Breathing (4 page)

“Greenville,” he says.

“How come I ain’t seen you here before this summer?” I wonder out loud, seeing as Greenville ain’t all that far off.

He’s quiet awhile, then he says, “I always helped my daddy in the summer, buildin’ cabinets. We didn’t have time to kick back at the beach like Junior and Billy Jo.”

“Why’d you get to come out this year?” I ask.

He shrugs. “My dad passed on in April, had himself a heart attack.” Looking out to the sea, he says, “Guess my ma thought it’d be good for me, you know, get away from everything for a spell. So she sent me to his brother’s family for the summer.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my stomach twisting up like the tornado I was named after. “What you hope to do come fall?”

He looks right straight at me and smiles. “Maybe I’ll find me a reason to stick around here awhile.” Honest to God. Can you believe it?

“I hope so,” I say.

And then, as if God is sitting up in heaven watching us, thinking we need a cooling down, the tide comes and chases us up the beach. By the time we settle back in the sand, the mood has shifted.

“Thought I might like to try paintin’ houses,” he says, but there’s a look in his eye tells me something ain’t right.

“Houses? What you want to do that for?”

He turns away and looks out to the sea as if he might find my answer there. “Sump’n wrong with paintin’ houses?”

“Hell no,” I say. “I just got an inkling of a feeling that that ain’t all there is to it.”

“You got a feeling, huh? There ain’t no shark coming after me, is there?”

I swat him on the arm for that one. “Be serious!”

But then his face turns all still and he goes, “Naw, you’re right. I cain’t lie. What I really want to do is paint for real, you know, like pitures. I ain’t talking about doing portraits for rich folk—more like, you know, putting onto the canvas sump’n I see in my head, sump’n I cain’t even describe into words, but give me a brush and I sure as hell can show you. I want to travel the world and put what I see into my pitures.” Then he blushes like he’s all embarrassed for being honest. And if that don’t give me the goosiest goose bumps you ever did see!

“I want to travel, too,” I say. “First, I aim to see the Blue Ridge Mountains. But then I want to go on and check out the rest of the world. I’ma go to college and get me a real good job, maybe like a journalist or a writer of stories of far-off lands, something where your work pays you to go all over.”

Right then his nasty old cousins come upon us. “Jackson, what are you doing with a lowly townie when just across them rocks is a beach full of city girls?” Billy Jo calls. “Y’all fixing to go at it?”

“Jailbait!” Junior adds, laughing.

Jackson turns three shades of red and stands to leave.

I’m sitting here feeling all desperate, wanting to think up something, anything that would cause him to want to see me again. But I can’t drum up a durn thing.

Then he turns to me and smiles as big as that ocean and says, “I’ll call you,” right there in front of them cousins, which of course just makes them hoot even louder. But he don’t seem to care.

“My last name’s Brown!” I call after him, seeing as I didn’t get a chance to give him my number. At least now he can look it up in the phone book.

I head home to get my bike, wishing Stef wasn’t off at that dumb camp of hers. It lasts till the middle of July. I need someone who’s more experienced with guys to talk to about Jackson. I know she’d tell me not to worry about his kin and their ugly teasing. She’d say he’s for sure into me and all. But I wish I could hear it from her directly.

As I ride my bicycle through town, I pass by the junior college, then loop back around to it. After stowing my bike in the rack, I peek into some of the classrooms. Somewhere in there is the Living Through Literature program. It’s this real cool (okay maybe dorky, but still) camp type of thing where you read classic books and learn about the authors and the eras when they wrote their stories. I believe they put on some plays, too. You even get school credit for it. My guidance counselor called me into her office at the end of the year to tell me about it, since I had the highest grade in my English class and Mrs. Avery recommended me.

Once the counselor mentioned there wasn’t any financial aid available, I just acted like I thought it was dumb. I didn’t even bother telling Mama about it. There ain’t a chance in hell of us being able to afford such a thing, and I didn’t want to make her feel bad.

I wander around the campus, imagining what it’ll be like to be in college someday—not at this dinky little school, I hope. If I’m lucky, it’ll be somewhere far off.

