Heavenly Bodies Page 6

  “No problem! Grab a seat; we just got started,” she says, sunny as all get out.

  “Okay.” I shuffle over to the bleachers and sit, trying to ignore the scrutiny. I recognize some students from my classes today, but not others. Regardless, I’ll have to tell Coach Archer as soon as she has a minute that I can’t stay. There’s got to be another P.E. class I can take, surely.

  Coach Archer goes over the class rules, stressing the importance of safety before explaining what we’ll be covering. Like any other class, we’ll be taught and then tested on each skill—every stroke, every life saving technique. Overwhelmed, I glance around the rest of the group, freezing when I spot a familiar face.

  Rigel is sitting near the top bleacher, arms and legs sprawled everywhere. The very picture of nonchalance...he doesn’t even look like he’s listening. It occurs to me that being in this class would mean seeing him shirtless and wet.

  “So that about wraps it up,” Coach Archer says eventually, checking her watch. “We have about twenty minutes left of class, so feel free to talk quietly amongst yourselves and make sure to bring swimwear next time.” She taps her clipboard with a pen. “And, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times—no cut offs. And no bikinis, ladies.”

  While everyone else is chatting, I ease back down the bleachers and over to Coach Archer. She smiles at my approach, tucking her clipboard beneath her arm. “So! How are you enjoying the Palms, Isla?”

  “Oh, it’s great. Everyone’s been really nice,” I say, and thankfully, I mean it. “But I won’t be able to take your class, ma’am.”

  “Oh?” She furrows her brow. “Why not?”

  I fidget with the zipper on my backpack. “I don’t swim.”

  Understanding dawns. She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Don’t or can’t?”

  “Can’t,” I whisper. “I mean, I can handle being in the water. A little. I just prefer not to.”

  “Honey, it’s fine.” She gazes so sympathetically at me I think I’m home free, but then she says, “That’s why we’re here. We’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

  “Coach Archer, please. I— ”

  “Isla, you cannot graduate from the Palms unless you’ve passed this class,” she says firmly. “Swimming, CPR, survival techniques...these are critical skills. Every student here has mastered them, and you will too.”

  She’s so sincere I can’t even be mad. I am, however, on the brink of panic.

  “Did something happen?” she asks, touching my elbow.

  “In the water?”

  She nods, holding her clipboard to her chest.

  “We were at the lake one time. I was seven. There were a ton of kids and I just…got shoved to where I couldn’t stand.” I exhale slowly, intentionally releasing the tension that comes with the memory. “It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not,” she says firmly. “It’s more common than you know. It’s critical you learn.” She grins, switching gears. “Besides, you don’t want to be left behind when your friends go to the beach.”

  Everything she’s saying is true—I just don’t want to deal with the process. Anyway, it seems I have no choice. “Okay, but...it’s going to take me awhile. To get used to it.”

  “I’m more concerned with whether or not you have a one piece.”

  “I think I do.” From ninth grade. Might be time for an upgrade.

  “Great! Bring that and a towel next time, and and we’ll take it from there.” She cocks her head, studying me. “You know, the swim team practices here after school, but there are always a couple of lanes empty on the sidelines. If you ever want to stay after, we can work on it a bit. Just you and me.”

  I shift from one leg to the other, trying to gauge her sincerity. It seems like an awful lot of trouble. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course,” she says, gesturing to the pool. “I’ve tutored plenty of kids.”

  The idea is unexpectedly appealing. “I might take you up on that.”

  “You should,” she says.

  Everyone springs into motion as the bell rings. Rigel passes by, arm slung around a petite girl with light brown skin and almond shaped eyes. It makes sense to see him with someone like her. She’s graceful and lovely, and she fits right into his side.

  I follow the crowd back to Upper School, meeting Camille at her locker. “Hey.”

  “How’d the rest of your day go?” she asks, shoving several textbooks into her locker before slamming it shut.

  “Fine. I’m in swimming, though.”

  “Aw, I love swimming. Especially when it’s all gross and hot like this,” she says, sliding her arms through the straps of her bag. “I got basketball. Blech.”

