Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Swimming Sideways

  Cantos Chronicles Book 1

  CL WALTERS

  Copyright © 2018 CL Walters

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:9781724087102

  ISBN-13: 9781724087102

  DEDICATION

  To my Mom and Dad who have always said: We know you can.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  i

  1

  The Power of Invisibility

  1

  2

  This Version of Me

  5

  3

  A School of Fish

  10

  4

  A Dimple and a Wall

  16

  5

  Freak Show

  26

  6

  Gabe

  32

  7

  Out to Sea

  40

  8

  All Shook Up

  50

  9

  Care Away

  66

  10

  Serendipity

  77

  11

  Who Are You?

  98

  12

  Dream By-Product

  109

  13

  Forgiveness

  114

  14

  Among the Junk

  130

  15

  How Easy This Is

  136

  16

  Along For the Ride

  148

  17

  The Bones of Who We Are

  158

  18

  Standing in Shifting Sand

  167

  19

  Nothing Gold Can Stay

  178

  20

  Mismatched Emotions

  191

  21

  Anger Equals Anger

  208

  22

  The Freak and the Slut

  216

  23

  Imperfections Aren’t Imperfections

  230

  24

  From Behind the Clouds

  248

  25

  Hardware

  254

  26

  Untangled

  272

  27

  Play Acting

  282

  28

  The Ugly Truth

  296

  29

  Happy Birthday, Abby

  307

  30

  Antidote

  331

  31

  Freedom

  350

  32

  Choosing Sides

  364

  33

  Letting Go

  371

  34

  The Pall of Something Unseen

  379

  35

  It’s Seth

  381

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, it must be noted that I am not Hawaiian. While I have lived in Hawaii for over twenty years, am married to a Native Hawaiian, have Native Hawaiian children and teach at a Native Hawaiian school, I will never be gifted with the unique beauty of Native Hawaiian ethnicity and perspective. This is very important. My daughter said, “Mom, it matters who tells Hawaiian stories because their stories have been stolen and washed of authentic Hawaiian perspective. It is Hawaiians who need to tell their stories.” So this protagonist viewpoint is suspect right way. You must ask yourself while reading: Would a Hawaiian really think this way? Then do everything you can to discover that.

  Please know that my hope was never to appropriate a version of Hawaiian ethnicity to sell a story. When I look at my Native Hawaiian children, I wish there were stories for them. When I listen to my Native Hawaiian students, I wish I had contemporary stories for them to study. I think it is only a matter of time as I watch strong and creative Hawaiians venture into the world. This protagonist, Abby, was born in a love for a culture and a hope to inspire my students to write their stories. The cultural elements in Swimming Sideways have been gleaned from conversations with Native Hawaiians like my husband, my children, my friends, and my colleagues and lessons I’ve been given in Native Hawaiian Culture. I drew from the language, my limited understanding of Hawaiian Literature, and Hawaiian mythology to develop the way in which a character like Abby may have returned to her cultural roots to understand herself. A glossary has been provided to identify these elements.

  A book is never written in isolation. While it may begin there, in the end, there are so many eyes that have rescued it from the author. I thank the many people who provided me perspective specifically those who are Native Hawaiian who asked me the tough questions to keep me honest. I probably still got it wrong, but for your support and honesty, I am completely grateful! Any mistakes are mine to own.

  1

  WISHING FOR THE AWESOME POWER OF INVISIBILITY

  Good Abby has the job of keeping Bad Abby in place on her first day at a new school. I’m hopeful that Bad Abby will stay in her cage, though at times, keeping her caged is more work than it is worth. It is important, however, and Good Abby knows this more than anyone. This is a chance to start fresh. When the teacher says my name, “Abby Kaiāulu?” I cringe, wishing I could throw that in the cage too. My Hawaiian name doesn’t allow for anonymity and that is a rule of Good Abby: remain anonymous.

  “Here,” I say. I’ve chosen a tone that communicates indifference. Not too loud to express exuberance, but not too quiet to raise any flags of social concern. Instead, an even tone to express, maybe, boredom but without an edge should be neutral enough to be forgettable.

  Another rule by Good Abby: Don’t draw attention to yourself.

  The teacher looks at me. She’s cute with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of an upturned nose. Her white skin is dotted with freckles and auburn hair cut short and fluffy around her face. “Did I pronounce your last name correctly?” She smiles. Classic teacher move: disarm with a smile.

  I nod - even though she’s butchered my name - in an effort to steer the center-stage light onto the whatever is waiting for us in US history. While being at a new school is actually a positive thing, Good Abby knows how important it is to make a good first impression. It is imperative to hide the truth of what I did, to keep what happened at my last school from happening here too.

  Next rule authored by Good Abby: Stay under the radar.

  Freckle-nose teacher says, “Would you say it please?”

  I sigh. “Abby Kaw-ee-aaawww-oo-loo."

  Teacher makes a note on her clipboard.