I peek at the labels on all the classroom doors until I find the Living Through Literature group. I slip into the back of the auditorium to watch. There’s about twenty kids down in front. I recognize a few from school, and they ain’t even all that smart. It sure looks like they’re having fun. One of the teachers is talking, and the kids are laughing. It don’t make no never mind.

“Can I help you?” asks one of the other teachers, who’s standing near the back.

Turning red, I slide back out the door right quick. I best get to work anyhow, before I get myself fired. Even the monotony of shelving books won’t be able to take the shine off a day at the beach with Jackson Channing.

I
come in for supper humming a little tune without even realizing I’m doing it till Mama says, “What’s up with you?”

“What?” I ask, quitting my humming. I don’t want her knowing about Jackson yet. Don’t want her fretting and imposing rules, tethering the dream before it has a chance to fly.

But you know I can’t get that lucky. In walks Dog with a big ol’ grin on his sorry face. “Hey there, Miss Uppity Channing.” That’s the best he could come up with? I reckon he’s aiming to impress me with his resourcefulness in finding out who Jackson is.

“Hello to you,
Mrs
. Davis Wilson.” I got him good with that one.

If there’s anyone on this earth with a bad case of that homophobia, it’s Dog.

“Shut your face, Vannah!” he shouts.

“Shut yours, you cow!” I retort.

Next thing I know, he’s walloping me on the back of my head.

Then I’ve got a hank of his hair and I’m pulling on it, when Mama yells, “That’s it! Both of y’all are on punishment tonight,” which sucks, except for the fact that it’s caused Mama to forget all about my humming.

Dog starts to whining. But I don’t care none. I ain’t a big TV person anyhow, and with Stef at camp, where no phone calls are allowed, and Joie off in Florida busy with her family (who are too stingy to let her make long-distance calls), I hadn’t any plans to be on the phone this evening. I’ve got a new romance to read—
The Flower and the Flame
—and my journal to write in. So I’m happy. Poor Dog can’t occupy himself for even a minute.

His face is all splotchy. “She provoked me on purpose!”

“Seems to me you the one started the whole thing,” Mama says.

“Now go on to your room till supper’s ready. I don’t want to hear another word outta you.”

I silently set the table to get back into Mama’s good graces, hoping she won’t ask me nothing.

“You remembering ’bout the church picnic on Sundy evenin’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You gonn’ fix the potata salad for me so it’s ready when I get home from work, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I ain’t taking no chances of stirring up the waters tonight. Besides, the Channings go to our church, so Jackson’s liable to be at the picnic, too.

Would you believe, just as I’m thinking that, the phone rings? My heart misses a beat. But I’m sure it won’t be him.

Then I hear Mama say, “No, she can’t come to the phone tonight.

She’s on punishment.” And damn, but my cheeks go red. “Who is this?”

I focus on going about my business as if it ain’t nothing, so Mama won’t notice how crazy I’m going inside, as she finishes up the call.

Here she comes looking at me all suspicious.

“Who was that?” I ask, trying to sound like I don’t even care.

“Some young man. Something about a poll they’re doing, asking young people questions about the state of the world.” She’s eyeballing me something fierce now, waiting to see if I’ll crack. I just shrug my shoulders and head over to the counter to work on the salad. I can’t help but smile when I think of him coming up with that hogwash.

“Anybody new around town this summer?” Mama asks.

“How should I know? Do I look like the welcome wagon?” Sweat starts to bead up on my forehead. I just wipe it on the back of my hand and keep chopping the vegetables.

Lucky for me, Mama notices the greens are burning, and that takes her mind off the mystery caller.

 

 

Soon as she leaves for the Family Dollar the next morning, the telephone rings.

I race into the kitchen and pick it up. “Hello,” I say. Dog’s still laying up in the bed—lazy-ass.

“You off punishment already?” Jackson laughs.

I catch my breath and feel like a whole cage full of butterflies have been let go and are flying up from my stomach to my chest.

