Heavenly Bodies Read online

  I master that with surprising ease, which is encouraging.

  “Good! Now we can move on to the breaststroke. I know you and Rigel have been working on that.” She motions me closer and then shows me the stroke, although I’ve seen Rigel do it so many times it’s burned into my brain.

  A couple of lanes away, Rigel and one of the girls on the team are racing one another. It looks like a relay, because when they hit the opposite wall other swimmers dive in and take over.

  “Isla.” I look guiltily at Coach Archer, who’s watching me with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

  I smile sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  We work for about forty minutes. By the end, I’m exhausted but I’ve gotten the hang of breaststroke. It’s not pretty, but I can perfect the details later—I’m just glad I have the method down.

  Sage grins giddily at me from my computer screen. It’s a smile I know well, and one that usually means one thing: boys.

  Eyeing her knowingly, I tear open bag of Goldfish I stole from Alex’s snack stash. “Okay, Sage. Spill it. What have you been doing since we talked? Or should I ask who?”

  It’s a silly question; we talk all the time—but I know there’s still plenty I’m missing.

  “Yeah, definitely more like who.” She coyly raises an eyebrow.

  “What?” I draw closer to the screen as if she’s actually sitting on my desk. We used to do this back home, too; homework is way less of a drag with Facetime. “Who? Not Gregory Hernandez! ”

  “No. I’m done with him.” She bites her lip, trying to contain a smile. “He’s a little older. Do you remember Marshall? Brody Kowalski's older brother?”

  “Marshall Kovalski? He’s in college!” I gape at her.

  “We’re about to be in college too, silly,” she says, laughing. “But anyway...we started hanging out the other night at roller rink.”

  “The rink?” I giggle. The rollerskating rink was our jam—in like, the seventh grade.

  “Shut up, yeah.” She giggles back, eyes shining. “I was babysitting for the Millers, so I brought the twins and…Marshall was there with his younger cousin. He’s back home, taking the semester off before doing a year abroad.”

  “Sounds very serendipitous.” I’m a little envious, but I’m happy for her. She’s been on and off with Greg for a while, and while he’s nice enough, I always secretly felt like she could do better. Marshall is cute, from what I remember. “Send pics when you can?”

  “I will.” She sits back in her chair, twisting her blonde hair into a topknot. “So how’s swimming going? That hottie still tutoring you?” Smirking, she crooks her fingers into air quotes.

  I arrange several Goldfish into a line on my desk. “He teaches me every other day during P.E.. And Coach Archer’s helped me after school a couple times. I’m not as scared anymore, which is good, but it’s just really hard. I feel like there’s a disconnect between my mind and my body.”

  “I was so tiny when I learned to swim. My mom took me to Swim Atlanta.” Sage smiles, remembering. “You’ll get it, Isla. I know you’re having a rough time, but once you catch on that’s it. It’s like...riding a bike.”

  “Have you been talking to Rigel?” I ask, giving her the side-eye. “Because you sound just like him with your bike analogy.”

  “Rigel is a sexy name. Kinda weird, but I dig it,” she says, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I think that was a simile, by the way.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Speaking of pics,” she says, leaning real close. “You need to send some. Of him.”

  “I can’t just snap a random shot, Sage,” I say, amused. “It’s not like that.”

  “You’re a photographer.” She shrugs. “It’s what you do.”

  Mama pops her head in. “Isla, can you set the table? Oh. Hello, Sage!”

  “Hi, Ms. Charlene,” Sage responds, waving from the screen. “How’ve you been? We miss y’all!”

  “We miss you too,” Mama says. “You’ll have to come for a visit.”

  “Already on it,” Sage says. “I’ll let you go, Isla girl; I have a bunch of reading to get through.”

  “Okay. Talk soon.”

  “Yeah yeah. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  “Can you get Alex’s shoes on?” Mama asks breathlessly, disappearing back down the hall before I can respond.