  I return to doodling waves in the margin of my clean notebook wishing I was in the waves at Makaha with perfect sets of four to six faces rolling in on a clear and calm, sunny day. I imagine the azure water stretching toward the horizon, the kai wrapped around my body like a hug. There is no need to be sitting inside a school room for lessons about US History.

  But pixie-teacher isn’t thinking about waves at Makaha Beach like I am when she says, “Such a pretty name, Abby. What is the ethnicity? It’s so unique.”

  I blink and force myself not to roll my eyes, keeping Bad Abby in check. Every pair of eyes in the room, at least twenty of them, are now on me at this third, pointed question. I sink a little lower in my desk chair and answer her, “It’s Hawaiian.”

  “Hawaiian. Wow!” Her eyes grow to nearly the same circumference as her glasses, and her smile is extra bright. “I want to travel to Hawaii,” she adds. Bad Abby offers the following snide observation: you and a majority of the rest of the world. Good Abby is able to keep Bad Abby’s snarky comment internal, however, and focuses on
Tinker Bell teacher’s words. “We’ll study the overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy later this year, the imprisonment of the Queen, and the annexation,” she says. Guilt bubbles up a little at Bad Abby’s ill-manners, and I wonder if Perky Teacher will teach that annexation was illegal? If so, then Bad Abby’s chagrin would be justified. “Welcome to Cantos, Abby,” Good Fairy Teacher finishes.

  I force a slight smile to acknowledge her comments, but not too flashy. I don’t want to encourage this interrogation any further.

  Even though the teacher finally moves on to today’s lesson about using Cornell Notes for the lecture, I can still feel the eyes of the other students in the class boring into me, trying to mine me for secrets. Everyone else has had nearly two weeks to acclimate to the school year, and for many of them a lifetime of knowing one another. It’s my first day as a junior at Cantos High School. Right now, I’m wishing that CHS stood for Camouflage High School, a place where I can blend into everything around me due to my awesome power of invisibility.

  2

  THIS VERSION OF ME

  I escape into the first bathroom I find. Water on my face feels good. Don’t cry, Good Abby coaxes. Don’t you dare cry! There’s no reason too. This is a good thing!

  I take a breath to send oxygen to my tear ducts, to dry the threatening tears. I imagine sitting atop my surfboard rolling with a swell, the ocean a home of comfort. I miss it even if I don’t deserve it. In my mind’s eye I see Poppa: his dark Hawaiian skin, a deep golden brown, his wet silver-black hair sparkling in the sun. He lays down on the board, hands in the water, paddling as another wave rises behind us. With a look back at me, his gleaming white teeth showing with his smile, he calls, “Come on, Tita!” Then he’s standing on his board, gliding away from me through the water.

  Not that memory, Bad Abby scolds. That one’s sure to start the water works.

  I haven’t surfed since Poppa died.

  A glance in the mirror and I see the ocean in my eyes threatening to fall. I can never go back there. Poppa is gone. I’m ruined.

  No one here knows, Good Abby reassures. We’ll keep it that way.

  Cantos is my new home like it or not. The new chance.

  I stare at my face in the mirror and feel the self-induced insults:

  You’re so stupid.

  Why did you have to ruin everything?

  Everybody at home knows what you did.

  While I’m present, standing in this high school bathroom with my reflection staring back at me, my mind travels a million miles away. I’m on a cyber superhighway logged onto a Twitter of my memory. My shame waits there for anyone to search. All anyone has to enter is the right key words, or the correct hashtag to ruin my life here too. Forever waiting.

  A gaggle of girls enters the bathroom giggling. They see me and stop. They are blond and beautiful, such an exotic contrast to the monotony of my brownness: skin, hair, eyes - all of me. I look away from them down at the sink and hide the tears that have slipped from my eyes. The group’s conversation resumes though in quieter tones.

  Good Abby rule: Avoid eye contact.

  I’m successfully ignored. I wipe my eyes. Bad Abby thinks a smart-ass remark wanting them to feel as bad as their dismissal of me does: basic, haole bitches. Good Abby bites her tongue.

  Another Good Abby rule: Don’t speak unless spoken to.

  I slink out of the room, head down, and run right into somebody walking through the hallway. Ass on the floor and Good Abby can’t contain the bad one any longer: “What the hell!” I snap. “Watch where you’re going!” I look up at the culprit. The anger catches in my throat. I’ve bumped into a boy the size of a wall.

  “I could say the same thing about you,” he replies. His voice has the lure of the ocean surf in the distance, a gentle and relaxing rumble. His bright blue eyes are the Hawaii Pacific Ocean, intensely bright set in the golden glow of his bronze skin. His black hair is longish, curly, hanging over his sharp features though his lips are soft and full. He holds out a hand, the sinew of his muscles hinted in the exposure of the brown skin at his wrist.

  He helps me up.

