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| Sunday, 4 September 2005 |
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Goodbye
Jogging now, the rain starts leaking through the collar of her parka and dripping down her back. The raindrops feel like marbles landing on her skull, but it's too late to turn around. So she starts running faster. The weather is wild now, and the sound of her feet hitting the wet concrete gets lost in the patter of the rain - but she's nearly there. She rounds the last corner at a dead sprint, sweating underneath her layers now. Her school is just a quarter-mile in the distance when she hears her name. ...Continued from Last week Hola Rosa! she calls from the bedroom. We're in here! Rosa appears in the doorway, winded from the climb. She has a big soft face, a big soft belly, and hands that immediately lull the fear from any child. She doesn't speak a word of English, but she takes very good care of J.J. every day until four o'clock when Skylish comes home from school. Who knows the last time her mother paid her, but sweet old Rosa would probably just keep coming either way. See you tonight! Skylish says. She kisses J.J. on the top of the head and then hurries off. That's how she says goodbye. Outside, her cul-de-sac is flooded and looks like a lake with tract homes on its banks. Two junior-high boys who live on either side of the duplex across the street are wrestling in the water, and the boys' mothers are standing in their respective halves of the yard wearing identical bathrobes. The weight of the thick, wet cotton shows on their hunched shoulders, but their lips are fixed in a Mona Lisa smile. The mothers watch as the larger boy grabs the younger one's hair and pulls him backward into the water. From the expression on his face and the way he's limping now, it looks like the younger boy's back is hurt - but neither mother moves to stop them. Southern California is essentially a developed desert and, on days like today, the novelty of the rain takes precedence over parenting. Rainstorm For a moment, Skylish considers just staying home, but she hasn't missed a day of school in two years so a rainstorm doesn't seem like much of an excuse. Reluctantly, she zips up her parka, tucks her chin to her chest, and plunges out from under the house's front awning. With every step, her hair gets wetter and wetter. She dyed it Simply Red a week ago, and when she catches sight of her reflection in the side mirror of a parked car her hair looks as dark as blood against her skin. She walks as fast as she can and, at first, the parka does a decent job. She gets as far as Costa Brava, one of the main streets through her housing development, and then the sky starts to rattle. A minute later, raindrops start bouncing up into the air after they hit the pavement. She turns and looks back behind her hoping to find a ride, but all the Hondas and Toyotas that come in waves of ten or twelve at a time are heading the other way toward the Los Angeles Freeway. If not for Barbara's phone call, she could have left ten minutes earlier and easily caught the bus. Even when she's not around, her mom always makes a mess of things. Jogging now, the rain starts leaking through the collar of her parka and dripping down her back. The raindrops feel like marbles landing on her skull, but it's too late to turn around. So she starts running faster. The weather is wild now, and the sound of her feet hitting the wet concrete gets lost in the patter of the rain - but she's nearly there. She rounds the last corner at a dead sprint, sweating underneath her layers now. Her school is just a quarter-mile in the distance when she hears her name. Skylish! Skylish! she hears. She stops and turns. Right behind her is an oversized golf umbrella with two legs, and before she has time to react, an arm reaches out and pulls her under the canopy. She wipes the rain from her eyes and is face-to-face with an average-looking boy she's never seen before. You Skylish? he asks. My mom calls me that, she says. The rain hitting the umbrella sounds like popcorn popping all around them. I live on Aveneda Del Sol. My mom met your mom the other day, he says. My name is Brian. Lightning makes the umbrella glow red, white, and blue. Stylish counts five one thousands, and then there's thunder. I just moved here from Malibu about a month ago, Brian says. Your mom brought over vitamins the other day. Skylish stares down at the stream of water flowing on the sidewalk between her sneakers and his slip-ons. I'm going to be late, she says. It's only her second tardy for the term so she won't get detention if she hurries. Took me an hour to find this umbrella, Brian says, still smiling as big as when he first said her name. I'm going, she says, and then steps out from under the umbrella. Wait! he says, but it's difficult to hear, so Skylish pretends that she didn't. She clutches her arms across her chest and starts running again. The first bell has rung by now and Mr. Carlson's aid is probably taking roll. Skylish, wait! Brian yells. Over her shoulder, she sees him quickly gaining on her with his umbrella in tow. You'll get soaked, he yells, and then he catches up. His t-shirt is sopping wet, and she can see his nipples poking out on either side of the skateboard decal printed in middle of his chest. She slows to a walk. Come under here, he says, lifting the umbrella up over her head. My mother calls me Skylish. Sorry. It's Sky. |
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