Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles Book 1) Page 2

  “Hi.”

  A sweet, lilting voice breaks my wandering thoughts. I look to my right at a cherub-faced girl smiling at me. Her hair, blond and spiral curly frame her round face. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes blue and I wonder if she’s an anime character come to life.

  “I’m Hannah.” She sits down next to me. “We have history together, with Ms. Rowan.”

  I don’t remember since I was more consumed with staying out of the spotlight. “Abby.”

  “Right. With the Hawaiian name.” She slides over and opens her lunch bag. “Does your name have a special meaning?" She pulls out a tin and sets in on the table in front of her

  “It is a name for a gentle trade-wind breeze on the Leeward coast of Oahu,” I tell her and think about adding the famous song about my Waianae home, but realize she wouldn’t understand.

  “Oh, I like that. My name is so dull. Fleming.” She opens the tin to reveal a sandwich with seeds all over the bread. “Sounds like that stuff in your throat when you’re sick, phlegm. Means something like ‘from Belgium,’” she uses her hands to make air quotations. “I guess maybe that means my ancestors are from Belgium. I don’t know though. It really seems like my family has been in Cantos since the beginning of time." She stops.

  I breathe for her.

  “I hope you’re having a good first day.” She continues talking about Cantos High School and the ins and outs.

  I listen, since it doesn’t seem that I need to talk, and good Abby likes that. Hannah appears nice, but like a victim with post-traumatic stress disorder, I’m waiting for the mean words or the backhanded insult. Good Abby reminds me that no one here knows. Bad Abby says, yet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. This is my issue - I don’t stop talking. You have to interrupt me or I’ll just keep going, filling the silence.” She giggles. “Let me introduce you to some of my friends.” She turns to the group who are sitting at the opposite end of the same table and waves them over.

  She goes through their names, but I’m not sure that I will remember them later it happens so fast. There are a couple of boys and some girls. One girl, who Hannah includes because she seems to have just been in the vicinity, looks a bit put out by Hannah’s introduction of me. Her name is Sara and though she’s really pretty with her porcelain doll good looks, I’m reminded of the flighty look of a niuhi, a tiger shark. When I notice the eye flickering Morse code between others at the table when Hannah introduces her, I think my instincts might be right. Good and Bad Abby both say: One to stay away from.

  At least for now, for today, I’ve found a school of fish. I look at Nate and catch his eye. He smiles at me.

  4

  A DIMPLE AND A WALL

  Good Abby has done a thorough job of keeping Bad Abby in place during English class and maintains control when it's time to move on to the last period of the day. When I get to the art room, most of the chairs behind tables arranged into the shape of a giant horseshoe are filled. I sit in one that is insulated on either side by an empty chair.

  Once I’m seated, a boy entering the room catches my attention. He assesses the scene of the space. His countenance assured and confident; a fist bump with another student near the door confirms he's part of the pack. His gaze connects with mine and a charge buzzes the bottom of my spine, but his look bounces away to talk to the fist-bump guy.

  I can’t help but watch him, his demeanor enigmatic but magnetic. He has got this enchanting, dimpled smile that lures me. It is the perfect complement to his otherwise proportional features: his jaw strong, his lips full, but not feminine, and his nose slightly crooked as though it was broken once adding character to his otherwise perfect face. He's lean and lithe; tall. I’m reminded of the surfers at home shaped by the water like hands that shape their surfboards. Locks of wavy, light brown hair with sunny highlights fall effortless against his forehead, relaxed.

  I look away when he starts across the room toward me, chagrined to have been caught staring at him, and convinced that he probably gets stared at a lot. Good Abby isn’t happy with the staring, but then, he seems to be a part of the right crowd which reassures her. Bad Abby, on the other hand, is interested and that is dangerous. We know where that leads.

  He takes one of the empty seats next to me, and glances my way, offering that easy smile. His eyes - brown with flecks of gold - twinkle, almost like he’s got a secret and it bothers me that I can feel that look as concretely as if he touched my skin. I also don’t like that it works, that practiced art of charm. I’m reminded of Kanoa and feel shame reach up with gnarled fingers to squeeze my throat.

