Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (12 page)

Lagan slides the tiny gift back to himself with the
suspicion of a drug deal. He rolls over a Chap Stick with a label that reads
Natural Lime-scented with Aloe and Beeswax.

“
Wappy
Walentine’s
Week.” He smirks and waits a beat. “That’s code for...”

“I know.” I cut him off. “I might be a little out of touch,
but everyone knows what February 14 means.”

I hesitate, then indulge since my radar reads clear. “Are
you asking me to be your...
Walentine
?”

Lagan chuckles, but his laughing ceases instantaneously.
He’s flipping through my words on the green Sticky Notes. His dimple disappears
under downcast eyes.

I must have left... “Wait.” I reach over to retrieve the
Post-it pad. “I think I put something down I meant to cross out.”

But it’s too late. He’s already read it. The one I meant to
tear up and flush down the toilet. Darn it. Lagan takes the notepad and puts it
into his book bag under the table. Silence lingers between us for a bit. He’s
forming his words carefully. I’m rehearsing a lie. He knows too much. How could
I have been so careless?

During the last ten minutes of American Government, Mr.
Mason gave all the students free time in order to practice AP questions. Less
than six weeks remain till the exam, and he wants us all to rock it. We all
pulled out our heavy prep books, and I positioned mine in front of me like a
shield. Then I went to town, knocking out the green Sticky Notes in a matter of
a few minutes. It was almost too easy to compile a childhood wish list. Such
few pleasant memories existed that the words spewed out of me like a leaky
faucet no pipe wrench could shut.

Dolls. Tea
Parties. Play Dates. Princess dress-up clothes.

I flipped four pages and kept writing.

Crayola
markers. Teddy Bears. Disneyland. Pretty shoes.

And on and on I listed. No reservations. Wishes I had never
before voiced. Nor breathed. Stored up inside, under my cobweb-covered heart,
labeled “Oh well.”

Presents.
Christmas trees. Chocolate Easter bunnies. Ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

Cartoons.
Swings. Slides. Monkey bars.

Friends. Fun.
Field trips. Cotton Candy.

And before I knew what my pen transferred from my vault,
phrases of sadness seeped out from under my locked closet of lost time.

The Happy in
Happy Birthday. The Good in Good Morning. The Sweet in Sweet dreams.

And that’s when I let the words that altered Lagan’s smile
slip out of my heart—onto a Post-it note.

The Love in I
Love You.

I hesitated as soon as my pen lifted from the page. I choked
on my spit as if the words were bile. It would take more than an
Altoid
to mask this bitterness. I started to tear the page
out when I thought to myself,
Let me just finish writing. I’ll come
back to it
. The words were
still flowing, and I wanted to get them all out as if washing utensils. I just
wanted the sink to be empty. Then I’d throw away the chipped mug. The one I
dropped while daydreaming. In the business of evidence elimination, I got
promoted to CEO when Mom passed away and Jess sailed off the roof.

Cartwheels.
Ballet slippers. Flowers in my hair. Flowers anywhere.

Tag. Red
Light, Green Light. Hopscotch. Hide and seek.

No more green sheets. Shivers ran down my spine as I stared
at the last three words. In our house, Dad familiarized us with a different
version of hide and seek. We hide nothing. And we seek only his approval. And
yet we hide everything. If Dad ever discovered my true thoughts, dreams, or
intentions, I would be thrown into maximum security, locking shut the one
window I’ve been permitted to look out. School. The bell rang and I tucked my
green Post-it pad into my back pocket. If Dad showed up, it would be easy
enough to drop behind me. No name. No trace.

I wait now, sitting caddy corner from Lagan, holding my
breath. A million scenarios zip through my mind. If Lagan doesn’t think I’m
some sort of freak yet, he has no reason to doubt now. My appetite wanes. My
whims of being someone’s
walentine
vanish. My...

“Can I ask you a question?” Lagan interrupts my downward
spiral.

“If I have the choice not to answer, ask away.”

One trip to the house has changed nothing of consequence in
my mind. My life of fear is as present as the empty tables behind me. My future
without Lagan remains as sure as the cafeteria tray in front of me.

“Okay.” Lagan begins after a long pause. “Actually, it’s
more of an observation than a question. I already have my answer, I think.”

Confused as to where this line of conversation is headed, I
nod slowly and wait silently.  

“I notice...”

Lagan’s tone is serious when he continues, void of the
thespian animation I’ve grown accustomed to. I don’t know if I have any energy
left today for serious. I sigh and hold on to both sides of my tray, fighting
the urge to run away, both mentally and physically. By now, Lagan has to have
noticed that this—me—I’m not worth it.

Lagan starts again. “I notice that although your name
suggests the delicacy of a dew drop, you remind me more of a waterfall. A
powerful, roaring, rippling rapid that is rarely, perhaps never, visited.
Because, well, because before anyone reaches you, there are a ton of downed
trees. But lucky for you...,” Lagan’s right eyebrow raises and his dimple
reappears, “I never sign up for easy. I prefer Frost’s road less travelled.”

I look at him with a
Come again?
blank stare before saying, “Now that you
know what my names means, I think it’s only fair if you tell me about yours. I
heard once that if you really want to know about a person, find out about their
middle name. What did you say it was again?”

“Kumar.” Lagan’s smile turns down at the corners, and his
eyes dart off to the side, like he might be avoiding mine. “My middle name is
Kumar. And it means...” Lagan clears his throat and lowers his voice to barely
a whisper, “Prince.”

As in Prince
Charming?
That’s so goofy.
And precious. At the same time. “Your mom took one look in your eyes and knew,
huh?”