  “I thought you liked sports?” I chuckle.

  “Sports like volleyball. I’ve played that since seventh grade. I suck at basketball and anyway Nando’s in there, being a pain in the ass.” She shrugs. “Be happy you get to chill in the pool.”

  Kids swarm to the long line of idling, yellow buses in the loading area. The car loop and parking lots are a maelstrom of activity, much like this morning. I follow Camille to a bench beneath a tree and we sit.

  A group of older boys crowd around a silver SUV in the parking lot, their raucous laughter carrying over the music. Then someone moves and I see Rigel, arms folded, talking to the driver.

  “Man, I miss my car,” Camille complains, checking her reflection with her phone.

  I drag my eyes from the scene in the parking lot. “What happened to it?”

  “Battery was acting up. My dad said he’d replace it before school started, but you know how that goes.” She pockets her phone. “He’s dealing with it today.”

  Jasmine walks over, sitting on Camille’s other side. “You come with your mom today?”

  “Yeah, my battery remember?”

  “That sucks. You want to just come with me?”

  “Nah, I’m gonna chill with Isla for awhile.”

  “Cool, cool.” Jasmine glances my way, flashing a fake smile.

  “You can come, you know,” Cam says.

  “I’m good. Call me later, babes.”

  They kiss one another’s cheeks before she leaves, something everyone seems to do here. I get that it’s cultural, but it feels almost too familiar. I try to imagine myself kissing everyone and can’t.

  My phone vibrates. It’s a text, from Sage:

  what’s up, buttercup?

  Her words are old-school familiar, making my heart smile.

  not a thing chicken wing, I reply.

  Down in the parking lot, Jasmine’s joined the boys. She pushes past Rigel and rests her arms in the SUV’s open window, smiling. There’s another buzz from my phone.

  miss you much :’(

  miss you more :’(

  I swallow the lump in my throat, sending Sage a photo I took earlier of the campus. She sends back a picture of herself at our lunch table, surrounded by our friends. They’re holding pieces of paper that spell I LOVE YOU. I laugh, wiping the tears before they fall.

  “Isla! Are you okay, baby?” Aunt Greta cries, sounding horrified. She and Camille are standing over me, identical in their concern. I must look pitiful, with my frizzy braid and watery eyes.

  I nod. “Got a text from my friend back home.” I hold my phone up. “I’m just a little homesick.”

  “Oh honey,” Aunt Greta croons, pulling me to my feet so she can hug me. Behind her, Camille is rolling her eyes but she’s smiling, knowing her mother loves nothing more than to soothe the world’s hurts. “I can imagine. Let’s get you home.”

  I wrap my arm around her side, appreciating the warm mom-vibes.

  “I hope your first day was good?” she asks, glancing over as we walk.

  “It was. Camille introduced me to everybody.”

  “And Nando was assigned to show her around, Mom,” Camille says. “So I’m sure she got more than she bargained for.”

  “Oh boy.” My aunt laughs, shaking her head. “Fernando i
s a real character.”

  We head down to faculty parking, where her car is parked beneath a tree. Papers and snack wrappers litter the backseat, all of which she sweeps to the floor. “Sorry, Isla. This is disgraceful. I really need to clean this up…”

  Mama’s car is usually the same, but with the detritus of toddler life. “It’s fine, Auntie.”

  We stop at the supermarket and then head west, toward home. Camille and Aunt Greta chatter nonstop, but I tune out after a while, soaking in the scenery. I’m still getting used to the bucolic feel of Centerline Road, of our neighborhood. There’s something peaceful about it, even if it’s a little rough around the edges.

  It couldn’t be more different than home if it tried.

  Grandpa Harry and Alex are relaxing on the front porch with Larry when we pull up. Alex abandons his Legos the second we stop. “Isla!”

  “Hey, bud!” We embrace in the driveway like it’s been months instead of hours.

  “I had to get the child off that friggin’ iPad thing,” Grandpa Harry says. “All he wants to do is play games and silly shit.”