  With a deep breath, I turn my attention to something innocuous and reach into my backpack for a pencil. I notice that Adorable Dimple leans back against his chair, one leg stretched out, the other knee jutting out to the side. Someone on his left says something. He laughs. Familiarity brushes my consciousness with watercolor strokes. I have the urge to hug him and ask him how he’s been, but check the impulse, horrified. My cheeks heat thinking of how embarrassing that would be. Switching gears, I adjust my bag, straighten in my chair dismissing the strange whim.

  The second bell rings just as another student steps into the room. The Wall I bumped into earlier! A glance around the room, I realize that he’ll have to sit next to me since all of the other chairs are taken. I feel a rush of unease. I’d been awful the moment someone had shown him disdain and feel ashamed of myself. But what could I do differently? There was so much riding on this new start. I couldn’t go backward.

  He walks around the border of the desk arrangement toward the chair next to me. His lips, the bottom just slightly fuller than the top, nears the edge of a frown but seems to want to communicate apathy. His eyes study the floor as he walks. He swipes a hand over his forehead pushing back his dark hair, the edges of it curling over the olive skin of his hand, and removes the hoodie. His hair springs back around his face in dark curls. When he glances up a moment, his look collides with mine and I’m struck again by the depth of his blue eyes, how startling they are in contrast to the weighted countenance of everything else about him.

  I look away quickly, hoping he didn’t notice I’ve been watching him. There’s a curious effervescence of movement in my cells. A shiver - not unpleasant - steals across my skin while the chair legs of the seat next to me scrape against the linoleum floor. The Wall sits, crossing his arms over his chest. I steal another glance, but he isn’t looking. His profile is rigid and emanates the suffering artist. I’m so curious and Good Abby says, cut that shit out. Bad Abby says nothing but wants to keep staring at him.

  The teacher’s voice catches my attention, but barely. I draw my look away from The Wall and focus on the teacher in the middle of the horseshoe.

  “Welcome back arteests,” he says. “Let’s take a bit of time this afternoon to continue getting to know one another. Names again. And this time,” he pauses for effect, “a little-known fact about you. I’ll model: Mr. Mike Andrews. Again, please call me Mr. Mike. Let’s see. Ah. I got it: I play the guitar in a garage band, and I don't mean the video game kind.”

  A few in the class laugh. “Mr. Mike. No one plays that game anymore. It’s ancient.”

  The teacher grins which makes me smile. “Laugh all you want about my ancient wisdom. One day soon you’ll join me in the non-video game garage band ranks. Let’s start with you, Kara.” He holds a hand out toward the petite girl at the edge of the horseshoe.

  One by one, the students share their names and a fact. I can feel my palms sweating, anticipating the moment I have to share something about myself. The words others say are incoherent. Are they speaking English? I’m running through possible things to contribute - something safe. There isn’t anything that I want to divulge. Whatever it is, the fact has to be innocuous so it isn't memorable. How could I know that one day this "fun fact" wouldn't be used against me?

  In the time it has taken my gut to work itself into a writhing coil of sea snakes, the boy to my left is speaking. “I’m stil
l Seth Peters,” he says, “and my fun fact is that I surf.”

  “That isn’t ‘little known,’” the fist-bump boy says.

  “That’s ‘cause I’m an open book, Ball,” Seth says and smiles. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  That dimple again.

  The Wall makes a noise, a whooshing of air from his mouth as though he were going to say “shit,” but stops himself.

  I wonder about it but then zero in on Dimple’s name: Seth. That name adds to the watercolor painting in my mind that his face started. My subconscious analyzes the information for something with which I’m familiar. Seth. Seth. Seth Peters. It begins to coalesce into a tangible, recognizable work. I once knew a Seth Peters. I look at him directly. Could it be the same one? I want to ask him about it, but realize that it is silent, and all eyes are on me, waiting for me to share.

  Mr. Mike gives me a cue, “next.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Abby Kaiāulu,” I pause embarrassed and flustered and add, “I just moved here from Hawaii." It seems safe enough.

  “Nice to meet you, Abby. Thank you,” Mr. Mike says.

