Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) Read online

  SWIMMING THROUGH CLOUDS

  by Rajdeep Paulus

  Copyright 2013 by Rajdeep Paulus

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Scripture notations in this publication are taken from THE MESSAGE. Copyright 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001,2002.

  Cover design by Angela Llamas

  Published in association with MacGregor Literary, Inc.

  Portland, Oregon

  For my Sunshine. Because you know me. And love me anyway. And you promise not to give up on me. Love you more than words can say, Santhosh. When we first met, I thought this. Fifteen years later, I know for sure:

  You’re proof I’m God’s favorite.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I live in the in between. Between what if and what is. It’s how I manage. It’s the only way I know. Everyone has their way. This is mine.

  I flip my imaginary pen shut, close my invisible journal, and tuck my thoughts away in the only safe place I know exists. My heart.

  A new school changes nothing in my mind—the other place I file the chapters of my story. A story no one can ever know. Instinctively, I tug at my sleeve, pulling the left one over my hand. Because my arm is where Dad prefers to write. Reminders to never step out of line.

  Someone clears her throat. The brunette bus driver with smoker’s breath taps the top of the seat in front of me. “Bell rings in seven minutes.” Empty rows surround me—we’re the last two on board. “Might want to get a move on, hon.”

  Move? Second week of September, and I wish I could move back. Back in time, that is. To a time when Mom made apple pie and my younger brother flew kites from the roof. A time that never existed. Until I wrote it down. In between my lines of reality. That’s my favorite place. Leave me there. And leave me alone.

  “Five, now.” Coughing, Madam Bus Driver’s friendly, good-morning voice dissipates like the sand in an hourglass. “And don’t forget, no cell phone use in the classroom. The ban is in full effect, and they will confiscate on the first offense.”

  “Oh, that won’t be a problem.” Because, well, I don’t have one.

  Rising, I drag myself into school, plop my backpack next to my desk, slide into my chair, and bury my face in my arms. If I can’t see the other kids, maybe they can’t see me. Careful to keep my quads from brushing against the museum of chewed gum on the bottom of my table, I hug my left arm close to me when I notice a scrap of paper on the floor below. It’s a little, yellow, square Post-it note. Small enough to vanish under my shoe if I had stepped on it. Juicy, circulated gossip from last week, perhaps. I squint to read the writing without moving the paper.

  Talia.

  My name printed neatly across the top is all I need to see before I do step on it. Who wrote this? Did Dad plant this here as a warning? That’s nuts. Dad hasn’t followed me to school. Or has he? Is someone else passing notes around about me? I excuse myself to the lady’s room, scoop up the paper as I go, and crumple the Sticky Note in my hand to make it disappear. Then I walk-run until I stand locked behind the walls of a toilet stall. Trembling, I prop my back against the side with the least graffiti, leaning on my right arm, and open up my hand and smooth out the creases.

  The Post-it reads:

  Talia, Dew drop by and have lunch with me in the cafe?

  L

  Huh? Who is L? And how does this person know what my name means? Or maybe he or she is just a terrible speller?

  Lagan. Has to be. The same tall math geek who wears his Bulls Jersey at least twice a week and would offer to tie my shoes if the teacher asked for a volunteer. I ignore the offer. And him. I avoid his eyes during the rest of first period and tell Ms. Miller, “I don’t need any help with AP Chem. I understand the material. I’m good.”

  Good until I arrive at my locker after second period, and there’s another Post-it note openly stuck to the door for anyone to see.

  This one reads:

  I can balance a mean cafeteria tray on one hand while spinning a b-ball with the index finger of the other. Eat lunch with me?

  L

  I scrunch it up in my hand. How many people have read it in passing? Do all his friends know he’s leaving me notes? Did the basketball team put him up to this? Like some kind of stupid dare to test the transfer student? What would make this stranger want to have lunch with me, the strange girl?

  If that isn’t bad enough, when I open up my locker over the week, a new Sticky Note falls out each day.

