by CJ Lyons
He shrugs and we keep walking. “Your friends seem nice. But why were they at your house and you weren’t?” He squints into the late afternoon sun. “This isn’t part of some joke or prank, is it? I don’t want—”
“No,” I hasten to reassure him, cursing Rory and her love of melodrama. “I’m sorry if you thought that. They just wanted to surprise me. In a good way.”
“By sending a stranger to where you’re swimming alone?”
“Well, it’s not like you’re a stalker or anything,” I try to turn it into a joke, but neither of us laugh. “You see, I live with my grandmother, and she has a hard time leaving the house or dealing with strangers. So, that means I pretty much have school and home and that’s it. Thankfully, she’s okay with Rory and Max, so the last couple of years we’ve all kinda hung out at my house most times—that way if I need or want to get away for a few hours, there are people I trust there to take care of Gram Helen, and she doesn’t feel like we’re babysitting her.”
“But you are, aren’t you? Does she have Alzheimer’s or something? Seems like a pretty big burden to put on a kid. Can’t anyone else help?”
I’m not a kid and there’s no one else except Joe and Darrin—but there’s no way I’m going to tell him that.
Java Joe’s is around the corner. I’m so embarrassed by my over-sharing that I debate ditching him there. But he said he needed my help, and I’m still curious enough about him that I want to know why.
I fiddle with my parka zipper before I ask, “So, what’s this project you need help with?”
I really hope this is about the graphic design class. I need a good grade in design if I’m going to get into art school. If I ever find the courage to apply, that is. I’m confident in my art, just not so sure about leaving home and destroying my family’s hopes and dreams for my future. Despite Alec’s implications, it’s not a burden watching over Helen and Joe. I owe them everything. And they’re my only family left. Without them, I’d have no one.
Before Alec can answer, we reach Java Joe’s—one of those battered old silver diners that look like they could be hitched to a truck and steered away on a cloud of diesel fuel and coffee grounds and then set back down on any random corner of any random city and fit right in. I beat him to the door and hold it open, inhaling the tangy scent of burnt bacon grease, cinnamon, and strong, strong coffee.
He grins and nods his thanks as he passes over the threshold. I follow him to an empty booth against the windows at the far back wall. Some people think Java Joe’s is striving to be shabby chic with its retro decor, but Rory says it’s really only shabby cheap. It hasn’t changed since her parents were students. Same red-topped, metal-rimmed tables, same booths with their peeling fake leather upholstery that sports the occasional duct-tape patch, even the same menus with the same coffee stains permanently laminated in place.
Here’s the thing about people: They come in all sizes, colors, shapes, and sounds. But the sizes, colors, and shapes I “see” have very little to do with reality. It’s part of the reason why I hang back and stay quiet—it’s too hard to figure out which is which, especially when you’re in a crowd, like a jingle-jangly classroom or a bright-sparking-fireworks-waiting-to-explode school cafeteria. Or, nightmare of nightmares, a mall. Forget watching a movie in a theater, torn between the auras the actors fling about with such abandon and those of the people reacting in the crowd.
Usually I don’t like restaurants—too many people with too many stories grabbing at my attention. But Java Joe’s is never crowded and we’ve picked a good time; there are only two other customers, both sitting alone at tables and working on laptops. I ignore the menu and the water-speckled silverware to twirl the song list caged inside the ancient jukebox selector. The jukebox is dead and gone—there’s a freezer of to-go ice cream where it once sat—but the songs it played remain behind. I’m never sure if that’s sad or kind of cool. Bittersweet; maybe that’s the word.
Alec buries his face in the menu, the words reflected in his glasses. He suddenly seems nervous, which surprises me since I’m the one out of my element.
Then the waitress is there with her stoplight amber waves of anxiety. As if getting our order exactly right will save the world. Or more likely, given the way she keeps flicking her eyes toward the glass-walled office with its open door behind the counter, save her job. “What’ll you have?”
