Continuum (6 page)

Next I head to the kitchen and pull out a rarely used roasting pan and rack.  I switch on the oven to 350 degrees.  As the oven preheats, I start gathering my ingredients.  I busy myself with chopping the mirepoix of onions, carrots, and celery and line them along the bottom of the roasting pan, sprinkling on some extra virgin olive oil, kosher salt, and black pepper.  Stripping the leaves of a few springs of thyme, I run my knife roughly over them before sprinkling them on the vegetables.  

I rub the whole chicken down with kosher salt, black pepper, and some butter before stuffing the cavity with halved lemons, springs of thyme, and whole gloves of garlic.  I carefully truss the bird up like my grandmother had shown me so many Thanksgivings and Christmases throughout my life.  Satisfied, I nestle the chicken among the vegetables and place the roasting pan in the oven.

It takes me fifteen minutes to wipe down the kitchen and load the dishwasher.  The delicious smell is already starting to permeate the room.  Only an hour and half to two hours to kill before dinner.  With my hands idle, my mind starts to wander back to the events of this afternoon.

I pull out a chair from the dining room table and take out my notebook. I flip through it until the pages fall open on the Gothic cathedral drawing.  No matter how hard I try, all I can think about is the feel of Ethan’s hand on mine.

Ethan

I park my bike in the garage, being careful to leave enough room for my mom to park her massive SUV.  My dad had always favored puttering around in little European cars even though it was impractical for a family of four.  When we moved to Everest Heights, the first thing she bought was a shiny, new, American-made SUV.  It is a white beast of a car with cream colored leather seats that heated up for those cold Midwest winters.  The dashboard was digital equipped with built in navigation that lit up like the Fourth of July.  Moon roof, bluetooth, auxiliary jack, park assist cameras, blind spot sensors, automatic everything.  Enough trunk space to lug a football team’s worth of equipment.  My dad would hate it.

We were leaving the dealership when we saw my motorcycle.  A shiny, black bike with chrome accents.   Even parked in the corner of the dealership lot, the sleek lines caught my eye.  My dad and I had learned to ride two years ago when we spent the summer traveling throughout China.  Everyone traveled on two wheels-- motorcycles, scooters, e-bikes.   

Unlike Paris or New York or Chicago or any of the other cities we lived in, there was also no way for me to get around without some sort of vehicle.  Given the unpredictable weather, my mom had been worried.  Riding in Everest Heights was decidedly a lot less scary than in Shanghai.  At least there were rules of the road here. 

Resting my bike on its kickstand, I reach over and press the button to let the garage door down.  The SUV and the motorcycle were a promise of sorts.  Living in Everest Heights was going to be different.  Symbols of our new lives.  We would be able to finally settle down somewhere.  We were going to be setting down roots.

I remove my helmet and leave it on the seat.  My hair clings to my forehead, the heat is oppressive in the garage.  The backyard isn’t any more forgiving, the late afternoon sun pounding down.  Running a hand through my hair, I try to restore some order to the disheveled strands.  As I enter the house through the kitchen, the clock on the oven clicks over.  Only 3:25, so my mom’s flight wouldn’t be due for another few hours.  That means I can get away with a solid afternoon of lying in bed staring at the ceiling.  

Shutting the back door, I drop my book bag on the kitchen floor.  I take out a carton of milk from the fridge and take a few quick swigs before stuffing it back into its spot.  Foraging through the fridge, I skip the kale chips and celery sticks and grab a container of greek yogurt.  I open the cupboard next to the fridge and pull out a bag of trail mix.  I start picking banana chips and walnuts out of a bag of trail mix as I fish through a drawer full of silverware for a spoon.  

Even though it is sweltering out, my mom insists I wear my leather jacket when I ride.  But heat rash is preferable to road rash.  I shrug off my leather jacket as I cut through the dining room, inhaling the container of yogurt as I go.  As I set down the empty container of yogurt and half eaten bag of trail mix on the coffee table next to the unopened mail, I sling my leather jacket on the back of the couch.  Finally, I kick off my boots at the foot of the stairs before I trudge up the stairs to my room.

Throwing myself onto the bed, the wooden bed frame groans in protest.  Picking up a baseball from my bedside table, I start tossing it at the ceiling and catching it.  The familiar rhythm puts my body at ease as my mind races ahead.  