  It’s Sunday. I’d love to laze around the house and catch up on TV, but Mama’s intent on the “island tour” she’s been talking about since the day we stepped foot on St. Croix. Grandpa Harry is coming along, too. I don’t mind forced family fun, as long as Alex doesn’t start self-destructing. He’s sitting patiently now as we maneuver his feet into sandals, but after a few hours in a carseat he’s been known to go Hulk. I make a stop in his room before we leave, grabbing his backpack. It’s full of activities and books in case we get desperate.

  I also pack my Canon Rebel; this is my chance to take pictures. We’ve been on island for awhile now, and if it wasn’t for Camille, I’d know little else but the route to school. I want to see where my mother grew up, her favorite beaches and stomping grounds. I want to get to know her through the island that raised her.

  Maybe I need this for me, too. I’ve been chillin’ with one foot in St. Croix and the other back in Inman Park, living vicariously through my friends’ social media accounts. I hate knowing that everyone’s hanging out and having fun without me, that I’m missing senior year with kids I’ve known forever. I’m missing pumpkin-flavored-everything, shopping for scarves with Sage and Morgan, the way autumn sets our street on fire.

  Maybe I’m so busy missing my old life that I’m completely missing my new life, too. Palm trees that frame postcard perfect beaches, and sea water that’s as cozy as a bath. Roadside fruit stands and food trucks parked beneath the shade. New friends, new skills. Yearbook. Conquering swimming...spending time with Rigel Thomas. Thank you, P.E.

  I’m staring at his Instagram, trying to muster the courage to follow him, when the car stops. We’re in downtown Frederiksted, near the shops. Alex is already straining at his straps, fumbling with the buckle.

  “Let’s walk around a little,” says Mama.

  Jabbing at my screen, I hit follow on Rigel’s account before I can chicken out.

  “I’ll sit here,” Grandpa Harry says, pointing his cane at a bench overlooking the water. “You all take your time.”

  “You sure, Daddy?” Mama asks, squeezing his shoulder. “I just want to show them the wharf…maybe the pier.”

  “Go on ahead,” he insists, waving her off.

  “I’ll bring you a guava tart from the bakery,” she promises. “Maybe coconut.”

  “Fair enough.” He winks at me. “Watch the boy. He likes to run, eh?”

  We walk around, Alex trotting ahead on the uneven cobblestone sidewalks as Mom and I follow. There’s a lot of history in this little town, from fires and slave revolts in the 1840s to the slightly less dramatic shenanigans my mother’s crew engaged in as they ran the streets in the 1980s. She talks and talks, eyes bright as she gets lost in it.

  “And then he tried to kiss me there…right in that doorway.” She frowns as we approach, her story fading to a close. “But it was a scuba shop back then. Not a tourist trap.”

  “Mama,” I whisper, pulling her along.

  “What? It’s true.” She scoffs, catching up to Alex before he darts into the empty street. “It’s too quiet these days. Frederiksted has always been a lot sleepier than Christiansted, but this is something else.”

  According to Grandpa Harry, the economy has gone to shit. He talks about it all the time.

  “Let’s walk over to the bakery,” Mama says. We hold Alex’s hands between us, and he screeches with laughter as we swing him up in the air. “Grab a few of those tarts for the road.”

  We drive for hours. I hear more from Grandpa Harry than I’ve heard from him my whole life. He talks about his childhood, fondly reminiscing as Mom loops aro
und the island, returning west by way of the North Shore. We drive through a rainforest, several degrees cooler and overflowing with lush, green foliage of every shade. It’s the kind of place I’d love to just chill in, and I make a mental note to ask Camille if they ever go there. There are curving roads and scenic routes and little beach bars. Everything here is a photo waiting to be taken, and suddenly I can’t wait to go adventuring in my little Sentra.

  We stop at Villa Morales for an early dinner. Baked chicken and fried golden bread called johnny cakes, seasoned rice and red beans, fried kingfish and bright, fresh salad. Tostones, which are flattened, fried plantains, and baked macaroni and cheese round out the meal. It’s a total carb fest, and I’m in a food coma by the time we leave. I can’t even force down dessert, which is sad because I love flan.

  “We’ll come back for that another time,” Mama promises, rubbing her belly as we get back into the car.