“Well, all jokes aside about Indian parents and how they
name their kids, I want you to know something. There’s something I need you to
know.” Lagan’s eyes darken with the shadow of his lashes. “I might not wear a
crown or own a sword, but I don’t give up easily.”

“So should I knight you or something?” He has never met a
dragon like Dad.
You have no idea what you’re saying.

The intensity in Lagan’s voice lightens while his gaze
remains fixed on me. “How ‘bout I knight you. Once
Talia
, dew drop from heaven, now
Glaciera
,
frozen waterfall from Alaska.”

It’s my turn to laugh out loud.

“Hmm?” Lagan strokes his chin as if seriously considering
his goofy suggestion. “I rather like that.
Glaciera
.
Frozen yet moving. Slowly. If only I knew how to melt through to...?” Lagan’s
dimple disappears again as he strokes his goatee and gives me his best
detective stare.

“Funny you mention that.” I throw out a line. “You have. You
do. Melt me.”
Woah
.
Did
I
just
say
that?
Looking at the clock, my ears swell with heat. Bell, ring
already. My heart’s done enough spilling for one day.

Lagan’s dimple returns. As I rise to escape, my words still
lingering in the air, and his hand reaches over and covers mine.

“Were you
gonna
ask me something?”
I attempt to ignore the obvious. His hand on mine. More melting.
Hello?

“Will you go to—”

“I can’t.” I finish his sentence and make to leave. I am
sure he knows the answer before he asks.

He insists. “Wait, let me finish.”

I sit down again. He has thirty seconds to change my mind.
From running away. Far away.

“Will you come to my graduation party?”

“You know I can’t go anywhere.” I shake my head and look off
to the exit doors. “Why do you even bother asking?”

“It’s just that there’s someone I want you to meet. Her name
is Rani. You two really need to meet. She’s my cousin, and we’ve been best
friends since we were kids. I can’t believe I haven’t even told her about you
yet. Maybe if you meet first? Anyway, maybe you could show up. Just for a bit.
Like how you asked me to stop by your house. Just for a second.”

I still shake my head no, thinking only one word:
impossible
. When he says two words that give me
goose bumps. “Sneak out.”

If he only knew the consequences of such a risk. “I’ll try,”
I lie.

I just want this conversation to be over. Dream, go poof
already.
Cuz
that’s about all his request will ever
amount to. Another daydream to file away in my shuffled playlist of
distractions.

The bell rings. His hand moves off of mine. Another day.
Another dance with fire.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

With
graduation a little over three months away, the high school buzzes with
end-of-the-year planning, and most seniors who have received their college
letters have checked out academically and show up to primarily socialize. I’m
not one of those. I have received a few college letters. Each envelope skinny,
and everyone knows what that means.

I don’t get it. My GPA is 3.9. My record clean. My teacher
recommendations raving. Why hasn’t any college said yes yet?

I have an appointment during third period today with my
guidance counselor, a Mr.
Donatelli
, whom I have
avoided long enough. The word
counselor
suggests advice, support, and a person you can confide
in—three things that warrant the guillotine in my house.

The only other time I saw Mr. D. was when my gym teacher
forced me to pay him a visit when I refused to take my long sleeve shirt off
from under my gym uniform.

“You hiding something under there, Talia?” A girl named
Katie snickered in the locker room, egging on the other girls to break out in
catty laughter.

I’d played this game before. I simply pulled up the sleeve
on my good arm. But Miss Robinson insisted. “Go to guidance and come back to
class when you have a note.”

Mr.
Donatelli
didn’t ask me many
questions, really. I knew the routine. “Call my Dad. He’ll explain why I have
to wear long sleeves.”

After a two minute conversation,
Donatelli
scrawled a few words on a pink slip, slid the paper over to me, and said
nonchalantly, “Return to class.”

I walked back to gym class staring at the same excuse I had
read over the years:
Cultural Customs—Excused
. That was back in October. We’re halfway
through February now.

According to the school policy, even if a senior never heeds
his or her guidance counselor’s suggestions, each senior must review his or her
academic file on the appointed date in order to assure all ducks are in order
and no careless details ignored causing delays in processing of
diplomas...blah, blah, blah. I read the student handbook, and whoever composed
this has a serious problem with run-on sentences. It could have simply said:
Meet
your counselor once or you don’t graduate.
That’s about as many words most seniors can process these days, between their
lack of sleep and hangovers.

I hear the stories in every class. “Hey, did you hear so and
so hooked up with the geek from
Calc
at so-and-so’s
party last night? Anything can happen! It’s senioritis till June, baby! Senior-
frickin
-
itis
!”  

I secretly wish I could participate in Senior Skip Day, the
one day when every senior meets at the beach on Lake Michigan, the Millennium
Park Bean, or the
ferris
wheel at Navy Pier to begin
celebrating graduation. Anywhere but school. I’ll be one of two or three
rejects (the others will be seniors who wake up and forgot to check their
calendars) who walks from class to class to stare at a blank whiteboard for
thirty-nine minute intervals.

Most teachers take off, too. At least mentally. Which helps,
since I plan to catch up on my sleep and a few assignments. No plans to engage
in any personal interviews as to why my dad won’t allow me to skip school, even
when the incident won’t show up on your permanent record, the one liberty
seniors get in the name of tradition. The system lets this one day slide. Just
this one.

Anyway, Senior Skip Day is sometime in May. Today is
Thursday, February 13, and third period is my designated time slot to meet with
Mr.
Donatelli
. I stick a lilac-colored Post-it on
Lagan’s locker to tell him I won’t be in math class. He’s been handing me
different colors all week.