  I look to my right at the Wall.

  “Gabe Daniels.”

  A random voice blurts, “Freak,” just loud enough so that the class collectively stifles laughter.

  Mr. Mike clears this throat, and telegraphs a disheartened gaze around the class. “Mutual respect is a non-negotiable,” he says. “And your fun fact, Gabe?" Mr. Mike encourages him to share.

  “I like sports.”

  “Boxing especially,” someone mutters clear enough for the rest of the class to hear. Snickers, eye rolling, and elbow jabbing make a wave around the room, all a reaction to the comment.

  I glance at Gabe and his jaw tenses. I see the muscle work, bunching up slightly as he presses his teeth together. He removes his hands from the table top, shoves them into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and then slips a bit further down into his seat.

  “Enough,” Mr. Mike says, the ease of his smile and easy-going nature gone. “Any more comments gets you sent out of this class and into cleaning the room just through that door,” he points to an open doorway beyond his desk, “where all of our dirty paint brushes, old clay buckets, cutters, palettes among other art supplies are waiting for volunteers to clean them. Is this non-negotiable clear?” Mr. Mike pauses, the look on his face drawn by gravity toward the floor.

  I wish I’d had a Mr. Mike last year, and then think about Kumu Ike in whose room I’d often hidden away during free periods. I suppose I had in a different way, but no one had stood up for me like Mr. Mike just did.

  Mr. Mike looks at Gabe and says, “Thank you, Gabe. Next.”

  I take that moment to look at Gabe again as the name game works its way around the horseshoe. I’m confused as to why he would he cause such a reaction. His exceptional looks and imposing stature should have commanded premier social standing. It didn't make sense. What could he have possibly done to be the social outcast? Though he leans back in his chair, his long legs out in front of him, and his arms crossed over his chest staring straight ahead, I see that he isn’t as indifferent to his classmates’ reactions as he wants to appear. Something we have in common.

  In the next instant I realize that I’m staring into his disconcerting eyes. One of his eyebrow’s arches in question of my perusal. Mortified, I look away at my notebook where I can doodle away my shame. It’s then that I see a note has been scrawled in the margin:

  Abby? Really from Hawaii?

  I write back:

  Yes.

  Seth, the boy who I think I know, reaches over my left arm to respond. His warm skin brushes against mine as he writes.

  Did you used to come to Cantos during the summertime? Spend time with your Grandma Bev?

  A smile blossom grows on my face and tension in my shoulders dissipates like steam. I write:

  YES! You're Seth? Grandma Bev’s next-door neighbor, Seth?

  I look at him and he smiles, that dimple again. I remember: all those summers spent at Grandma Bev’s before she’d moved to Arizona. Seth, the little boy who’d lived in the house next door. Seth, my first crush!

  I smile at him, a real smile. For the first time all day, it’s a smile I don’t feel like I have to measure against one of Abby’s rules.

  “I can’t believe it,” he says with a shake of his head when Mr. Mike sets us free to look at art books for inspiration.

  “I can’t remember the last time-” I turn the page of a Van Gogh coffee table book. When I look up, Seth is watching me.

  “Six summers,” he says.

  Something peculiar happens in my stomach when he says it. A sense of déjà vu. A moment that seems to hint that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. A feeling that announces to my heart that of everyone I have interacted with today, this person is safe. But how can I know that? I barely know him and the last time I did, I was ten. A lot can change in six years. I should know.

  “That’s right,” I say turning the pages of the tome. “Grandma Bev moved to Arizona six years ago.”

  Seth looks at an equally large book about Rembrandt. “I was sad when that happened,” he says flipping the page. He keeps his eyes on the book, leaning forward to scrutinize one of the pictures more closely. It’s a painting of a man who’s holding his son down, an angel grasping the man’s arm and a knife falling from the man’s hand. I glance at the title, The Sacrifice of Isaac, and shiver. “Nana Bev was an awesome lady,” Seth says and then sits back up.

  I nod and smile thinking about my Nana traipsing around the world and snow birding in Arizona. “She is. She’s the world traveler now,” I tell him and talk about what Nana Bev’s been up to.