  Home’s only five minutes away, but Grandpa Harry and Alex both fall asleep on the way.

  The next morning, I receive a text during homeroom. We’re not allowed to use our phones during school hours, so I wait until Mr. Miller’s distracted before peeking at mine.

  It’s Camille, of course. beach today?

  On a Monday? I guess this is how island kids do high school.

  I’ll ask my mom.

  ok. Let me know.

  Sending back a thumbs up emoji, I stash my phone before it gets confiscated.

  After school, Camille, Jasmine and I drive to the North Shore, to a beach called Davis Bay. One of the fancier 5-star resorts is located there, but the beach is public, a local favorite. We park and make our way down to the sand, where Rigel and Nando are hanging out with a couple of other boys, skim boards at their feet.

  I’ve never actually seen anyone skim board. Nando is playful—like always—but Rigel’s board is like an extension of himself. He coasts up and down the sand, the muscles in his stomach, shoulders and back flexing with his movements.

  I splash around with the girls for a bit, but when we get hit by a sneaky wave, the bottom of my skirt gets drenched and I beg out. Wringing salt water from the fabric, I return to the beach chairs we adopted and grab my camera. I take a couple of test shots, adjusting the settings until the light’s captured the way I want. It’s not quite the magic hour yet, but the colors of the day are vivid; deep blues and warm golds. Tall, skinny palm trees tower above us, some bending so low their fronds tickle the sand beneath.

  The boys are silhouettes when the sun is directly behind them, and I capture that, but their faces come into sharp relief when they change angles. Having switched into burst mode, I shoot indulgently, entertained by their shameless peacocking. Rigel looks up suddenly, and before I can stop myself I’ve taken several photos of just his face. I drop the camera to my lap, cheeks on fire as he lopes on over, droplets of water glinting off of his skin like jewels.

  “Can I see?” he asks, hand outstretched. I toss him a towel so he doesn't get the camera wet, and then I give it to him, a little nervous of how he’ll receive the shots. At first he’s impassive, but then a smile grows until it takes over his face. If Rigel is hot when he’s serious, he’s a heartbreaker when he smiles like that. I shove my hands beneath my thighs to hide the trembling.

  “These are so good, Isla,” he says, gold eyes bright as they catch the sun.

  “It’s for yearbook,” I say, trying to save face. And, I mean, it is. Sort of. “But thanks.”

  His lips curve into a tiny smile, and he cocks his head as he returns the camera. “Guess it’s easy when you have a good subject.”

  I roll my eyes, appreciative of the levity his cockiness brings. “Yeah…Nando’s pretty amazing.”

  Grinning, he roughs his hands through his hair. “These are seriously good, though. You could do sports photography for games.”

  “I’ll be at your swim meet, actually.”

  “Yeah? Maybe I could use some of the shots for my applications.”

  “For college?” I ask, surprised he finds my work that good.

  He nods, watching me closely.

  “Well, I’ll be there,” I say softly, fingering the dials atop the camera. He smiles faintly, eyes searching mine. “For yearbook.”

  Nando yells his name and he’s gone without another word, wild and free as they slash up and down the beach, laughter and shouts carried on the wind. I snap a couple more pictures, with my phone this time, and text them to Sage with a note:

  i think i’m in love.

  I’m the first one to arrive at our lunch table. Sliding onto the bench, I peek into my bag, hoping my mother remembered to toss in some of the guava tarts she picked up from town last night. I’m unwrapping my sandwich when Rigel wanders up and claims his spot across from me.

  “Hey,” he says, flashing me a quick grin before he goes to town on his sub.

  “Hey.” I follow suit, taking a more reasonable bite of my tuna-on-wheat. It occurs to me I might need to take over lunch-making duties to ensure non-stinky sandwiches in the future. I love tuna, but come on.

  “So,” Rigel says, swallowing another bite. “What’s it like in Georgia?”

  Pausing, I shake my head and stare at my sandwich. “It’s…completely different. Culturally, socially…we lived just outside downtown Atlanta, so it was densely populated. My high school had just under fifteen hundred students.”

  His eyes widen.