I order tea and a cinnamon bun—they grill them until they’re sticky, gooey globs of sheer caramelized heaven, the main reason why Java Joe’s is still in business—while Alec gets coffee.
“Your project?” I remind him once she leaves us in peace.
“Well—” Suddenly he’s the one who seems shy and tongue-tied. “I’m a journalism major, and I’m working with Professor Winston on a true-crime story.”
True crime? Now I see the challenge—photos, large chunks of text woven between them without distracting a reader, maybe graphs and charts or maps as well. Difficult, but much easier than creating a business logo from scratch. Alec’s story will be perfect for my graphic design class—it plays to my forte, seeing the big picture of how individual items fit together rather than focusing on picayune details. Pretty much how I’m forced to navigate the world because of my synesthesia. “When’s it due?”
He seems taken aback, as if he hasn’t factored a deadline into things. “He wants it as soon as possible. But I still need to do several in-depth interviews and finish writing them up.”
“Can you give me what you have to start working with? That way I could mock up a layout, see if you like it. Are we talking print, online, or both?” I’m itching to grab pen and paper, start sketching, but I don’t want to shift my attention away from him.
I never realized before exactly how much effort it takes to understand a person when their auras aren’t filling in the missing pieces of their truth. Besides, I like watching him, the way he runs a finger up his nose to straighten his glasses, the subtle shift in his eyes when he’s looking at me but trying not to stare too forcibly, the play of color across his dark skin as the light through the window shifts with the breeze.
“Both,” he finally says. “But I can’t let you see it.”
“I don’t care if it’s a draft. I just need to figure out the design elements.”
He frowns. “Design elements? I don’t think you understand—” He quits talking when the waitress arrives with my food and his coffee. His lips purse tightly together and I feel as if I’ve somehow upset him.
I think back to my design class, try to remember what the teacher said about working with clients. “Let them lead,” she’d told us. “Your job is to listen, not judge or assume. Even though they’re coming to you for your expertise, they’ll have a good idea of how they see their final vision coming to life. You need to respect and honor that.”
Listen. Respect. Honor the client’s vision. Everything I haven’t done.
I stare at the waitress’s hands as she shuffles the plates in front of us. Have I already blown my chance with Alec?
CHAPTER 5
Alec
I can’t even imagine how I could have screwed this up worse than I’ve done already. Thankfully, the waitress brings our food before I can dig myself in deeper. What was I thinking, bringing Nora here to interview?
The waitress has overfilled my coffee mug. At least it’s a decent-sized mug instead of one of those too-thin, skinny cups that let the coffee scald your hands even as it cools much too fast. Coffee is practically a religion back home—my father mainstreams it black while my mother considers it one of the few real pleasures modern civilization has left to savor.
She uses a French press and grinds her own beans. I’m not that fussy. Although I don’t actually like coffee itself, I began drinking it when I first started taking college classes two years ago, because instead of hopping on the regular high school bus, I had to get up at 4:30 to take the city bus to campus. I learned to appreciate the hit of caffeine, if not the taste. Now I slu
rp about a third of the cup down, then fill it back up to the brim with cream. The diner specializes in all-day breakfast, so they have cinnamon sitting here at the table, and I sprinkle a healthy dose into the mix.
I glance up to see Nora—Ella—watching me as she dunks her tea bag and waits for her grilled sticky bun to cool. We exchange a smile, but then I feel my face flush with guilt. We’re having such a nice time and I’m about to ruin it, and she has absolutely no clue.
“You’re from South Carolina?” she asks, holding her tea cup with both hands as if it’s made of precious rare porcelain rather than cheap restaurant-stock china.
“What gave it away? After three months here, I’ve learned not to say y’all—although I still refuse to acknowledge youn’s as the proper form of the second person plural.”
