Chapter Fourteen #2
He starts walking again, his gait slow, like he wants me to follow.
Go home, a voice inside me says. But it’s like he’s pulling me through the trees, and I trace his steps, his light depressions in the grass, and leap over a fallen tree entombed in vines.
A small red bird hopscotches along its length.
I’m quietly watching him, the way he walks with the straightest back, the slightest swing of his head, his tanned calves in bleached white sneakers. I shouldn’t enjoy watching him this much.
“Have any other ideas for venues?” I ask, giving myself a reason to be there. “Swan wants more options.”
“The school gym is still available,” he says, stopping to look over his shoulder.
I frown and he laughs, his teeth annoyingly perfect.
“If you can come up with a couple more options,” I say, “I’ll look into catering.” We’re standing close, under a clear patch of sun with no shadows.
“Cool,” he says.
“Cool?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.” He grabs the straps of his backpack at his shoulder and looks down at me. I should leave him now. I should leave now.
And then he says with a small squint, “You live with your uncle. How come?” And I wonder how long he’s been thinking about these things, the words we said on the beach.
My mouth is clumsy, uncommitted to intelligible sounds, until I can finally say, “I just needed something new.”
“But if it sucks so bad with him, why stay?”
“He’s really not all that bad. He just has a narrow idea of how I should live my life, and somehow I’m doing a terrible job at it.”
“Sounds like every adult in history.”
“Right? Like my mom is—” I snap my mouth shut.
I can’t go there. I can’t go back there to Atlanta.
I can’t talk about Before, especially with Derek.
“Anyway, my uncle’s who I have now. I mean, there’s family on my dad’s side, but I don’t really know them.
Most of them still live in Ghana. I think there’s a bunch of them in Canada and Germany, too, but I’ve never met them. ”
“Wait. You’re African?”
“Half Ghanaian. Who knows what else. We never did one of those ancestry DNA tests or anything. And anyway, it’s hard to say I’m Ghanaian when I don’t know anything about the country. It was like my dad was too busy being Ghanaian to show me how to be.”
“Maybe he just took it for granted. I know my dad did. My mom was the one who tried to make me feel connected to the Indian culture. You should see her cookbook collection, it’s obscene.
She dragged us to Indian festivals and planned our Bollywood movie nights.
Those were looong nights. But I couldn’t even pretend to hate them. ”
“So, do you actually feel connected to Indian culture?” I ask.
He purses his lips. “My dad is Gujarati. But honestly, nothing about me feels distinctly Gujarati. I think … I might always feel like there’s something missing.
I’ll never be as Indian as some people think I should be, and I’ll never be as American.
” He shrugs. “But it’s whatever. Too much or not enough, it is what it is. I am what I am.”
“Right?” I say, grabbing his arm before I can stop myself. “That feeling that you’re too many things and nothing at the same time? I’ve never met anyone else who gets it.”
“Mm.” He nods, blinking slowly at me, and then he looks down at my hand on his skin.
I drop it and step back, and he looks at me quizzically, like there’s a million thoughts he’s trying to parse.
His quiet is unnerving. He wears it easily, like he could sit with it all day, wrapped around him, content to think.
It’s not what I expected, and I hear him say again, I am what I am.
But who is he really?
“What I don’t get,” I say, “is how sometimes you’re like this, and then sometimes …” I stumble for words. “Sometimes you’re not a good person.”
His eyes widen and his thick eyebrows furrow. “Why am I not a good person?”
“Besides letting your friends bully me?”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His hat casts a dark shadow over his face.
I cross my arms over my chest. “CJ. He’s Tillman. I found out. Christopher James Tillman.”
“Okay?” He scrunches his face in confusion. Then his gaze wavers and he looks at the ground. “Oh.” He turns away from me, starts walking ahead with wide steps.
“So, why’d you do it?” I ask, following, legs moving double-time. “Why’d you rough him up? He’s obviously still scared of you. Every time you talk, he starts folding paper like he has to keep his hands busy.”
“I didn’t rough him up.”
“No? I must have misunderstood the body slamming into the wall. I didn’t realize you’ll regret the day you met me was just friendly talk. I come from Atlanta, so I’m not used to small-town lingo.”
“Stop, Jae.”
“I just want to know. What did he do to deserve that?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why’d you do it?”
His jaw tenses. “Let’s just stick to planning the open mic. Okay?”
“Just tell me—”
“No. You tell me. What did your other poem say? Tell me why you stop yourself when you’re about to mention your mom. Why are you so scared of water? And why do you have to remind yourself to keep breathing?”
I step back, mouth agape.
“So. Let’s just stick to the open mic. Okay?” He talks slowly now, not taking his piercing eyes off mine. “Unless you have other things you want to share.”
I’m glowering, sending waves of indignation his way. Did Derek Patel just call me out? Did he chastise me? Was I just chastised? If I weren’t so annoyed I’d be impressed. He notices everything.
“Fine,” I snap.
“Good.” His mouth is crooked. Sheepish. “I need your number.”
“What?”
“I need your number.”
“Why?”
“For planning. Or we could communicate solely in person like cavemen.”
I want to say No just for the heck of it. For the chastisement. But we still have to do this project together and I won’t be the one to slow us down.
He saves my number, then turns around, waves his phone in the air like he’s saying goodbye. It’s like this with him, I realize. Wanting to be close, and wanting to be at a safe distance. Like needing fire, needing water, but never too much. Too much, and it becomes a part of you. You stop existing.
The poem on the right:
The Art of Leaving
When you leave a daughter behind
To chase a memory that was a lie,
Make sure you leave the photos
Misaligned,
Collecting dust.
Keep the fridge bare
And the stove on,
Sink into darkness till you are
Impossible to find.
Teach her that love is leaving
Without a goodbye,
To fill yourself
With memories,
Until you forget to eat and sleep,
Until you’re someone you never hoped to be.
Until you leave
And
Leave
And
Leave.
When you leave a daughter behind,
Don’t make it subtle.
Leave a hole
Where home used to be.