I had really wanted this year to be different.  When you move around a lot, you tend to feel very lonely.  You become really good at making friends fast but it’s hard to form any real lasting friendships when it’s time to move again nine months later.  But things were going to be different this year.  We were setting down roots now.

Things were different.  I think of Sam Jordan.  He was the most popular guy at Everest Heights.  Starting quarterback and captain of the football team, shoe-in for Homecoming and Prom King.  He had known his best friend since third grade but he folded me into his life so easily it was like I had been along for the ride.  For once, I felt like one of the guys instead of like the new guy.  

Things on the girl front were a bit more complicated.  My rhythm gets thrown off and I throw the baseball too high.  It hits the ceiling with a soft thud before ricocheting onto the floor.  I lift my head off the bed and watch as it rolls toward the door.  Sighing, I drop back down onto my pillow.  

I wasn’t actively looking for a girlfriend.  I’m never actively looking--girls find me.  Usually my schedule is so packed with sports, music, and art, there is little time for girls.  I mean, yeah, I had gone on the occasional date, attended some dances, and been in a few relationships.  I even had my heart broken once or twice.  I’m pretty sure I’m not completely clueless when it comes to girls.  But I’m also pretty sure that assumption means I’m probably completely clueless.

Fallon Pierce, the mysterious girl who is harder to read than
Anna Karenina
.  Unabridged.  In Russian.  At first glance, it would be easy to mistake her for a delicate beauty.  But there is a fire blazing behind those pale green eyes.  From what I could tell, Fallon mostly kept to herself in her own lonely bubble.

I close my eyes and I can see Fallon walking down her block.  Her annoyance clear as day as she shoos me away.  It must be some kind of record.  One girl running away from you twice in a span of three hours.  I’m not sure why I’m being such a glutton for punishment with this girl.

Life would be easier if I were attracted to someone like Mackenzie Brooks.  A girl who knows what she wants and goes after it.  I wasn’t going to be able to hold her off much longer.  Mackenzie is the girl that all the guys talk about.  Obviously she has all the things that attract boys--gorgeous face, hot body, etc.  She is smart too but quick to dismiss it.  But she also has a catty streak from here to the Great Lakes.  Oh right, there is the little fact that she is actually into me.  

I think about the note she passed me in Psychology in front of Fallon.  The unspoken hostility between the two of them.  I would not be going to that party.  I am not interested in meeting the people Mackenzie would consider “the right people,” I want to meet real people.

It just doesn’t feel right with Mackenzie.  There’s nothing there between us.  No sparks.  No connection.  I hang out with Mackenzie when there isn’t anyone else to hang out with.  She also makes it easy and on my terms.  For now.  But I’m sure once my status changes from boy friend to boyfriend, that will be another story.  

Maybe girls weren’t that complicated and I was just making it harder on myself.  I know where I stand with Mackenzie.  I’m not into her and eventually I’m going to have to find a way to let her down gently.  I know where I stand with Fallon.  She also doesn’t know a thing about me.  Then again, she also made it pretty clear she doesn’t care to.

Yet, I don’t want to give up on Fallon.  Not yet.  That drawing... there was definitely more than meets the eye with that girl.  I hoist myself up and retrieve the baseball before resuming my position in bed.  My past experience with relationships were fleeting, but we are setting down roots now.  

I feel as restless as ever.

Fallon

The next morning, I take my usual place in the cafeteria and start laying out my things.  Before I can put my headphones on, Ethan is setting his things down and pulling out the chair across from me.  He is the picture of boyish charm as he sits down.  Why does he have to be so handsome and impeccably dressed?  Most of the boys at Everest look like they just rolled out of bed but he looks like he stepped out of the pages of a magazine.  

His chestnut hair is mussed up like he’s just awoken, but it works on him.  His black leather jacket slung over his shoulder, he is dressed in a blue and red plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his muscled forearms and slim cut, faded gray chino shorts with navy canvas sneakers.  He looks so handsome and put together, I feel underdressed in my emerald green t-shirt, denim cutoffs, and scuffed, white low tops.

“Good morning, Fallon,” he says, flashing me a bright smile that makes his eyes crinkle.

“Morning, Ethan,” I mutter suspiciously.  “You look well rested.  How was the hottest party of the week?”