  Someone in the hall passes and jostles him with a shoulder. The Wall loses his balance and knocks against me as I stand, but I don’t fall a second time. His arm wraps around me and keeps me from falling to the floor again. We’re so close that I smell the clean scent of him like soap and a hint of something spicy. My hand still in his, an arm around his solid and unforgiving shoulders, electricity winds up my arm straight to my heart that flutters with the current.

  “Freak,” a passing voice in the hallway says.

  I pull away regretting the loss of the connection, but unwilling to go back to the social dump. Been there. Done that. This is me starting over.

  Good Abby rule: Selectively choose your friends.

  The Wall looks at me. His eyes have narrowed, the color now flinty, and the energy I thought I felt retreats somewhere safe. I notice the knowing look on his face, and it is a knife in my gut. His jaw tightens. He recognizes this current version of me all too well. I identify his awareness because I was him, after all, the one they called names. It may have not been freak, but slut or whore did the same kind of damage. And I knew a version of this new me too, and it makes me feel ashamed.

  “Sorry,” he mutters and pulls his black hood over his head as he walks away.

  Good Abby coaxes the bad one not to look back, not to watch him walk away. Bad Abby wants more than anything to turn around, say she’s sorry and let him know she’s been there. But she listens to Good Abby and goes to her next class. I walk away wondering which one is good Abby and which one is bad?

  3

  A SCHOOL OF FISH

  Good Abby rule: Find a school of fish in which to hide.

  I might as well be a lone fish beyond the reef alone in the lunchroom. It is only a matter of time before the sharks circle and tear me to shreds. I spot an empty table across the room next to the tall windows. Lots of light. No one to my back. Safety.

  “Hey sis,” my brother, Nate, says as he plops down across from me after I’ve taken a seat.

  Relief fills me and I breathe deeply to refill my strength with the comfort of home.

  Nate’s a younger, male version of me, and handsome at fourteen. The creamy white of our mother’s ethnicity sharpens his soft Hawaiian edges, kisses his smooth brown skin with a tiny smattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks, and softens his dark hair into brown waves with golden streaks. His eyes are dark brown like our dad, rounded until they droop to points on the outside, turning up with his smile. In that moment, great pride for my brother whirlpools through me, but also such horrific loss of home.

  I don’t allow myself to visit with that loss for very long, however. If I thought about what I’ve left behind - my home, the sea, the language, the land, my poppa - I might never be able to catch my breath. I’d also never be able to start over and try to forget the shame I’m trying to hide. Besides, what has home given me but heartache? I’m an explorer now, searching out what’s new, and better, so I can hide, lick my wounds, and heal.

  “Where’s Mattie?” I ask scanning the room for the identical twin. They aren’t usually very far apart.

  “There,” he says, turns his head, and points with the direction of his look.

  I follow his gaze and find Matt across the room holding court with other boys his age. They laugh at something he's said.

  I smile, encouraged that my brothers are finding a place. “It looks like he’s made friends already. You too?” I ask.

  “You know it, Sis. Who can resist my good looks and charm?”

  I give him a playful backhand against his arm.

  “It helps to join sports, you know.”

  “Yeah. Too bad I only got the surfing genes,” I say. “Good classes?”

  “Eh. School." His lip comes up at the edge with distaste, but I know he doesn’t mean it, the smartest of all of us.

  As much as I hate to do it, I say, “
You better go over there with him.”

  “And leave you?”

  “Look, Freshman. First of all, it isn’t cool for an upperclassman to hang with an underling. Second, it’s really important to find your pack.”

  Nate, the caretaker, just looks at me as he takes a bite of his lunch. He looks around at the empty table, “I see you’re doing a pretty good job of that,” he says around the food in his mouth.

  “Not with you here. I’ll be fine. I promise." I pull a book from my backpack and hold it up as proof.

  He shakes his head. “Okay. Whatever you say, Ab." He goes because he knows he doesn’t have much of a choice. I always get my way when it comes to my younger brothers.

  I watch him walk away and regret that I let him go. It would be safer to have him with me. He joins Matt. I watch the twins speak and Matt looks toward me. I give him a head nod and he nods back.

  I look down at the opened book and reread the same line unable to concentrate on the text. My mind wanders, thinking about my brothers, this move to Oregon, my poppa, and my parents. I miss Poppa like a missing limb. My father hasn’t been the same since Poppa died either. Poppa was a binding between us, between a culture lost and which we seem to be floating to find. He used to say, “Tita, don’t look to the world to fill your na’au. The world offers you emptiness, and you’ll only be ono for more, like your makuakane.” I didn’t understand, and maybe still struggle to grasp his meaning, but reflecting on my dad and what’s happening now there’s more to this move than just “starting over.” Logically, I know we didn’t make this move because of the storm I’d been facing at school; my family didn’t know what happened. While the timing was fortuitous for me, there’s more to this mo’olelo than we’ve been told. My parents are seeking tethers. Oregon is one for my mom. They think we don’t notice the strain showing between them.