  Tuesday’s boasts:

  I can open up a milk carton no-handed. Have lunch with me?

  L

  Wednesday’s says:

  I’ll buy you lunch. Throw in two desserts. Have lunch with me?

  L

  A stalker is all I need to add another layer to my already complicated life. And this guy clearly has an overabundance of free time on his hands. All week, I decide to hide in the girls’ bathroom and leave five minutes to eat lunch at my locker, standing and scarfing down my sandwich and guzzling down my water bottle before the bell sounds. Time is my enemy. I fear her more than the dark.

  When Thursday rolls around, I spin the combination on my lock, confused that I’m half-expecting to find another sticky. My heart sinks the second the lock clicks open. What if? And before panic sets in, a little, yellow, square sheet sails down like an autumn leaf, landing on my shoe. Can this tiny Post-it be trying to direct my steps? Toward Lagan?

  I don’t know whether to hide or to laugh when I read Thursday’s Sticky Note:

  I’m in good with the cafeteria ladies. Chocolate or vanilla ice cream? Have lunch with me?

  L

  Leaning against my locker, I imagine the cool sensation of ice cream on my lips, and before I finish unwrapping my sandwich, a hall monitor busts me. “No eating allowed outside the cafeteria. Proceed there now, or I’ll have to write you up.” She stares at me, holding a pen and clipboard with the intensity of a cop dangling handcuffs.

  Put the cuffs, I mean pen, away, I think to myself as I toss my lunch in the nearest trash bin rather than face the lunchroom. And Lagan. The short, pudgy hall monitor lady, with tight red curls a little past her ears, just shrugs her shoulders and returns to her post and her pile of People magazines. I’m not mad at her. She’s just doing her job. I get that.

  I mumble, “I’m sorry,” as I walk past her down the hall and up a flight of stairs to English class.

  Sinking into my chair, the bell sounds, and Mrs. Benson announces the first formal writing assignment of the semester. “Well, seniors, I simply loved reading the journal entries on your summer adventures! Only two weeks in and I sense this is going to be a superb fall kick-off to the culmination of your secondary education, don’t you think?”

  Superb. Sure. I guess she bought the made-up story of my trip to Disney. If my life were a Disney flick, I’d ask the Genie for one wish: Dad—go poof and disappear.

  Mrs. Benson smoothes her lilac business skirt down from her hips like she’s drying her hands and continues teaching, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Pay attention now. Today’s writing lesson focuses on personal narrative. But to spice it up, instead of telling me about you, you will be writing each others’ stories. For starters, each of you will need to pair up and interview a classmate. The remainder of today’s class will be spent brainstorming a list of questions. And I expect you to approach your write-up as a
chapter out of a biography rather than a Q&A format.”

  Lagan’s hand shoots up so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t pull a muscle.

  “Yes, Lagan,” Mrs. Benson says with an adoration-soaked tone.

  “It’s La-gan!” a few kids chime. Then George, his basketball bud, adds, “As in La la la la, and when the bell rings, we will be gone!” George stands up to give Lagan a chin-raised high-five, then sits back down.

  “Thank you for that phonetic breakdown of La-gan’s name, George. I stand corrected.” Then she turns to Lagan, eyebrows raised, waiting for his question.

  “Well, I was just thinking—” The classic start of so many of Lagan’s responses since school started. “Most of us have been together since kindergarten.”

  “Go on.” Mrs. Benson lowers her bifocals and looks over the top of them at her manicured fingernails.

  “So most of us already know each other.” Lagan shrugs, and several kids throw in yeah’s with their nods of agreement. Maybe he hopes she’ll cancel the assignment.

  Mrs. Benson emits a teacherly throat clear to quiet down the class. “Which means most of you have no excuse and can find each other and get your assignments in on time. As for you, Lagan, can I trust you to work with Talia? Help her to feel welcome and complete this assignment in the process. Yes, why don’t you pair up with Talia? But realize that interviewing the new student does not buy you any extra days. Talia, I vouch for this one.” Mrs. Benson steps forward and pats Lagan’s shoulder like he’s her son. “You’re safe with Lagan. Does that work?” Lagan nods once as he beams a smile to the teacher.

