Heavenly Bodies Page 11

  Nando and Kyle start wrestling across from us, Camille and the others egging them on from the sidelines.

  “Look, I’ll be happy when I can get from one side of the pool to the other,” I say, staring at the flames. “That’ll be huge for me.”

  “It’ll happen. You’re already progressing.”

  “I know. I just wish I could fast forward past the learning part.”

  “Come on...it’s not that bad, is it?” He cocks his head, watching me with a little smile.

  Realizing he means our P.E. sessions, I shake my head. “It’s just frustrating sometimes.”

  “No, I hear you. I’ve always been able to swim, for as long as I can remember. I can’t imagine not swimming,” Rigel says, shaking his head.

  “I guess that’s how I feel about photography.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re definitely a natural there.”

  The music shifts from rap to reggae. Camille and Kyle disappear down the beach, fingertips entwined. Nando’s nowhere to be seen. I hope he’s not going for a swim.

  Feeling Rigel’s gaze, I ask, “So what else are you into?”

  “Music.”

  “You play an instrument?”

  “Nah.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “And I don’t sing, either. I like sound systems, tech. Losing myself in the beat, especially when the system’s on point.”

  “Ah.” I nod, sifting sand through my fingers. “The truck.”

  “My cousins got me into it from young. I used to help them work on their cars, so they helped me install my first system when I got my truck.” He shifts his eyes back to the fire. “It’s just a hobby.”

  “Hobbies are important. They help you learn who you are.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Think about it: it’s the stuff you choose to do when you could be doing anything. The stuff you’re drawn to. I guess the people who can get paid for their hobbies are the lucky ones.”

  “That’s true, though I wouldn’t mind getting paid to swim,” he says, nodding. “What do you do when you’re not taking pictures?”

  “I like to read. And I love music, same as you. My best friend…” I pause. “My best friend back in Inman Park, Sage, plays like, everything. Started with trombone in fifth grade and now she’s a beast on the drums and piano, too. It’s insane.”

  “That’s tight.”

  “It is. She wants to attend Juilliard.”

  “So does my cousin Brielle. She’s a dancer,” says Rigel. “Do you know where you want to go?”

  “Probably go back to Georgia. There are a lot of great schools there.” I’d always thought I’d get the Hope Scholarship, no question, but now that we’ve left the state, it’s no longer on the table. I’ll have to meet with the guidance counselor at the Palms, find out what I might be eligible for.

  “We have family in Vermont, so my Mom kind of wants me to apply to schools there, but I don’t know. I like Florida. North Carolina’s got some prospects.”

  “Florida’s cool, but I like seasons. I miss fall.”

  “I remember that,” Rigel says. “From your phone.”

  My stomach flips, and I start babbling. “I miss sweater weather, when it’s just cold enough to see your breath. And it’s like the trees are on fire, they’re so vivid and red and orange. ”

  Rigel shifts closer. “You’ll have to show it to me one day.”

  Shadows and light play across his face as he gazes at me. Someone throws a handful of tree branches into the fire, and the flames roar. Embers fly like flammable confetti and I inch back, giving it all a respectful space.

  Camille sits abruptly down beside me, grabbing an empty beer bottle from the sand and turning it upside down. “You didn't even get me one?” she asks, tisking. “Hoes before bros!”

  Vaguely mortified, I glance at Rigel, but he just smirks and turns to the girls that sat nearby while we were talking. Sighing, I give Camille a look, waiting until she makes proper eye contact. “That’s not mine, and the beer is right there.”

  “No more beer. She’s cut off,” Kyle says, pulling her ponytail as he passes.

  “Shut up,” she breathes. I’ve never seen Camille anything less than one hundred percent, so this is amusing. Still, she’s a handful when she imbibes, so I’ll be keeping an eye on her. Jasmine’s bitching in the car earlier makes sense now.

  “What’s up?” I ask quietly, poking her thigh.

  “Nothing,” she says, but her eyes flash to Rigel, and I know she wants to say something about him. Maybe he’s a heartbreaker, or maybe he’s between girlfriends, but the last time I checked it wasn’t a crime to talk to somebody.

