by Wendy Mills
“Your grandfather was able to bring us to America, and I remember walking around that first year feeling like I was in a dream. Everything was so normal, while in my home country, people, my friends and family, were still dying. I felt guilty for living in peace. It was hard adjusting at first. I could not speak English, and everything was so different here. But I learned the language, and eventually your mother was old enough to go to college, and we were so proud. A lawyer! Imagine! We wanted to make sure she never felt powerless, that she had a secure place in this country.”
We are both quiet after she stops speaking. It’s a horrible story, and I almost want to cry thinking about my mother’s little-girl feet covered in blood. I can’t imagine living in a place where things like that happened. I have only been to Indonesia once, and it is a beautiful country, but who would I be if my grandparents hadn’t come to America? Those teenage girls I saw in the streets of Jakarta seemed so different from me.
But were they really?
“I think you need to understand where you came from, that these bad things that happened have shaped your parents. Remember, Lala, that to love is to be frightened every minute of every day.”
“I don’t know what they expect from me! I don’t want to be a lawyer like Mama, and I think I might want to write comic books, but that won’t ever be good enough for them.”
“You are afraid too, Lala. You are afraid of disappointing your parents, but you cannot let fear keep you from being the person you need to be.”
We sit in the rich, light-filled silence for a moment, thousands of miles apart but still in the same place.
“I need to get to school, Nenek,” I say eventually.
“Yes,” she says. “What I wanted to say is this: you are stronger than you think you are. We all are.”
“I’ve made so many mistakes, Nenek. I’m not sure my parents will ever be able to forgive me,” I say.
“Of course they will forgive. It’s harder to forget though. I love you very, very much, Lala. So do your mother and father.”
Chapter Ten
Jesse
I’m in the shed, searching for my boots and ice tools when I find the photo album, hidden under a pile of tarps on the top shelf.
My phone rings, and I dig it out of my pocket.
“Hey.” I balance the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I lift the silver-covered album down from the shelf, wondering why it’s here.
“What are you doing today?” Nick asks.
“I told you, remember? I’m going climbing. Want to come?”
He laughs. “I was thinking more like huddling up under a blanket with you and watching dirty movies. It’s freaking cold outside.”
“I know,” I say. “Isn’t it great?” I lean my hip against the wall and listen to Nick laugh, low and deep. I like it when he laughs. We’ve been inseparable since the night I went out bombing with him a month ago. It all happened so fast, and I’m not even really sure how we became Nick-and-Jesse so quickly, or Nessie, as Teeny called us when we first started going out. I suppose running from the cops on your first date has a way of bonding people.
I flick open the album with one finger.
Nick says something else, but I’m no longer listening.
A picture of my brother Travis stares up at me.
“All right,” I say to Nick, having no idea what I’m agreeing to, but suddenly needing to get off the phone. “I’ll call you when I get back, okay?”
I slip the phone back in my pocket and take the album to the workbench.
The first pages are the news articles that our local paper does every year on the anniversary of 9/11. They all say the same thing, that Travis was eighteen when he died in the attacks on the World Trade Center, that he was a recent graduate of our town’s high school, and that he played in a popular local band. There’s not much else, because as far as I know my parents never talk to the reporter when she calls every year. The articles always show the same sly-eyed graduation photo of Travis in a tux, like it is the only picture ever taken of him.
No one in my family ever says much about Travis. Hank used to talk about him some, before he decided to drop an arsenal of bombshells all over Christmas three years ago, and the resulting Dad-sized explosion blasted him out of our lives for good. But he only talked about Travis as a big brother, funny stories like the time Travis chased Hank so high up a tree they had to call the fire department to get him down, or how they used to play football with me when I was a little kid, and I was the football. But he never said a word about what happened to Travis on 9/11.
As far as I know, no one knows what Travis was doing in the towers that day. It’s never mentioned in the articles that I secretly read every year, and once I heard my mom on the phone with a friend saying “What on earth was he doing there? Why was he there?” And then she’d started crying, and I’d shut the door gently without her seeing me. I pretended I’d never heard her, and how effed up is that? Except in my house it was totally normal.
I flip through a few more pages and see that every one of the yearly articles about Travis has been neatly cut out and painstakingly glued into the album.
I think about my mom and Travis’s birthday cake and know that the album must be hers. But why has she hidden the album away? Who is she hiding it from?
Me? My dad? Why?
I hear the back door to the shop bang open, and my mom’s voice calls, “Jesse?”
I hurriedly shove the album back where I found it and grab my boots and ice tools.
I’m standing at the base of the frozen waterfall with a couple of other kids from our climbing club. I try to pay attention to Drew, the young hippy-dippy adjunct professor who organizes our climbs, but my thoughts keep wandering back to the photo album in the shed. It’s bugging me, like an unsolvable problem your physics teacher gave you solely to amuse himself. I wish I’d had time to go through more of the album.
“This is Adam,” Drew says as a new guy walks up. “I climbed with him last weekend, and he knows his stuff.”