  Umm? I think she was asking me, but my voice fails me. I suppose Mrs. Benson takes that as a yes, too.

  Then she addresses the entire class again. “Make time to meet during study hall or lunch or after school in my classroom, if you need to. I’ll just be grading papers at my desk. All typed, double-spaced copies are to be placed on my desk at the start of Friday’s class, a week from tomorrow. I’ll be grading them for content, grammar, and creativity. And I’ll bet even those of you who think you know each other will discover something new. Because we’re always changing. Always.”

  Sure. My burns change to blisters. The blisters change to scabs. The scabs to scars. Back to burns again. Is that what you mean by change, Mrs. Benson? And what about those of us who don’t want to be discovered? After school is not an option, and no one else is jumping up to ask me to be partners. So, Lagan it is.

  Seems like this place is no different than the last place I lived. Benton Harbor, a few hours east of Chicago in the mitten State, was a sea of chocolate while Darien, Illinois, my new home, is a loaf of white bread with a handful of “others.” When you’re an ethnic cocktail like me, you never know where you belong. Or if you belong at all.

  I can read the words behind the stare-downs I get, especially from the girls. Labels they stamp me with that I’ve heard my whole life: weird, uncool, out there. And then the word they think I can’t hear, because they spell it with hand gestures: emo.

  If they’re thinking I’m emotionally unstable, they should meet my younger brother, Justice. We call him Jesse. Funny thing is, he looks normal with his regular buzz cut, flawless tan skin, and chocolate brown eyes. About the only ordinary detail about me is my average height, but stature doesn’t help a person blend into the crowd when the other details scream, “Check me out, I’m a freak!”

  My face and hands are a shade of brown lighter than your average Southeast Asian, but not quite light enough to be considered Caucasian. Most people guess I’m Hispanic or Middle Eastern. Once or twice, I’ve been called an Islander. Not sure which island they were referring to, but I knew they were confused. Not even sure what to call myself since I’m half Indian and half South African. If White Chocolate Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup were an option on forms, I’d check that box.

  I instinctively brush under my nose with the top of my pointer finger. My nose is petite on the whole, but my nostrils flare up slightly, making a nose ring out of the question. I leave my hand there as a curtain. Usually, I keep a few strands of my hair pulled over to my mouth—my futile attempt to hide my lips—the part of me that draws the most attention.

  No matter how much Chap Stick, lip gloss, or lipstick I apply, I cannot make my deformed, deeply ridged lips disappear. My bottom lip looks worse than the top, and no respectable cover for lips exists yet. Have to look into that. Start a trend. Invent some lip glasses. Call them Lip Shades, for when you can’t find the perfect color or get a cold sore, or in my case, your lips always look like your vampire boyfriend prefers lips to necks. If a pair of these puppies could keep a kid from talking too much, teachers might endorse it, and I’d be a billionaire. Run away. Fly to the moon. Take Jesse with me, of course.

  Since that’s not going to happen today, or ever, I attempt to draw the least amount of attention to myself. But even that seems to backfire in this new school. Between the redhead Hall Cop’s eagle eyes and Mrs. Benson’s assignment, I’m left with little choice the next day. At least it’s Friday. Time to buy lunch and face Lagan.

  As I walk into the cafeteria after Bio, a parent volunteer offers me a tray. I could have picked one up from the pile myself, just as easily. When I spot a Post-it curling up off the far corner, the plastic tray slips from my fingers, but I manage to grab it before it hits the floor. Relieved, I lift the tray up to the counter and flatten the note to read it.

  I’ll put your tray away for you. Sitting on the right side at the back table. Saved you a seat. Have lunch with me?

  L

  So he’s taking a day off from being a social butterfly, surrounded by his high-tops-sporting teammates and mathlete buds to sit with me? How did he even know I would show up today? Four words comes to mind: get this over with.

