Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles Book 1) Page 5

  “We were,” Seth finally says. “From fifth grade. And then he did something to fuck it up.” His anger is distinct in his razor-sharp tone. Clearly, he hasn’t gotten over whatever happened whatever it is. He pulls the truck over to the curb outside of my house and parks it. “And you’re right, I do know what happened to him, and I promised to never tell. So, I’ll keep that promise even if he was in the wrong.”

  Bad Abby continues unfiltered, “So you lie instead?”

  Dammit! Good Abby snaps at the bad one. Cool it!

  “I’m not proud of it, but well,” he pauses, “you can never really know someone.”

  I don’t know what to tell him, so I say, “I guess so.” Disappoint weaves a tapestry around me, but I know that I’m not without fault. I’m not better than him. What right do I have to judge him? I do understand the punishment experienced by Gabe, however. The censure, the ostracism, the acute hurt. The very thing I’d suffered and then did to Gabe too.

  I study Seth who’s staring out the windshield of the truck, his hand draped over the wheel. His jaw is tense, and his mouth thinned out with tension. Could I trust Seth with my own insecurity, with my secrets? Had I misjudged him the whole time?

  The strain stretches like a rubber band. Seth sighs and it loosens. He shuts off the truck. “You are right," he says and looks at me. “I shouldn’t add to the madness. I’ll try to be more forgiving of him."

  I take a deep breath. “I think that is all any of us can do,” I say and sit for a moment longer wishing I could go back to when it was simple. I suppose, though, this is real life. Seeing people with their flaws and accepting them anyway. Who am I if I can’t extend that forgiveness? “Want walk me to the door?”

  He smiles, the dimple back, and gets out the truck, meeting me on the sidewalk. We meander up the sidewalk to the porch steps.

  “I had a nice time,” I say. When we reach the door, I turn to him and add, “Thank you.”

  “Me too,” he says. “I’m sorry about earlier though.”

  I smile and hope it’s reassuring. “Yeah. No worries. Me too. Who can’t get caught up, right?”

  An awkward uncertainty of what’s been, what is and what’s coming settles around us. “Well,” I say.

  He takes a step toward me.

  I sense the hope there between us, the gravitational pull of souls. It has always been there since we were children playing hide and seek and finding solace in our companionship. Tonight hinted of a promise that could be there waiting at the end of the rainbow, but a barrier has been built in the span of a second. I can’t help but feel like it is my fault for my absent-minded wave. But then again, I wouldn’t have seen this side to Seth if I hadn’t mindlessly waved at Gabe.

  “Goodnight, Seth.” I wrap my arms around him and hug him. He freezes a moment, as though the hug isn’t what he’d been expecting, but then answers in kind. He wraps his arms around me and I have the distinct impression that everything will be okay even if they are complicated.

  “So, P-town next? A new movie this time.” Seth draws away.

  “Sounds good,” I say but know that it is a statistical impossibility.

  “Let’s plan for next Friday,” he says taking a step down the porch stairs. “See you Monday."

  “Yes. Monday,” I reply. I watch him until the red taillights of the truck disappear from view.

  9

  CARE AWAY

  Hannah’s story about Gabe coupled with what happened on my excursion with Seth has ignited my curiosity further. Good Abby is indignant. I suppose my increased interest is because I’ve lived it, and I’m not convinced that he doesn’t want friends as Hannah purported. Late to lunch, I walk up the ramp from the locker room and see Gabe walk passed through the quad. The black hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head; he hasn't seen me. Faced with a choice of heading the opposite direction to the cafeteria for lunch, or following Gabe to see where he's going, inquisitiveness wins out and I follow.

  What are you doing? Good Abby thinks.

  Around the corner and down the hallway, he goes through a side door exiting the building. I hurry through before it closes, afraid he'll hear me and then attempt to conceal myself behind a tree in case he turns around.

  This is crazy and stupid. If you get caught what are you going to say? Good Abby warns.