  “Language, Dad.” Aunt Greta wraps her arms around him, giving him a good squeeze. “And don’t be grumpy.”

  I’m tempted to defend our family, as Mom’s generally strict about screen time, but I let it go. We’re adjusting. Instead I choke back a laugh, hoping Alex didn’t hear Grandpa’s “slip,” and go inside. The house is dark after the brightness of outside, and much cooler.

  “Hey! How'd it go?” Mom asks, emerging from the kitchen with a glass.

  “It was good.” I hug her. She smells like Grandpa Harry’s mentholated rub.

  “Your classes were okay?”

  “For the most part. Definitely harder than Grady.” I peer into the glass she’s holding. It looks like sweet tea. “What is that?”

  “Lemongrass. Neighbor brought some over earlier.” She takes a sip. “You want some?”

  Later on, after Camille and Aunt Greta have gone home and Grandpa Harry and Alex are in their respective beds, I join my mother in the living room. I’m on my third glass of iced lemongrass tea—I have a new favorite, I think.

  “So you’re really okay?” Mom asks, lying back on the couch. I settle carefully into a rocking chair, missing the oversized sofa we had in our old house. It sank in the middle, but it was comfy. And ours. It’s hard to feel at home in a house full of someone else’s things.

  Setting my glass down, I loosen my hair. “Yeah, it went a lot better than I thought it would. The teachers are cool…mostly…and Camille’s friends were nice.” And then there’s that lump in my throat, again. Sipping my tea, I shrug. “I miss Grady. I miss home.”

  She nods slowly, putting a little cushion in her lap. “I miss it, too.”

  “I wish Dad was here.”

  “Me too.” She gives me a wobbly smile.

  Sniffling, I consider that. She’s got family here, and it’s her hometown, but her whole life was back in Atlanta, too. “What about you?”

  “Adjusting, like you.” She sighs, settling back. “It’s actually been really good, spending time with Grandpa Harry. I missed him more than I realized.”

  I try to imagine living my life far away from Dad and can’t. Maybe it’s different once you’re actually an adult. “I’m glad you guys have this time.”

  “I’m glad you have it, too. I know he can be prickly, but he loves you guys.”

  “We love him, too.” I do, anyway. Alex is more of a wild card.

  She nods. “He’s not as physically dependent as we initially thought…which is great. He still can’t be completely on his own, so it’s good we’re here, but he’s gonna be alright.”

  “Every little thing's gonna be alright…” I sing, and she smiles, clinking her glass to mine.

  “Greta’s thinking of getting him a life alert bracelet.”

  “Good luck with that,” I joke. It took weeks to get him to agree to a cell phone.

  “No kidding.” Her face lights up suddenly. “Oh, I meant to tell you: Alex and I found a preschool today! It’s not too far from here.”

  “Really? That’s awesome!”

  “Yes; a friend of Greta’s recommended it, so we headed over around lunch to check it out.” She nods. “We’ll probably start with half days, see how he does. He needs to do his own thing, you know?”

  “And it’ll give you a break. Kind of.”

  “Kind of,” she agrees, tossing me a blanket. “So. Tell me about your day, and give me details this time. Did you start yearbook yet?”

  I glance down at the afghan in my lap, which we’ve had forever. And then I look around the room, really seeing it. The Yoruba masks on the wall, between the windows; they were in our hallway the last time I saw them, back home. A photo of Alex and I, and then another of Mom and Dad, sits on the window sill.

  I mentally rewind to homeroom this morning and start over.

  I’m wrapping up a phone call with Morgan when Camille texts.

  car fixed! want a ride tmrw?

  I smile, knowing she’s off-the-rails-happy about this.

  sure :)

  k! be there at 7:15

  Mom’s not too thrilled with the thought of my over-exuberant cousin as a chauffeur, but in the spirit of trust and adjusting, she agrees. Camille barrels into the driveway at 7:25, and we set out with matching travel cups of coffee, courtesy of my mother.

  “Do you always drink coffee?” she asks, watching curiously as I blow on the steam drifting from my cup.