  “Yeah.” I laugh. “This is a change.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Every day,” I say, popping a carrot stick into my mouth. “I grew in the same town, same house, my whole life. I didn’t want to leave.” Frowning, I shrug. “I’m getting used to this, though.”

  “I’ve lived in the same house my whole life, too,” he says, nodding. “Can’t imagine being anywhere else.” He pauses. “Nah, that’s a lie. I can’t wait to get out of here for college.”

  “That’s different, though. College is when you’re supposed to go.”

  Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he leans closer. “You don’t think you were supposed to come here?”

  The table’s filling up quickly now, but it feels like we’re in a bubble.

  “I…don’t know.”

  We look at each other. I drop my eyes first, grabbing my stinky but delicious tuna sandwich.

  “You miss your friends,” he says, not questioning.

  I nod, chewing.

  “What else?”

  I glance down the table, wondering where my cousin is. “The weather. It’s fall right now, so the leaves are changing. It’s my favorite time of year.” Grabbing my phone, I scroll through the camera roll until I find a photo from last year. “This is my street.” Was my street.

  He takes the phone, nodding. “I’ve only seen that once, visiting family in Vermont.”

  “You have family in Vermont?” I never would’ve imagined. He’s an island boy, through and through.

  “My mom’s from there.”

  Nodding, I reach for my phone. He leans away though, scrolling quietly through the photos. I’m slightly terrified he’ll somehow see evidence that I like him—for the love of God, don’t open my messages—but he just goes through old pictures, pointing and asking questions. He pauses for a while on one, and I almost climb over the table to see which.

  Of course, it’s Benny and me. I look damn good in that one, with straightened hair and a cute little dress. “That your boyfriend?”

  “Was,” I half-fib. “We were never that serious.”

  “Oh no?” He holds the phone up. This one’s of Benny and me wrapped in a football blanket on the field at school. We sneaked out there a lot toward the end of summer, hanging with friends. Thinking about it makes me feel wistful, so I shove emotion aside.

  Giving Rigel what I hope is an enigmatic smile, I take the opportunity to retrieve my phone.

  He smiles back at me, eyes narrowed. I wish I could see inside his head, but I can’t, so I offer him a carrot stick ins
tead.

  “Rabbit food.” He scowls, grabbing it anyway. “So…we have a meet here this Friday. Four p.m.”

  “Okay.” I nod, typing that into my phone’s calendar. “You might want pictures, right?”

  “Right.” He chews thoughtfully, glancing back at someone who’s passing by. They bump fists. “If you want to. I know they belong to you.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “I do want to.”

  “Want to what?” Camille squeezes in beside me, uncharacteristically ruffled. I frown at her messy hair, smoothing it down for her.

  “Take pictures at the swim meet.”

  Her deep brown eyes search mine, and she smiles a little, nodding. “Oh, that’s cool. For yearbook?”

  “Yeah.” I crumple the last of my sandwich in a napkin. “And maybe his college applications.”

  Rigel stays quiet, drumming his fingers on the table. There’s a slightly awkward silence, and I glance up in time to catch the tail end of a look between him and Camille. I don’t know what that’s all about, but I pretend to ignore it. Half the time I don’t know what’s going on; these kids have a dynamic all their own, forged by years of relationships and memories and inside jokes.

  Whatever. I finish lunch quickly, eager to stop at the photo lab to drop off my used roll of film and grab a new one. I normally just go the digital route, but there’s something appealing about the old-school flavor of film. It’s satisfying to work through the process myself, from snapping a shot to unspooling the finished roll in the dark to developing prints from it. It’s magic.

  Cutting the music, I pull into our driveway. The sky is beautiful this afternoon, and I suspect it’s going to be a killer sunset. I have a ton of homework, but I just can’t bring myself to stay cooped up in my room when the afternoon is as pretty as this.

  I’ve been toying with the idea of going to the beach, even by myself.

  Especially by myself.

  “I’m home,” I yell, kicking my shoes off at the door.

  “We’re in here,” Mama calls back. She side eyes me as I join her. “You know I hate when you yell like that, Isla.”