  Standing, I brush sand from my bottom. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Yay! I’ll come.” Beaming, she offers her hand so I’ll help her up.

  Standing at the window, I gaze out at the motionless trees in the yard. Macho, the guy who takes care of Grandpa Harry’s lawn, halfheartedly pushes an ancient lawnmower, wiping sweat from his brow every couple of steps. It’s not even eleven o’clock, and already hot as Hades. There’s a tropical storm out at sea, and Mama says that means two things: one, that the hot spell is normal, and two, that the whole island is watching to see if it becomes a hurricane.

  “It’ll be nothing,” Jasmine said in the car, late last night. “We go through this every year. Watch.”

  Mom’s gone by the time I make it to the kitchen, her note letting me know she took Alex and Grandpa Harry to an open air market in La Reine. Relieved she didn’t spring another family outing on me, I take my time, sipping on lemongrass tea while getting dressed. And then, camera in hand, I hit the road. A car equals freedom, and I’m basking in mine, purposely exploring some of the longer westward routes. By the time I make it to Frederiksted, the sun’s high in the sky. Wandering around town, I snap pictures at whim. It’s nice not having anywhere to be.

  After ordering a sandwich from a deli near the waterfront, I wander down the pier, people watching. A group of older men are fishing in one spot, quiet as they cast their lines. Further down, kids leap off the pier into the choppy, blue water. I watch for awhile, envious of their freedom, their courage. I’m sure Rigel, Camille and Nando all did this as children. According to Mama, jumping off of the pier is a rite of passage on St. Croix.

  Maybe, when I learn to swim, I’ll jump too.

  My phone rings, and Cam’s face pops up on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, cuz. Where are you?”

  I frown. “I’m on the pier. Where are you?”

  “Your house.”

  “That’s what you get for coming without calling,” I tease.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to offend your Southern sensibilities!”

  “Bless your heart, Camille.” I laugh. “I’ll be home in a minute.”

  When I pull up to the house, still eating my deli sandwich, Cam’s on the porch.

  “Finally! Leh we go limin’!” she cries, springing up.

  “You mean you wanna chill?”

  She gives me the stink-eye. “When in Rome, Isla.”

  I don’t even go inside; I just climb into Cam’s car. Once we’re on the road, I turn the music down. “So what’s on the agenda for today? I thought you had chores.”

  “Girl, I got that done early.” She scoffs, making a face. “My weekends are too precious for drudgery.”

  “I hear that.”

  “I was going to stop at Rigel’s for a minute.”

  I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”

  “No, I’m serious. Nando’s working on something in Mr. Thomas’ garage, so I told him I’d stop by.”

  My heart slams in my chest. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She smirks. “Try not to cream your panties.”

  “Camille!” I pinch her arm, hard.

  “Ow, bruja...”

  “You better not say anything in front of him,” I warn. “And why are we going to see Nando? Weren’t you with Kyle last night?”

 
“Because why not,” she says, turning the volume up. “Hey, I love this song!”

  Rigel’s turn is only a few minutes after mine off Centerline Road, but it’s long and speed-bumpy. We pass a few houses before the street narrows and the pavement ends, giving way to a dusty dirt road sheltered by the ubiquitous Crucian bush. It’s about 95 degrees out, and Camille’s a/c is on the fritz, so I’m grateful for the shade. A sturdy wooden gate comes into view, and beside it, nailed to a tree, a small sign: Thomas.

  To the left sits a sizable, two story house—the first I’ve seen since living on St. Croix. Made of wood, it’s tall and wide and sort of irregular, as if it’s been continually added to over the years. Windchimes and potted plants hang around the wraparound porch. Across the yard, near the property line, several rusted out cars are tucked against a freestanding garage. Camille parks there, honking her horn just once.

  Two Rottweilers come bounding out, barking exultantly. I hesitate inside the car, but Cam jumps out and runs over to them. Confident they aren’t going to maul anyone, I join her, petting them as they sniff and nuzzle me. One of them jumps up, putting his paws on my shoulder as he licks my face.