  “Mhm. Since the summer before junior year.” In an effort to curb my costly addiction to the neighborhood coffee shops, Mom began making her own versions of mochas and lattes at home.

  Camille sniffs her coffee before taking a sip. “Oh, it’s sweet!”

  “My mom adds hot chocolate to it.” I savor a sip of my own. “How do you drink yours?”

  “I don’t,” she says, taking another sip. “But this is really good.”

  Pulling up to a stoplight, she turns to look at me. “So. My friend Antoine was asking about you.”

  “Antoine?” I think back, trying to place the name. “I don’t think I met him.”

  “He saw you though,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “He’s cute.”

  Not interested but not wanting to be rude, I stay silent, sipping my coffee.

  “Did you have a boyfriend back in Atlanta?”

  I try hesitantly to pinpoint what Benny and I had. “Kind of. I mean. No.”

  “One of those, huh?” She smirks. “It’s complicated?”

  “Just this kid, Benny. I’ve known him my whole life and we finally got together, right before I moved. We had an amazing week, though…” A magical, perfect week where I kissed and got kissed more than I ever had. “But we were never official.”

  “That sucks, Isla. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me about it. I almost wish we hadn’t bothered.” That’s not quite true, but my heart’s a little messy right now.

  “I know all about that, trust me.”

  “Oh yeah? Anybody I met yesterday?”

  “No; he goes to a different school.” She shakes her head, dainty gold headband glimmering.

  My own hair is back in a bun today. I took a little extra time with it this morning, running my flat iron through just enough to tame the curls into waves, but it didn’t work the way I’d hoped. “How do you keep your hair so…healthy? Mine’s a mess ever since we moved.”

  Camille smiles knowingly. “Let it be curly, for one thing.”

  I roll my eyes. “You sound like my mother.”

  “Yeah, she’s always worn hers natural. She’s right, though.”

  I touch my bun self consciously. “It’ll frizz.”

  “It won’t; you need better products. Come over after school.”

  At the Palms, she navigates the congested parking lot and squeezes into a space with a cheer. “Senior parking, Isla! I’ve only been waiting twelve years!”

  Laughing, I climb out
of the car right as a gleaming black pickup truck pulls up. Rigel and the pretty girl from the pool yesterday get out, chatting as they cross the parking lot.

  “They’re a cute couple,” I say as Camille joins me.

  “Who, Rigel and Brielle?” She squints. “They’re cousins.”

  It’s sad, the hope and relief that spark through me. “Really? Is everyone here related?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Are you related to them, too?” I’m joking, but that would be just horrible.

  “No, girlie.” She grins, linking our arms. “You think Rigel’s cute, huh.”

  I shake my head. “He’s all right.”

  “Isla. Your face. Please.”

  She’s right; it’s burning up. Grimacing, I stare at the ground. “It’s whatever.”

  “Everybody likes Rigel Thomas. Black girls, white girls, Puerto Rican girls…” She side-eyes me. “Mixed girls…”

  “Do you like Rigel Thomas?” I tease.

  “He was my first kiss.”

  “No way.” I’m so shocked I stop walking, but she yanks me on.

  “It was in middle school. Truth or Dare. And nasty.” She makes a face and I giggle-snort, covering my mouth. “So slobbery.”

  “Well. I doubt he’s that bad a kisser now, Camille.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s great now, but my point is he’s just a friend. One of my oldest friends—since kindergarten, remember?”

  “Benny and I were like that.” I adjust my backpack. “But we did end up liking each other.”

  She frowns sympathetically. “Yeah, you guys didn't even get a chance.”

  “Not really.” Shrugging, I wait a beat. Honestly, I’m burning to ask the question that’s been dancing around my mind—whether or not Rigel has any entanglements. He’s vaguely flirty, but that doesn’t mean anything. I watch Rigel and Brielle separate as we approach Upper School. “So...does Rigel have a girlfriend?”

  “No. He was with this girl Mia for awhile. They were always on and off, but they were together before she left for college, so, who knows.”

  That’s almost worse. It’s the in between stuff, the complicated, messy stuff that lingers.