  Bad Abby and I ignore good Abby’s warning. Curiosity - the driver - compels me to continue following. Last year, I’d spent a lot of my time in the art room. Kumu Ike had provided a safe place to hole up and just exist, no questions asked. When I look at Gabe, I see myself. The surface reason for my curiosity is because I can relate. If I look deeper, though, it might be because of my guilt for rejecting him, or because I’m looking for redemption, but I refuse to look any deeper.

  Gabe disappears around the corner at the back of the school. My steps falter, and I stop. What if he knows I’m following him? You can turn back now, good Abby suggests. But for some inexplicable reason, I can’t stop. When I muster up my courage, I take a step and then another until I’m at the corner of the building. I take a quick peak around the edge.

  He’s twenty yards across the asphalt walking toward a heap of industrial wreckage. Once there, he situates himself on the hood of an old beater car where he eats his lunch and looks at his phone.

  My heart sputters inside my chest, and the weight of it hurts, the byproduct of that constricting my throat and stinging my eyes with tears. I lean back against the building out of sight. That isolation as I remember it makes my breath come out in gasps, like a self-imposed prison.

  You could go and say “hi,” bad Abby suggests.

  What for? Good Abby says. He chooses to eat his lunch alone, out there.

  We did too. Remember? Bad Abby says. But it wasn’t because we wanted too.

  What if he wants to? Good Abby asks. Are we willing to risk everything, our own social standing, which is tenuous at best, to say “hi”?

  I slink away, tears in my eyes, but too much a coward to do anything about it. Instead of going to lunch, I stop at my locker and skip eating because I’ve lost my appetite.

  Later in English, though, Hannah grills me about where I was at lunch. Okay, interrogates might be a better verb to use in this case, and I’m thankful we sit in a small group going over a webquest that Mr. Bilson, our English teacher, has prepared about Fitzgerald and The Great Gatsby’s narrator, Nick Carraway. It is difficult to focus on the activity, however, due to the incessant questions and commentary coming from Hannah. Concentrating on the task at hand is like trying to collect water with a sieve, impossible.

  “Tell me everything again,” she whispers. “You ate lunch at your locker?”

  “What is this? The inquisition? Yeah. I was late from changing after PE." I obviously don’t tell her I’d followed Gabe since good Abby is in charge of that minefield. Bad Abby, though is relatively quiet on the subject as well since she isn’t ready to trust anyone yet.

  “Excuse me. We’re talking about Gatsby,” Rachel our high-strung group leader says; she’s been trying to keep us on task. She wraps a lock of her blond hair around a finger and taps the top of her desk with her pen.

  “Is it a movie?” Darnell continues doodling X's and O's of a football play on his handout. This has been the most he’s contributed thus far.

  Hannah interrupts and whispers to me, “You-know-who came looking for you, though. You missed him.” I know she’s referring to Seth and keeps his name on the down-low.

  Rachel sighs loudly. “Gatsby.”

  Hannah continues, “I can’t remember the last time that particular individual talked to us during lunch. You sure about the ‘just friends’ thing?" She asks. She looks concerned. “You did go out on a date.”

  I couldn’t argue that point.

  “The handout says that we should be looking up ‘The Roaring Twenties,’” Patrick, our note-taker and Rachel-ally says. It’s clear to me that he wants her to notice him.

  “Friends,” I
mouth to Hannah and turn my attention to the handout. Garnering the consideration of the most popular boy in school has a trickle-down effect. The ripple in the social structure of the school draws up impurities both shiny gold and sedimentary dirt. The biggest problem is the dirt to cloud the water: the jealous, the social climbers, specifically. These aren’t just any people about whom we sport gossip. It’s Seth. My friend. And it’s me. I don’t want that kind of attention, but I suddenly feel as though I’m on a roller coaster that’s come over the crest and is headed downhill garnering speed.

  Darnell sits forward. “I know something. The 1920’s were when people first started doing it cars.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down.

  Mr. Bilson, who’s been wandering around the classroom, stops to observe us. “Ah, Mr. Jackson,” he says with a good-natured smile. I like him. “That is an excellent fact. Is there a reason you say ‘it’ instead of ‘sex’?