He arches an eyebrow and smiles vaguely, “It was... eventful.”

“Those parties usually are,” I try to sound bland, but I can’t keep the bite out of my tone.  I don’t like the idea of him getting tangled with Mackenzie.  I knew her too well to want that for him. 

“Mackenzie told me all about you last night,” his voice is teasing and his eyes are alit with mischief.

Mackenzie and I used to be best friends, but I never thought she would actually talk about me to get close to Ethan.  Then again things were different now and I wouldn’t put much past her these days.  I respond skeptically, “It must have been full of revelation seeing as Mackenzie and I haven't been friends since middle school.”

He casually runs his hand through his hair, a stray lock flopping back down on his forehead.  I resist the urge to reach over and brush it back.  He leans toward me and in a confidential whisper reveals, “Ooh, busted.  I confess, I didn't actually go to her soiree last night.”

“Hmmm,” I am secretly thrilled but reply in a disinterested voice.  “Who you hang out with in your free time is none of my concern.”  Flipping open my Calculus book to a random page so that I have something to look at besides Ethan, I can still feel his eyes studying my face.

He taps his finger down on the page to get my attention.  “Hey, I was just pulling your leg.  Mackenzie cornered me after Psych yesterday and I barely made it out alive.  I could’ve used some back up.”

I look up from my book and am taken aback by his expression.  His blue eyes are earnest and his smile is open.  For some reason, Ethan genuinely wants to be my friend.  He just doesn’t know who he is getting mixed up with.  I sigh as the first period bell cuts through our moment of suspended silence as we stare at each other.  I snatch up my Calculus book and make a run for it.  “I’m sorry I’m not very good company.  See you around, Ethan.”  He is still sitting at the table as I turn down the hallway to head to European History.

Mrs. Douglas's monotone is background noise as I fiddle with the pages of my notebook trying to concentrate on her words instead of the prattling in my head.  What does it matter what Ethan hears about me?  Everest Heights is a small place and my reputation precedes me.  It’s hard to have secrets when everyone knows who you are, no matter how insignificant you become. 

I consider myself to be very practiced when it came to dealing with people, but Ethan has this disarming quality.  Was I really that incapable of having a normal interaction with this boy?  Well normal is not how I would definite my interactions with people in general.  But all my careful controls seem to slip around him.

Staring down at the blank page of my notebook willing my mind to clear, I can feel Ethan's stare from across the classroom and I have to force myself not to return it.  I shouldn't want anything to do with this boy, yet here I was dissecting his words.  My curiosity is getting the better of me but I have to remind myself that all my careful controls aren’t just for my benefit.

But Ethan had teased me, something no one has done in a long time.  He was treating me like how people used to treat me when I still felt normal though Ethan made me feel far from normal.  I don’t know where I belong anymore.  When the bell rings, I scramble out of the room avoiding Ethan once again.  I can be such a coward.

I am distracted all throughout gym.  After almost get plowed over during flag football, Coach Morris blows his whistle and screams at me to snap out of it before I get my neck snapped.  I scrape through the rest of the period by running up and down the field with the rest of the class.  I don’t know if my team won, I am just relieved when he blows the final whistle.

In English, Mr. Murphy announces that he wants us to get a head start on our midterm project.  “Just because you're seniors, doesn't mean you get to coast the rest of the year.  Your midterm will be due the week after winter break.  Luckily for you, the midterm will based on the works of William Shakespeare.  And I will be so generous to let you choose which one you want to focus on.  There will be a 20 page essay and a minimum 15 minute presentation.  Fear not, you will not have to go it alone.  You will be have a partner--”  Everyone starts buzzing excitedly and turning to one another.  I hate group projects.  “--that I have already chosen for you.”

There is a chorus of groans as Mr. Murphy pulls out his class list and starts pairing us off, “Sam Jordan, you'll be working with Sydney Cooper.  Chloe Stanford, you'll be working with James Anderson...”  I cringe when Mr. Murphy pairs me with Emma Cole.  Emma glares at me from across the room as soon as my name is called.  After Mr. Murphy calls all the names, he hands out a 3 page assignment sheet and goes over the project in detail.  He is still talking animatedly when the bell rings and the class starts stuffing their books in their bags and making their way out the door.  “And don't forget!  This project is worth a third of your grade!”