Her smile deepens. Her face isn’t quite symmetrical, making her smile seem somehow more engaging. Or maybe it’s her eyes, so deep set and dark. I’m not at all certain what it is. I just might need to make her smile again to be sure.
“It’s your hands.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hands. They gave you away. While we were walking, every person we passed, you started to raise a hand to wave to them.”
I close my eyes for a moment to suppress my laughter—I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her, when really I’m laughing at me. “You are so right. When I first got here, I never even realized that I was saying ‘Hey’ to everyone I passed until a couple of guys almost jumped me. Asking me who the heck I was and did I know them and why was I messing in their business. I stopped real fast after that, but guess my hands can’t quit the habit so easily.”
“It’s not that we’re not friendly up here.” She’s quick to defend her home. I like that about her. “Imagine what it’d be like for one of us down there, surrounded by strangers calling ‘Hey!’ to us as we’re minding our own business walking down the street. A person could get whiplash trying to keep all those strangers in sight, make sure they’re not up to no good.”
I shake my head at her logic. “Are all you city folk so paranoid?”
“Basic survival instinct,” she says solemnly.
“So that’s why you’re so observant, watching everyone’s hands? You know that’s where any threat comes from.” Dad taught me that, along with how to take out someone twice my size, when to run and when to hit, and most importantly when to simply look confident enough that you’re too much trouble for anyone to bother messing with in the first place. Command presence, he calls it. It doesn’t work so much here at school, not for me. I guess I stand out too much—I’m the only black guy in my dorm and most of my classes—but it’s still good to know.
Though it makes me wonder who taught Ella. And why she had to learn that lesson—had someone hurt her? I remember her story about the girl with the umbrella, the teacher’s concerns, and my hands tighten around my mug.
“No. I just like watching people.” Now it’s her turn to blush and focus on her food.
I relax. “Right. Because you’re an artist.”
She jerks her head up and I know I’ve said something wrong, but I’m not sure what. “I’ll never be a real artist, go to school for it or anything.” Her tone turns wistful, and I wonder if she even realizes she’s lying to herself.
“So what are you going to school to study?” I add more cream to my coffee, and finally have it exactly where I like it.
She glances down at the sugar bowl like she’s staring into a crystal ball or something. “Probably accounting. Or actuarial science.”
“Wow. Talk about intense. You must have mad math skills. Are you going to Wharton or one of those high-powered business schools?”
She shakes her head. “Actually, I hate math. But it doesn’t matter because I’ll never leave home. I can get the basics here at Cambria College, learn the rest on the job.”
“You already have a job?”
“Don’t sound so impressed. It’s the family business. Cleary and Sons, Insurance and Financial Advisors. Our original office is here in Cambria City, but now we have branches in Philly, New York, and also London and Paris.”
I lean back in my seat. How did I not know this? My research was so focused on what happened fifteen years ago, I never bothered to check into the family business, just assumed it had died when her parents did. Dr. Winston would say that was sloppy reporting, not learning how the past impacts the present. My dad would simply call it downright lazy.
“I don’t understand. Why does having a family business with offices all over the world mean you can’t leave Cambria City? Don’t you want to see New York, London, Paris?”
“Don’t forget Philadelphia.” She’s trying to make a joke of it, but fails. Her expression is so sorrowful, it’s all I can do to keep from reaching out to her. She’s a subject. I can’t get involved—at least not more than I already am.
“Right. You can’t miss out on those cheesesteaks. It’d be a crime.” I choose my last word carefully, hoping to edge into what I came here for.
“It’s only a few hours away, so I’m sure I can find time in my busy schedule for Philly.” She offers this as if her compromise just brokered world peace.
I lean forward, unable to resist the pull of her longing. “It’s because of your grandmother?”
“Not just her. My uncle Joe too. They need me here. I have to stay, take care of them. I can’t abandon them. They’re all I have left.” She looks past me, out the window, but it’s not the gorgeous autumn afternoon she’s seeing, I’m certain. For a moment, I wonder if she’s thinking of the same thing I am—the fire.