  “Mr. B. I was trying to keep it PG because I was going to say Fu-”

  “Fun! Okay, Darnell. I got it,” he chuckles. “I appreciate the self-censorship. So how might this fun fact of yours connect to the ideas presented by Nick Carraway in the first chapter?”

  Hannah looks at me with big eyes and raised eyebrows curiosity fumes exuding from her like a cloud.

  “Like Nick’s visit to his cousin Daisy and Tom?” Rachel asks.

  Mr. Bilson nods. “Okay. Keep following that thought. How so?”

  “How does that connect to sex in cars?” Darnell asks.

  “Did you even read it?” Patrick asks Darnell.

  “What the -” Darnell says suddenly angry. “What? Football players can’t read?"

  Mr. Bilson puts a hand on Darnell’s shoulder.

  Patrick has the decency to look abashed, his eyes dropping to the handout on his desk.

  Rachel ignores the exchange and continues to Mr. Bilson. “I don’t know exactly. It’s like there’s this edge of frivolousness. Like when Tom answers that call from his mistress, Daisy stops talking at the dinner table and leaves and, that other woman-”

  “Jordan Baker,” Darnell provides and looks at Patrick, still pissed.

  “Yes. It’s like Jordan just wants to be entertained by the drama in their marriage. Like it’s entertaining that Tom has a mistress, Daisy is dealing with this emotional abuse, and no one cares,” Rachel finishes.

  “I think you’ve worked out a great connection, Rachel. Thanks for that help, Darnell. How about the narrator: Nick Carroway?" Mr. Bilson asks.

  “Well his name says it all, right.” I say.

  “How so?” Mr. Bilson asks.

  “Nick. Care-o-way” I emphasize. “Like ‘Care Away.’”

  “Oh! Yeah,” Darnell says. “I was thinking about his first name, Nick, being like how when we get scratched it’s a superficial wound, not deep. So like Nick equals superficial.”

  “Awesome,” Mr. Bilson says. “Keep talking." He moves onto the next group.

  Darnell kept us going. “I should like Tom and all - I mean, he did play football - but all that racist shit he spouts pissed me off.” He looks pointedly at Patrick.

  “I think it’s supposed to,” Rachel said. “I don’t think we’re supposed to like Tom or Daisy.

  Hannah twists in her desk so only I can see her and whispers, “Aren’t you a little flattered?”

  “About what?” I ask.

  She writes on her handout and pushes it my way. Seth is written in precise script.

  Darnell snags her paper and reads aloud. “Seth.”

  “Give that back,” Hannah says and snatches it back from him. Darnell laughs.

  “Excuse me. We have a job to do.” Rachel prompts to keep us on track, and each of us is a team player for the remainder of the period. When only five minutes of class remain, and our group disperses, Hannah takes the opportunity to continue chatting about Seth.

  “Too bad I missed him,” I say hoping that will pacify her. “I’m positive there is nothing more to it than a quick ‘hi.’”

  “There was that. And he made sure to mentioned that you are going out again this Friday.”

  Oh, Good Abby says. If he’s telling people it might mean more than what we thought. That could be good. Possibly.

  “Abby,” Hannah says just between the two of us, “Sara noticed." The Sara-phenomenon, sometimes friend and sometimes fiend was a concern.

  “We’re just friends." I wonder how many times I have to reiterate this point though I’m beginning to think I might be lying to myself.

  “A second date,” is all she says.

  “But it’s not like we’re more than what I’ve said.” I whisper, “He hasn’t given me any indication that he likes me in that way." It is a tiny lie I am telling myself. “We’re just friends.”

  “Maybe to you, Abby, but I’m not sure that he’s thinking the same way. He was really different, Abby. I mean, like happy, but kind of nervous. It was really noticeable to not just me. I mean, he just didn’t seem like himself. Him making a kind of show about it, well, I’m not sure that reads like ‘just friends.’”

  She’s right.

  As much as I want to discount what Hannah is saying, I can’t. “It could also mean he just happy to have his good friend back,” I say and look at Hannah.

  She lowers her chin and looks at me through serious eyes as if to tell me that lying to myself won’t help. She’s right again.