  “Clyde!” yells Rigel, startling both me and the dog.

  Clyde lopes off sheepishly while I wipe slobber from my cheek. “Uh, hey.”

  “Hey, Isla,” he says. He’s in just basketball shorts, a t-shirt tied around his head. “Sorry about Clydie.”

  “Nice turban,” I say, choosing not to focus his golden-toned swimmer’s bod.

  “I was cutting the grass,” he says, grinning as he unties the t-shirt. A mess of curls falls free.

  Camille passes him, patting his shoulder gingerly. “I’d hug you, but...ew, you’re sweaty.”

  He lunges for her and she shrieks, dashing into the garage. I follow, slowing as Rigel falls into step.

  “So you’re doing yardwork today?”

  “Yeah. I’m about halfway done.”

  I glance back at their property. “You have a lot of lawn to mow.”

  “No kidding.”

  Camille’s in the back with Nando, who’s working on a car. A smile spreads over his grease-smudged face as we approach. What is it about dirt that makes boys so cute?

  “Two out of three musketeers,” he says. “Not a bad way to start the day.”

  “Ugh, don’t start with that again,” groans Camille.

  Ignoring her, he leans over and kisses my cheek. “What’s up, nena?”

  “Nothing, just hangin’ with Cam.”

  “Going limin’ later?”

  Camille smiles smugly, pleased she can reinforce her Crucian lingo. “Why, what you got in mind?”

  “You want something to drink?” asks Rigel, touching my elbow. “My dad keeps a fridge out here.”

  “Sure.” We leave Cam and Nando and return to the front, where he roots through a mini fridge by the door.

  “Water, lemonade…”

  “Lemonade sounds good.”

  Clyde and the other dog, Guapo, trot alongside us as we stroll out into the yard. It’s later in the day now, and not as brutally bright, but the heat seems to have gotten worse, like it’s been simmering all day and has finally reached a boil. A chain link fence, rendered nearly invisible by overgrown guinea grass, lines what I can see of the Thomas property.

  “You like horses?” Rigel asks.

  “I love them.” It’s been years, but Sage and I used to ride them on her grandpa’s ranch in Blue Ridge.

  “My little sister does, too.” He leads me to a small grove behind the garage where two horses, one blond and one brown, are grazing beneath the trees. “These belong to my uncle, but he brings them by most weekends so she can ride.”

  “Oh man —I would’ve loved that as a little kid.” I run my hand over the female’s flaxen mane, delighted when she raises her head to look at me. “I’d still love it.”

  “Her name’s Nadine.”

  “Hi Nadine.” I trail my knuckles gently down to her nose, tickled when she nickers softly. “She’s sweet.”

  “The sweetest. Rory rides her all the time. Kasha is more like his name, prickly and temperamental.” He nods at the other horse, who’s ignoring us in favor of continuing lunch.

  I look blankly at Rigel. “Okay?”

  “Kasha? It’s a thorny bush. It’s everywhere.”

  “Oh.” I shake my head. “I guess I haven’t seen any yet.”

  “You will,” he says, giving Nadine’s rump a smack. She ambles over to a patch of little yellow flowers, tail swishing. “So what are you and Cam up to today?”

  “I don’t know, really. She just picked me up and said we were coming here.”

  His eyes flicker toward the garage, and he smirks. “I’m sure she did.”

  I laugh, a little uncertainly. “What?”

  His eyes crinkle as he laughs, too. “What?”

  “Come on,” I say, giving him a little push. “You can’t just say stuff like that and not explain!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, putting an arm up to defend himself.

  He’s full of it, but it’s easy to forgive when he smiles at me like that.

  Rigel’s not in school on Monday.

  It’s not until AP History, when his seat remains empty long after the bell rings for class to start, that I realize. I turn to Nando during small group discussions. “Hey, is Rigel sick or something?”

  He looks up from his notebook. “Not that I know of.”

  When I get to the pool later, I remember in the locker room that Rigel’s absent and it sucks all over again. Stanley’s back, but Coach Archer opts to work with me herself.

