.
>
  “Take a seat.”

  I perch uncomfortably on a chair. She knows. Somebody told her about the book, she can see I look different, she’s already called Aunt Patrice, and when I get to the house, all my things will be out on the street. Ms. Wilson taps her pen on the desk, flipping through a file.

  “You missed your first two classes this morning, Indira. This isn’t characteristic of you.”

  “Sorry. I slept in.”

  She makes a note, then continues. “The other students manage to make it here on time. Including your cousin. You live in the same household, correct?” She pauses, looking up.

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” She nods. “Is there a problem at home?”

  What am I going to say? Gary the charmer did something awful to me for weeks, for months, from the time I first reached Nassau, and I can’t hide what happened anymore? Who would she believe—him or me? Her face is worried but I can’t tell her the truth. “No, Ms. Wilson.”

  “Are you sure?” She sets her pen down, leaning forward. “How are you settling in here in Nassau? It’s been almost a full school year, but it must have been a big change.”

  “Uh-huh.” I can see she expects me to say more. “It’s different.”

  “I see,” she says, nodding thoughtfully. “Are you having trouble fitting in at school?”

  “Um . . .” I weigh the odds. If I say yes, she might drag this conversation out even longer. If I say no, she might keep probing. “I guess.”

  She opens her drawer and produces a few printouts, sliding them across the desk as if she’s giving me the secret to happiness. Why do I feel this way? is printed across the front of the first one, with a picture of a girl holding her head in her hands. Another is titled Finding New Friends. “You might find something helpful in these.”

  “Thanks.” I shove them into my bag. Maybe we’re almost done.

  “Now, Indira, despite what you may have going on personally, you have to pull your socks up, okay? I’m concerned about your behavior. First, the hullabaloo in the bathroom yesterday—”

  “I didn’t hit her, it was an accident!” I interrupt.

  “—okay, let me finish. I’m waiting for the letter you were to give to Samara. Do you have it today?”

  Letter? That was the last thing on my mind. “No.”

  “I see. I also have a note here from Mr. McDonald saying you didn’t even try to answer half the questions on your biology test. Now you’re skipping classes. Is this how you want to go into your final year?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now, I called and left two messages for your aunt yesterday,” Ms. Wilson continues. “Please remind her to call me back, I need to discuss all this with her urgently.”

  My heart speeds up, but I fight to sound calm. “I’ll let her know. I could go, please?”

  Ms. Wilson leans across the desk. “One more thing. One of the girls who witnessed the incident yesterday came to me and told me you had a certain book in your possession. Something to do with pregnancy?” She stares at me expectantly. My mind races, flipping through possible outcomes. I could say it wasn’t mine, but what if Ms. Wilson finds it in my bag? Or I could say I just wanted to read about it. She still might ask why, and maybe notice how my blouse doesn’t quite fit right. In the end, the truth comes out, or at least part of it.

  “My grammy gave me that when I left Mariner’s. It was hers,” I say.

  Ms. Wilson nods, but she doesn’t look totally convinced. “Indira, I have to ask you—”

  “I really need to go to the bathroom, please.”

  Ms. Wilson hesitates, but her phone rings, saving me. “Go ahead, then,” she says, and I’m out the door before the words are fully out of her mouth. “Make sure your aunt gets ahold of me,” I hear her call after me. “One more incident and I’ll have to put a permanent mark on your record. We don’t want that for you, Indira.”

  I make it to the bathroom, slam the stall door shut, and plop down, praying that none of the girls from class come in. For once, my prayer is answered. No one disturbs me. I stay in the stall until the bell rings for the next class. There’s bustling in the hallway, and then quiet. I take my time; why rush to the classroom just to hear everyone talking about me? As I walk through the empty hallways to history, I have to pass Ms. Wilson’s office again. The door is closed; she’s onto some other problem now. I wonder if Aunt Patrice really missed all those messages, if there’s going to be trouble. Or if she just doesn’t care.

  • • •

  “A yoga retreat?” Smiley screws up her face, picking at the last of her dinner. We’re outside, the night quiet, the driveway empty except for Uncle’s car. The TV’s dull blare floats out on the air; Uncle’s dozing in front of the news. “What you wanna go there for?”

  I push my plate away. “Better than here.”