  Eventually he asks, “Do you surf?” He looks at me then, his smile a little different this time, not so bright and practiced. It’s as if those edges have softened and something less tangible but more real emerges. A slight variation, but I notice it.

  “I do; surfing was born in Hawaii you know.” I glance at Gabe who's flipping through a volume about Dali. He looks up at me. His attention darts from me to Seth, and then he looks away back at his art book. He looks bored.

  “I love this one,” I say and point at one of the Van Gogh paintings. Seth leans toward me and our shoulders graze. My muscle memory kicks into gear, and my nerve endings spark at our touch.

  Don't get caught up, Abby, Good Abby warns. That's how we got into trouble last time.

  Seth leans over his book to mine and follows me on my journey through Van Gogh land. We laugh at a skull smoking a cigarette.

  5

  FREAK SHOW

  “What do you think of the Oregon Coast now that you’ve come back?” Seth asks as he walks me out to my car after class. We cross the driveway to the parking lot. I notice the glances that we're drawing but focus on Seth instead.

  Good Abby chastises me for ignoring the attention we’re getting: This is dangerous. Remember the rules, Abby. Don’t draw attention.

  He’s well-liked based on other’s reaction to him, I think.

  So was Kanoa, Bad Abby reminds me.

  I ignore Good and Bad Abbies and smile when I answer him. “I actually haven’t made a trip to the beach yet.”

  “What? I can take you out if you want. You know, to surf.”

  I ignore the warmth that steals my indifference like a burglar. “I don’t have a wet suit,” I say. “But thanks.”

  “Right. Hawaii doesn’t require the heater.”

  “What took you so long, Naggy?" My brother, Matt, calls to me. He’s leaning against Brutus, the beat-up 1965 Mustang my dad bought me on the condition I drive my brothers to and from school. “We won’t have much time before practice if we don’t go soon!” He glances from me to Seth and his demeanor changes. He stands up straighter and seems to want to make a good impression. “Hey, Seth."

  “Matt,” Seth says and then glances at me as if he’s suddenly realizes something.

  “You know, Matt?” I ask.

&n
bsp; “Soccer. I didn’t make the connection. Stupid really."

  “That’s Nate,” I say referring to the other twin who is leaning against the opposite side of the car, his arms resting on the roof, staring at his cell phone.

  They do that strange head nod ritual seen among young adult males of the species.

  Seth says, "Man, I remember ditching you two-” but he's interrupted by a chorused yell several yards away, “Fight!”

  My brothers, like the Myna birds from home, take off in that direction and join the mob that surrounds the gladiators. I call after them to no avail and follow with Seth.

  The crowd, a sea of bodies, circles and obscures the combatants. From the back of the shifting crowd, I’m unable to make out the fighters’ faces. A chant from the onlookers begins, “Freak. Freak,” adding to the already volatile situation. It makes me nauseous, and while I could blame it on the fighting, I think it might be because I subconsciously know already. How many times had I heard that reference today?

  “Looks like they didn't waste any time,” Seth states.

  “What do you mean?” I have to yell over the crowd chanting: “Freak! Freak! Freak!”

  Before he can explain what he means, the skinny boy, the instigator if his foul mouth and trash talking are any indication, draws first blood with a cheap shot. The hit takes the other fighter off-guard. His head snaps back with the force of the punch and then rocks forward. Blood gushes from his nose. Instead of retaliating though, which I expect, the fighter steps back and away from the smaller opponent, turns and pushes through the crowd.

  The crowd continues to chant. “Freak! Freak!”

  I strain to see his face, hoping that it isn’t who I suspect it is. Suddenly, he is there and I’m looking into the bloodied face of Gabe. He doesn’t see us, just stalks through the onlookers with intention to remove himself. Confusion strikes me as I look around. The crowd, having taken sides with the smaller brawler, is cajoling and booing their disgust at Gabe, following him and jostling us in the process. There was no way that he wouldn't have been able to take the smaller boy still bouncing around the parking lot. Why didn't Gabe defend himself? Even at its worst, I never faced the vitriol that he just endured. I feel his pain in my bones, the hatred and the hurt. Why didn’t he fight back?