  “You’re doing great, Isla,” she says, timing me as I tread water.

  “Thanks,” I pant, careful to keep my head above the surface.

  “Okay, time. Get to the wall.”

  Then we work on the backstroke, which, oddly, I’m able to pick up by the end of class. Go figure.

  Meanwhile, Camille’s in a mood. She blames her period, which is so cliche I can’t even, but I’m with her after school when Kyle leaves without saying goodbye. “What’s up with you and Kyle?” I ask, going for the kill. Camille’s more honest about her feelings if I can catch her off guard.

  “Whatever.” She shrugs. “He’s young.”

  Kyle's only a year behind us, but I know what she means. Some guys act young, flashing hot then cold, playing games. Still, I have to wonder what changed between Friday, when they were all over each other, and now.

  Oh, well there was Saturday when she went to see Nando.

  “Talk to me.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she says, waving me off. “Trust me.”

  “Fine. Let’s get ice cream, then,” I say. “From Armstrong’s.”

  We get our ice cream to go, and then I drop Camille home. She says she’s okay, but she keeps checking her phone when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Meanwhile, I have a ton of homework—the Palms is more intense than Grady ever was—and I want to get started.

  A couple of hours later, I’m slipping right out the door again, promising Mom I’ll be back in time to set the table. I want to catch another beach sunset, using a different camera this time. Grandpa Harry slips me a twenty on my way out, asking me to grab him a lottery ticket. I do that first, stopping at our usual gas station, and then continue on to Rainbow Beach. I tell myself I’m just going to watch...but there’s a bikini beneath my cutoffs and t-shirt and if the right person encouraged me, I might just go in.

  I’m in the zone, playing with the depth of field, when a shadow falls across the sand. Rigel’s at my side, smirking down at me. He’s in board shorts and an old t-shirt. “Hey, Georgia.”

  “Hey”—I replace the lens cap—“island boy.”

  “That’s kinda cool,” he says, nodding toward the camera in my lap. This one’s a personal favorite, the old Minolta Grammie gave me a couple of years ago. It’s quirky and square and uses real film
, but I whip it out when I’m feeling sentimental. “Going old school today?”

  “You could say that.”

  He nods, looking out to the sea.

  “You weren’t at school today.”

  “Nah.” He toes his shoes off, old Adidas that have seen better days. He even wears bumminess well.

  I look up at him. “How come?”

  “Missed my alarm, and then I just…didn't want to deal with it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He nods, shrugging.

  “Do you do that often?” I laugh, a little incredulously. That would never fly at my house.

  “No,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You coming in?”

  “To the water?” I glance at the calm, glimmering sea, as if I hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Yeah, to the water,” he says, voice muffled as he peels off his shirt.

  My heart gives a little skip and I look away, not wanting to be caught staring. “Are you, uh, training today? Or just going for a swim?”

  “Both. Got two meets this week.”

  “At our pool?”

  “Tomorrow’s is at our pool, Thursday’s is at McKinley.” He drops the shirt in the sand, next to his shoes. “Anyway, you’re at the beach so I think you should come in. You can put your stuff in the truck. ” He stretches his arms back, linking his hands behinds head. “I’m parked right there.”

  I look over at the road where Rigel’s truck sits. If he’s actually encouraging me to go swimming with him, how can I refuse? “Just for a few minutes…I’m not really supposed to stay out late.”

  He’s already headed back toward his truck, keys in hand. “You came to hang out, right?”

  I did, but damn if he didn’t just call me out! “Yeah.”

  He smiles over his shoulder at me. Unlocking the cab, he stuffs my camera and phone into the glove compartment and grabs a couple of towels. Back on the sand, I leave my clothes besides Rigel’s before venturing in. The water is a little cooler than I’m expecting, and I shiver as my arms goosebump.

  “It’s because the sun’s almost down,” he says, noticing. “But I’m sure it’s worse in Atlanta.”

  I smile, because there’s no comparison. “I wouldn’t know. There aren’t any beaches there.”