  When I get to art and sit in the seat next to Seth, I notice the chill. He doesn’t look up when I greet him and grunts “hey” in response. He then makes it a point to talk to someone else next to him. Good Abby is crushed and worried while bad Abby is irritated.

  Bad Abby says, Kanoa.

  Good Abby insists on damage control.

  I get up trying to silence them. I walk to the assorted object bin to look for a piece to add to my sculpture. I glance at Gabe as I walk across the room. He’s at an easel, quarantined from the class by choice, painting. When I find some objects, I haul them back to the desk where I’m working and Seth is going through magazines. I just want to fix whatever has happened to change things back. “Look what I found,” I say and hold up a mutilated doll head with only half of a face.

  He lifts his eyebrows in acknowledgement and then returns to his magazines.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. It bothers me that I’m so worried about it. Just friends, right?

  He looks at me and a smile touches his mouth, but not enough to form that dimple. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? You don’t seem like yourself. Anything I can do?”

  He shakes his head. “I tried to find you at lunch.”

  Those words say everything. He’s upset when I wasn’t there. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

  Bad Abby repeats, Kanoa.

  “I thought we could plan Portland,” he adds.

  Good Abby insists on damage control.

  “Yeah. Sounds good,” I say and look away. I still haven’t cleared it with my parents, but when I look at him again, the chill gone. His body is turned back toward me and talks about possible ideas. I’m glad things have shifted. Good Abby is ecstatic. Bad Abby is wary, as usual. I suppress my grandfather’s wisdom: “Trust your naʻau.”

  10

  SERENDIPITY

  “I thought you were going to Hannah’s?" Matt lets the curtain over the living room window fall back into place. He is leaning over the back of the chair and turns to look at me.

  I can hear the rumble of Seth's older model truck outside. It stops. “Can it,” I say and grab a light jacket and my purse. A little lie to get what I want – no big deal. We’re off to Portland, so I decided I’m in even if my parents aren't, not that I’d even asked.

  “I'll give Mom the message that you went out when she gets back,” he says.

  I stop with my hand on the door knob. “Fine. What do you want?”

  “You teach me to drive Brutus when I get my permit. And you do my dishes when it’s my turn for a month."

 
; "Brutus is in the shop," I say.

  "When he's out."

  “Whatever,” I slam out of the house before Matt can add more to his blackmail. I don’t figure it will be enough to keep his mouth shut, though. Matt will hang it over my head as long as he can. This better be worth it.

  I descend the steps in a hurry and meet Seth on the sidewalk before he's even made it to the house. “I’m so excited,” I say.

  He smiles. "I think tonight will be fun."

  “On to Portland.” I reach for the passenger door.

  “It’s kind of tricky." He opens the door for me, his hand over mine, and after I’m inside walks around to his side of the truck to get in. “Would you mind if we stop by a friend’s house before we drive to Portland? It’s on the way. He’s a friend home from college for the weekend."

  I’m thinking about the feel of his warm hand against mine and the tingle still radiating over my skin. “Would it happen to be Jessie’s that I’ve been hearing about it all week?”

  “Do you mind?”

  Instead of answering I ask, “Who’s Jessie?" The thought of a party fills me with trepidation considering the last time I'd been to one. How that turned out is a flashing neon sign in my mind.

  “A senior I played soccer with last year.” He waits for me to respond and then says, “It’s still early. By the time we get to his house the party should still be pretty low-key.”

  “That’s fine,” I say though my na’au hums with an anxious vibration. What can a few minutes hurt?

  “It will be fun. I promise." He leans over and kisses my cheek.

  It catches me off guard. I look at him, and his eyes shift to my mouth. I smile, but I can feel the delusion in it and look back out the window to watch the landscape slip passed us.

  When we arrive at Jessie’s several miles out of town, I'm stunned at how wrong Seth’s low-key prediction is. People look like a rapidly collecting virus clumped up in the door and spilling out into the yard. The twilight of the night is just beginning pushing blue hue against the ranch house whose windows are glowing yellow eyes. The music is blaring from inside, rattling the windows. It isn’t yet, 5:00.