A shudder runs through her body and I’m certain she is. I can’t help it; I lay my hand on hers and squeeze it gently, pull her back to me.
“You’re not what I expected,” I tell her.
Her attention abruptly shifts to the approaching waitress, and I remove my hand, disappointed. I think back to the receptionist at the nat. Did Ella see me like she had? An outsider, an intruder?
As usual, I’ve come on too intense. I need to slow down, give her space. Professor Winston says the key to a good interview is to earn the subject’s trust. Once upon a time, I was the only person Nora trusted, but this isn’t Nora, this is Ella. I need to start all over with her.
Ella makes a small sound of sympathy, her focus still on the waitress. “She’s just been fired,” she whispers in a low voice I barely hear.
As far as I can tell, the waitress has the same surly expression she had when she originally greeted us. She slaps the check on the table between us. “Have a nice day.”
And then she’s gone. But Ella is still watching her, her forehead wrinkled in concern. “Poor thing. It’s not her fault.” She glances at the check and cringes. “You might want to double-check the math. She’s dyslexic.” She shifts in her seat, pulling back from the piece of paper between us as if it’s making her physically ill.
I slap my saucer over it, hiding the check, and Ella visibly relaxes. “You must come here often to know all that.”
She gives a little shake of her head, staring at the waitress who’s now behind the counter arguing with a man who must be her boss. “No. I can just see it. In her voice, in everything she touches, in the air around her. He was yelling at her earlier—back in that glass-walled office, before she brought the check. And then when she was adding it up . . .” Finally, she tears her gaze away from the drama behind the counter and glances at me. “It’s hard to explain.”
I think about that as I slide the check from beneath the saucer, pull it into my lap to shield her from the sight of it, and use my phone to check the math. “She listed your tea as $9.25 when it should be $2.95. But the total is right.” I raise my eyes up from the check, looking at her over the rims of my glasses. She appears suddenly soft and fuzzy as if not from this world, the not-quite-setting sun casting her in a warm glow. “How did you know?”
“It’s something that runs in my family.” She’s moved to the edge
of the booth, and seems eager to leave.
I pay the check, tip the waitress twice what I should—least I can do if she just lost her job—and slide out of the booth. I offer Ella my hand and she takes it without hesitation. As I help her to her feet and on with her coat, I realize I was a jerk for thinking she was worried what people thought, seeing us together. I have a feeling Ella sees way past skin color.
But I’m also a jerk, because now I think there’s more to her story than I’d originally thought. Dr. Winston loves any “color” that adds to a story and I suspect I’ve just hit pay dirt. The thought excites me—just a little—but mainly what I feel is relief as the dread of telling her the truth is lifted. If I can avoid that, even for a little while, it’s worth it.
“Let’s take a walk and you can tell me all about it.”
CHAPTER 6
Ella
It’s moments like this that challenge me every single day, each new person a cliff begging for a leap of faith.
Nearly always, I shy away. Maybe because of some tainted shadow in their aura. Most likely, it’s that I’ve finally learned my lesson after tumbling off that cliff far too many times, more times than Wile E. Coyote chasing his roadrunner. Roadrunners can fly, coyotes can’t. And neither can girls, not even when clutching an umbrella with both hands—they can sink, they can swim, they can fall . . . but they cannot soar free.
Alec is patient, waiting until we’re outside, squinting as our eyes adjust to the late-afternoon sun hanging just above the treetops. “You watch people—but it’s more than reading body language, right?”
I nod. “I see their stories.”
He blinks. Slowly. Deciding whether to run or pause long enough to call 9-1-1.
“I’m not crazy,” I insist, knowing all too well that people who need to resort to declaring their lack of insanity are the ones most likely to be wrong.
“Didn’t say you were. Tell me more. About these . . . stories. What triggers them? Do you hear words with them?”