  “Oh. How you found this place?”

  “I came across it by accident. It’s not that far.” I’m already telling her more than I’d planned. I’d thought, at first, to say nothing, to keep the retreat a secret. But she caught me emptying schoolbooks out of my bag, and when Smiley wants to know something, she can jump up and down on your patience until you practically want to bludgeon her with the answer. I’m not telling her I’m leaving Nassau for good, although I do wish I could say a real goodbye.

  “The boat ride ain ga make you sick? I mean, you already havin”—she lowers her voice, leaning in—“morning sickness.”

  “How you know?”

  “I have a nose, I can smell. I thought your stomach was bothering you or something.” She glances over at me. “Oh, don’t worry, Mummy always stuffed up. She don’t notice things.”

  Doesn’t she? I think of that morning, Gary’s finger pressing into my neck, the clearing of her throat. After the picture of me in Dion’s jeep, I know she’s watching me extra close. How long before she sees what I’m hiding? Even worse, what if she already suspects what’s growing in me and is waiting for the right moment to throw me out? All the more reason to get on that boat tomorrow and never come back.

  I’ve been quiet too long; Smiley’s staring down at her feet, tapping her fingers on the step impatiently. She knows there’s more. I wish I could tell her about getting rowed out for being in Dion’s jeep, but it’s all too tangled around other things. Why I was in the jeep, and why Gary would send the picture, and why he was mad, and the single biggest, ugliest why that can’t be said out loud, not to anybody. Smiley would want to open her big mouth to Aunt Patrice and anybody with two ears and half a brain. I already know what people would say; in their eyes, if Gary messed with me, it’s all my fault. “I like being by the water,” I say, but the words are too few to fill up the holes in our conversation.

  “So when are you gonna tell me whose baby it is?” Smiley turns to look at me.

  I ignore the question, facing the street.

  “Well, this must be the second Immaculate Conception, cause you always here, and till these last couple days, I never knew you to miss school.” Then, miraculously, she leaves it alone. “So what they’s do out there?” she asks instead. “They’s be standing on their heads?”

  I try to hide the gratitude in my voice. “I ain seen that yet.”

  “So what you seen, then? You’s be so secretive, man.”

  “Okay. I remember this one. Downward-facing dog.” I step down onto the lawn, getting on my hands and knees. It’s an invitation to be sick, moving around so soon after eating, but I don’t care. I just want to be myself, even for a minute.

  “An you supposed to do it barefoot?”

  “You know so much, you do it,” I say. She’s right, though. The students at the retreat wander the paths with no shoes on, like the whole place is their very own backyard. I remember seeing a row of abandoned sneakers and sandals at the edge of the deck. I kick off my shoes, welcoming the cool grass under my toes. “Okay, downward dog, you get like this, then you lift your bongey in the air, straighten your arms and
legs, and then you push back.” I look between my legs and see her standing there laughing. I flop back down. “And you ask me to show you?”

  “Sorry, but you look so funny.” She must see my face, because she stops laughing. “Sorry. Sorry, man. Show me another one.”

  Be like Smiley, I tell myself. Laugh it off. I remember Dion balancing on one leg, and imagine me trying to do that with an even bigger belly, in four months’ time. It’s not funny to me, but I force a smile anyway. “Okay, so they call this one upward-facing dog.” I get on my hands and knees, do a shaky push-up, then lower myself back down. Then I rise up, legs down on the ground, arms straight, my back curved so my head is turned up to the sky. I try to mimic the shapes I remember seeing Dion make at the retreat. “And from this one you come up into downward dog again.” I raise my butt in the air. “So what, you just ga watch me?” I peer through my legs again at upside-down Smiley. Her gaze is off toward the street, and a look of surprise lights up her face.

  “Oh, hey! Churchy, what you doin here?”

  I come down hard, back on my hands and knees, standing up so fast my head spins. There’s no one here but me, the empty night, and Smiley. She guffaws like she’s set up the best joke ever.

  “Oh, I wish you coulda see yourself,” she hoots. “What wrong with you?” she calls as I push past her. “I bet you he woulda enjoy that view. What, you can’t take a joke?”

  I shove the door open. She better not follow me. Uncle shifts slightly in his chair as I storm past him, heading to Smiley’s room.