“That was a good one—that survey thing.” I can feel him smiling through the phone.

Then his voice gets kind of scratchy, and he says all seriouslike, “Meet me at the beach?”

I start to fanning myself with my hand. “When?”

“Soon as you can get there.”

“Ten minutes,” I tell him, then rush off to the bathroom to shave my legs and brush my teeth. I go as fast as I can, then ride my bike like I’m fleeing from an atomic bomb. But still, when I get there, I see him sitting on the sand like he’s been waiting on me all day.

“Hey, Savannah,” he says, and his voice sounds grown and smooth.

“Hey,” I say back.

Then we just stand there, not knowing what to do. There ain’t hardly nobody on the beach, except some fishermen. And we just look at each other till we both bust out laughing.

Then he takes me by the hand and we walk up the coastline with no destination. We climb across the rocks to where the sand turns near white and the beach fills up with city folk and fancy vacation homes. We keep on, slow but steady, chitchatting about seashells and folks we pass along the way.

“You got any brothers or sisters?” I ask him.

“Two brothers. Carter’s fifteen and Tyler’s fourteen.”

I wonder if that makes me seem young to him. Then I suddenly realize he probably doesn’t even know my age. “You get along with ’em?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I reckon they’re closer to each other.” Then he gets that far-off look in his eyes and starts to staring out to sea.

I scrounge up my nerve and ask him, “Whatcha thinking ’bout?”

“Wondering what’s out there for me.”

“Something real special,” I tell him.

“You got a feeling on that?” he asks.

Blushing, I shake my head. “I just sense you’re different is all.”

“Different?” he asks me. “How you reckon?”

I turn to the ocean, try to find my answer out that way. “I don’t know.” I shrug, wanting to be truthful, yet fearing it at the same time. “You seem . . . real.” I turn back towards him. “Folks are always trying so hard to seem this way or that way or not seem some way or the other. I like how you told me about your dream of painting and how you said you’d call me in front of your kin when they was teasing us, and then you were true to your word and called. You just seem . . . trustworthy, like you’re who you say you are . . . just you.”

He shrugs, looking out at the waves again. “Got no one else to be.”

“It’s kinda funny,” I say, thinking aloud, “how that one simple thing is so hard for most folk.”

“What?” he asks.

“Just being theirselves.”

He looks at me all serious, his eyes deep and intense. And I get to thinking maybe he’s going to kiss me right there. Then a great big smile breaks over his face like the wave crashing on the shore and he says, “Let’s go swimming.” And next thing I know he’s splashing into the water, tugging me along with him, my shorts and T-shirt still on top of my swimsuit. I swear this guy is crazy. And damn, but I’m loving every minute.

“Our church is having a cookout Sunday evening,” I tell him, as I dip my hair back in the water to get it out of my face. “You think you might could go? It’s the same one your kin go to.”

“I’ll check with my aunt. You gonn’ be there?” he asks.

My smile is near about breaking my face in two. I nod.

“We’ll see what we can do then.” He grins and pulls me under the next wave.

 

 

Later, on my way to work, I swing by the junior college again, peek in on that camp. I ease into the back of the darkened auditorium real quiet this time, then creep into a chair, slunk down real low so nobody’ll notice.

The kids and teachers are sitting in a big circle up on the bright stage talking. I can’t hear, so I move closer, staying down. It’s
Jane Eyre
they’re discussing. I read that book last year. I liked that the romance had a happy ending. But it killed me how long it took them to get there. I never understood how Jane could keep from getting together with Mr. Rochester all that time. I mean, I know he was her boss and well, married to a crazy woman and all. But in my opinion, love just isn’t something that can be overcome.

“In the eighteen eighties,” the teacher is saying, “when Miss Brontë wrote the novel, women were expected to tend to the home. What free time they had was to be spent on productive pastimes such as knitting, or those that entertained, like piano playing. Writing was considered men’s work, which is why the book was originally published under a pseudonym.”

I am certainly glad not to have lived at that time. I couldn’t stand tending to the house all day, not being allowed to follow my own dreams just ’cause I was a girl.