  Tucking my lower lip under the top and reasoning that one meeting will be enough to finish the English homework, I join Lagan at the rear of the cafeteria. Sort of. I know better than to sit right next to him or even across from him. Instead, I walk over to his table and sit two seats down, on the opposite side.

  He blows into his hand and sniffs. “I brushed and flossed this morning if you want to move over. I’m not saving seats for anyone else.”

  “I’m good.” I stare at my tray of food, aware that I haven’t thought of one question to ask him.

  “Well, okay then.” Lagan starts to rise up as he pushes his tray down toward my end of the table.

  Startled, I half scream, “W-w-wait!” Catching myself, I pull my sleeves down past my wrists, push his tray back to his old seat, and lower my voice. “I mean, let’s just try this. If it’s okay?”

  Relief washes over me when he resumes his seat. He doesn’t even ask why. Makes me wonder if we’ll end up friends someday. I don’t have any friends, so one friend...if I keep him on the DL. My family doesn’t have to know. Especially Dad. If he ever finds out, well, let’s just not go there, because he is not going to find out. Ever.

  Lagan speaks first when the awkward moment passes. “Let’s start over.”

  “Okay.” I look at the wall in front of me.

  “I’m over here.” I can see Lagan waving his hands out of the corner of my eye.

  “I know.” The words leave my lips like molasses. “I see you. I hear you. I’m. Here.”

  “O-kay.” His voice falls flat with an all too familiar sound. Doubt.

  I pick up my tray to leave. Better to fail the assignment before disappointment turns to disaster. How do I interview Lagan when I can barely bring myself to talk to him? How else do individuals close the gap between space and silence? People draw near to each other and communicate. Face to face. Eye contact. That is normal. But normal isn’t in my cards. I’ve been dealt a hand that I can’t lay down. I step away from the table and turn to face the direction of the conveyor belt where other students are placing their trays.

  “Wait.” Lagan’s voice rises.

  “I’m not hungry,” I lie.

  “Don’t l
eave yet.”

  But it’s too late. I lied to myself too. Somewhere between the Post-it notes and all the times Lagan offered to help me, the new girl, I gave into the hope, perhaps only a crumb’s worth, that he might be different. But if he can’t handle this, he probably can’t handle any of it.

  “I’ll see you in class.” My eyes focus on the red exit sign.

  “You forgot something.”

  That is the first time he tricks me. I stop and turn around to scan the table where I was sitting. Scrawling something in his lap, he reaches over and slaps the spot where my tray lay moments ago. A little yellow Post-it note curls up on the table. Everything inside me tells me to run, but I have been running my whole life. I’m tired. And hungry. Flip-flopping, I return to my spot and sit again.

  This note reads:

  I’m sorry. I don’t understand. This is new. Let’s start over.

  I nod. Then fold up the note and put it in the back pocket of my jeans.

  Lagan clears his throat and smiles. “Take two. Or three. Ahh. Who’s counting, anyway?”

  Inhale. Exhale. Peripheral vision allows me to slow my breathing to match his, my self-prescribed tranquilizer. While we eat in silence, I paint Lagan’s features on the canvas of my mind. His earthy brown eyes squint when he smiles. His silky black hair falls to right above his shoulders and a few wisps fall across his forehead, over his left eyebrow. Lagan’s skin reminds me of milk chocolate. A tiny black mole on his right cheek dances as he chews. His thinned out goatee draws attention to his oval jawline—a nest for breadcrumbs, which he instinctively wipes away after every few bites. I can see his black Nike high tops extended beyond the cafeteria table that his long lanky legs barely fit beneath. And he raises his dark, thick eyebrows whenever he looks in my direction and smiles, introducing a heart-skipping dimple on his left cheek.

  “I’m sorry.” I mutter the confession, but it’s true. I am sorry. I want to undo the last few minutes too. I don’t really know what I want. I just—