“Morning,” the guy says easily and nods at all of us.
Holy heck, he’s gorgeous. Dark, wavy hair that curls across his forehead and over his collar, a skim of beard on his lips, chin, and cheeks, and eyes so blue it’s like they swallowed the sky whole.
Not that I’m noticing.
“Jesse, why don’t you and Adam pair up? Neither of you has a partner here today,” Drew is saying.
The guy, Adam, catches sight of me and for a moment his face goes still. Then the smile is back and he eyes me lazily.
“Think she can keep up?” he says to Drew as if I’m not standing right-freaking-there.
“Um … ,” I say, which is my way of saying anytime, anywhere, you cocky jerk.
“She’s good,” Drew says. “You guys will make beautiful mountain music together.”
Adam laughs, and I stand there with my face flaming as Drew keeps talking.
“It’s warmed up a tad over the past couple of days, so the ice is maybe sketchy—”
“Ya think?” a guy named Gary says, because he broke through the ice on the creek bed on the way in and is soaked up to his knees.
“Yeah, well, here’s your sign,” Drew says, unfazed. “It’s not like any of us are going to win any Darwin awards, right?”
We all laugh, drunk on the strong morning air and joy of it all, because climbing waterfalls is not exactly the safest thing in the world to do. We do it because it’s so damn hard to stay on the ground during the cold winter months when it’s tough to climb rock.
“There are six pitches, topped with ledges, so it’s like six short climbs,” Drew continues. “The last one is the crux, so save up some energy. Double up on your screws, and we’ll see you at the top.”
I watch Adam walk toward me, his gear clink-clink-clinking on his belt, crampons—metal spikes on his climbing boots—scuffing in the snow. I try not to notice the assured lilt of his walk, and instead assess his rack. Ice tool
s, which are basically skinny axes, screws—Black Diamond and all sizes—and no Grigri. Not a gym rat then, and his gear appears extensive and well used, not bought yesterday.
“Hey,” he says.
Up close I see he’s even cuter than I first thought, which is like saying the sun can get hotter, or the ocean deeper, or reality shows more annoying.
“Hey,” I say, forcing myself to look away from him and up at the first step of the frozen fall above us. Sheets of white ice cascade down over rocks and a fallen tree, and the ice is puffy like cauliflower in spots, stringy in others, and in some places just plain slick. I’ve always wanted to watch a waterfall thaw. Does it happen all at once, the rushing water just gushing down all of a sudden, or does it happen slowly, one molecule at a time?
I look back at the guy standing next to me. Around us, partners are talking pitches and deciding who will lead.
“You done this before?” I ask abruptly.
“Looks like no big deal.” White, white teeth flash against his tanned face, and his black hair rustles in the cold wind. He radiates confidence, sharp and bright.
“I don’t know where you’re from—” I begin.
“Michigan. Born in New York, but we left when I was three.” His face shuts down for a quick, slicing moment, and I can tell there’s something more there, but I can’t imagine what it could be to make him appear so closed-for-business all of a sudden. “My dad travels a lot though, and I go with him. I’ve climbed in Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado,” he says, all affable again, and I wonder if I imagined that beat of anger.
He’s named a few of the best climbing states in the country, so he should know his stuff. I sigh. I don’t like climbing with strangers. But the thing about climbing is that you need a partner, unless you’re a show-off with a death wish, and since Maggie, the girl I usually climbed with, moved to Arizona, I’ve been left without a steady partner for months now.
“Okay, so maybe you’ve climbed some,” I say. “All I meant is that some of the pitches here are harder than they look. So tell me honestly, can you do it?” Climbing is the one thing I can talk about without getting all clammed up. It’s the one thing I know.
“Yes,” he says, and grins widely. I get the feeling that he’s trying not to laugh at me.
I resist the urge to smack him, hoping he’s telling the truth.
“I’ll lead,” I announce. “I’ve climbed this before.”
He shrugs. “No problem.”
Nick would never let me lead. The traitorous thought slithers through my head and I slice it in two and bury the pieces.
“Okay.” I turn away from him and check my gear. I step to the bottom of the falls, thinking about the best line to take and where I can set screws.
“Am I on belay?” I ask, looking back at Adam, who is pulling on a pair of heavier gloves, tucking his lighter climbing gloves in his pack at his feet. He has anchored himself with webbing to a nearby tree, which is probably overkill, but I’m glad to see he’s being careful even if he is a cocky jerk.
“Belay on,” he answers.
“Climbing,” I say, kicking my crampons into the ice.
“Climb on,” he answers.
He surprises me by being just as good as me, if not better. Thoughts of the photo album and my brother are banished for the duration, because when I’m climbing I disappear into feeling, moving, doing, and there’s no room for anything else.
We don’t talk much, but after the first pitch we alternate leading until we reach an echoing amphitheater of ice right below the last fall. We’ve made good time, and other than Drew and his partner who have already disappeared up ahead of us, the rest of our group are below us, splashy beetles on the side of the ice.
“Easy as pie,” Adam says just as we both hear an ominous rumbling.
“Are you trying to jinx us?” I smile though, the sheer exhilaration buzzing in my veins. “You should see the falls in the summer. It always feels strange to be here when they’re frozen and you can’t hear them, or feel that boom in your chest as the water hits the rocks. It’s like they’re holding their breath right now.”
“Such a basic geological process like water flowing over rock creating something so beautiful that you feel it in your soul.” He waves an arm at the falls, his eyes intense with nerd passion and I swallow a giggle.
“You’re a rock geek, aren’t you?” I ask. There are a lot of them here in the Gunks.
He grins. “Something like that. I’m going to work as an intern for a geology firm this summer. That’s what I’m planning on majoring in.”
“Knew it.” I roll my eyes.
He shrugs. “My dad used to bring home rocks from all these places, and I got interested in rocks, mountains, the whole shebang. When you see a mountain, you either want to go around them, climb over them, or, I don’t know, blow holes in the side of them.” He laughs. “But the one thing you never can do is ignore them.”
I look at him, feeling something unfurl in my chest.
Who is this boy who has the ability to say the words I feel but never can put into words?
I see he’s watching me, the dimple flirting in his cheek. It flusters me, makes me feel guilty, makes me think of Nick. I look away and fumble in my pack for my water bottle.
“You ready?” I ask, after taking a gulp of water.
“Sure,” he says.
Does he have a girlfriend? The thought pops out of nowhere, and I frown, because it’s none of my business.
I’ve got to stop.
We’re all business as we talk about who should lead, and lines to follow. I’m not as gung ho about leading this time, but when he arches an eyebrow at my hesitation, I grit my teeth and say, “I’ll do it.”
He smiles, and it’s so sweet that I just want to stand and look at him. Or strangle him. One or the other.
I start up the final pillar, kicking the metal crampons of my boots into the ice and setting the thin ice tools. I stop for a moment when I hear a loud crack and watch a chunk of ice fall and crash onto the ground, rainbows of glittering snow puffing out like smoke.
“Okay?” I yell down at Adam, though he had known not to stand directly beneath me. When he nods I push myself up, using the ice tools as a grip.
About halfway to the top I realize I’m in trouble. My arms are shaking, and I’m seriously out of breath. I’ve been spending every free moment with Nick and haven’t had time to work out, and the proof is in my rubbery, quavering arms. I clip into a screw, feeling the ice shift underneath me, and grab for my ice tool to steady myself. I’m breathing in big gasps, and I’m suddenly not sure I’m going to make it.
“Hey.” Adam’s voice floats from below me. “I’ve got you, okay? I won’t let you fall. Just concentrate on the next move.”
I put my forehead against the ice, feeling the rough, cold edges, and then I look back up at the top.
“You can do this, Jesse.” It’s the first time he’s said my name, and something about the way he says it gives me the strength to kick in another foothold, and push myself up. Step by step, with Adam yelling encouragement, I make it to the top and collapse.
“You okay?”
“I’m okay!” I force myself to get up and secure an anchor for him.
He comes up, and it’s like he flows up the mountain, like a waterfall going backward, and then he’s at the top with me, and we’re both laughing up at the sky, not thinking about anything but right here, right now.
Chapter Eleven
Alia
I’m almost running as I head toward the subway. I pass a group of kids being ushered along by a nanny pushing a stroller, and sidestep a deliveryman feeding boxes through a metal hatch onto a conveyor belt that slides deep into the bowels of a shop. I feel reckless and impatient, like I’ve left something important unfinished, and the permission slip crinkles in my pocket. It’s a constant reminder of the dream that I am letting slip away.
Because it’s my fault I did not make my parents hear me. I let
so many opportunities pass when I could have told them what this NYU program means to me.
What can I do though? Both my father and my mother have said no, but if I don’t turn the permission slip in today, then I won’t be able to go to the NYU program. Maybe it’s not the end of the world, but if I let them do this to me, what else will I let them talk me into? Will I wake up one day in college, studying to be a doctor or lawyer and wonder how I got there?
I drop an absentminded pat on the head of a coin-operated horse outside a shop. I remember there was one like it down the street from where we used to live in LA. I would beg Ayah to drop quarter after quarter into it and sit in the saddle and clutch the reins while it bounded up and down.
Ayah is the one I need to convince. As in-your-face as my mother is, she listens to my father. Like when I chose a creative arts high school, instead of one of the more academic ones, and my mother and I screamed and yelled for an entire week. Finally I went to Ayah and told him how much it meant to me. He somehow poured water all over my mother’s raging inferno, and in the end I got to go to the school I wanted.
Ayah didn’t listen to me this morning, but all of a sudden I don’t want to give up.
Maybe he will listen, if I try one more time.
I barely catch the crowded express train going to Manhattan. A girl, older than me, probably in college, gets on and stands across from me. She’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, with a beautifully patterned purple scarf over her head. She catches my eye.
