The Sky Above Us

by Natalie Lund

  Her eyes fell. “I know,” she said softly. She didn’t, though. No one thought Cass was anything less than perfect. Cass, the kind. Cass, the generous. Cass, the intelligent.

  “Don’t you want to get better at it? On your own?” she asked.

  That “on your own” bit made him wary. Had Izzy told her about him cheating to keep his grades up? “Sometimes I just wish we could go back to seventh grade. Don’t you?” he said. “We didn’t have a care in the world when we played in those houses.” He reached for her arm and traced the vein from her wrist up her forearm to make her smile.

  That’s what he’d done the first time they kissed, inside one of the under-construction houses. She’d shivered under his finger and he’d pulled her toward him. He hadn’t been prepared for her gale-force kiss in return, the way she’d slipped her tongue into his mouth and raked her teeth against his lip. He’d grown hard instantly.

  Heart stopped.

  No air.

  Died in love.

  Unfortunately, he’d had to pee. The annoying pressure in his bladder brought him back and, frankly, saved him from shuddering against her and coming in his jeans right there. That probably would have altered history.

  But this time, she pulled her arm away and scooped him out of the memory. “No,” she said. “I like where I’m at now. I feel more comfortable with myself.” She closed the book, shifted onto her knees, and pecked him on the lips. “I’m going home.”

  “Please stay. Are you mad at me?” A little whine crept into his voice. He couldn’t help it. Lately he’d felt the gravity weakening between them. She could easily spin off into her own galaxy, leaving him with all her insignificant moons. It made him want to hold on to her that much tighter.

  She shook her head. “I have to study for calculus. I need to focus.”

  When he heard her say goodbye to his mom downstairs, he rolled back over and closed his eyes. She deserved everything she dreamed of. He just wished he deserved it too—or even knew what he wanted.

  His phone buzzed. It was Israel, checking on Nate again. Shane pulled up Nate’s social media, which was usually flooded with hilarious videos and memes he shared from other accounts. There were no new posts. Shane messaged Aaron, who was a freshman at the same university Meg attended.

  Hey, dude. Just wondering if your bro is okay.

  Mom said he has a torn ACL. Has to have surgery once school is over, Aaron wrote.

  Fuck, Shane texted back. What else was there to say? They’d been playing together on traveling teams since fourth grade. Nate was a wonder to watch—the way he drove his body down the field, precise as a blade.

  Think he’s home yet? Shane asked.

  Yeah, he is.

  Shane jogged down the stairs. His dad was offshore, but his mom was at their dining table, which had become a craft station littered with rolls of floral tape, pins, and green foam. The blooms for tomorrow’s event were in the kitchen sink. Their house always smelled like greenery. “Gotta go to Nate’s,” he told her.

  “What about chemistry? Cass said you have a test.” She was carefully trimming the thorns off a yellow rose and didn’t look up.

  “Not as important.” And it wasn’t. Shane’s friends helped him survive school, and he owed them all that he could give in return.

  She pressed her lips like she was blotting lipstick. It was something his sister always did too, especially on the volleyball court when her team was losing. “What’s your plan, Shane?” she asked. “Cass told me she’s applying to my alma mater.”

  Columbia? Cass hadn’t told him that. It was far, but what did he expect? That she’d stay close enough to see him on the weekends? Maybe. A little.

  “Mom, Nate’s knee is broken. I don’t have time to talk about college plans.”

  “Soon, then. We’ll do a few visits once you’re out of school.”

  He couldn’t imagine a worse prospect than trailing behind his mom on college tours, her posing questions about dining plans and course requirements and him wondering if he could do it—make new friends all over again and cheat his way through more school. What he said was, “Yeah, maybe.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When Nate’s dad swung the door open, Shane was struck by the stench of fish and sweat, his scent during the long tourist season. He wore his usual uniform for fishing tours and charters: a T-shirt that advertised an island surf shop, and holey jeans.

  “Hey, buddy. Good to see you.” He gave Shane a quick squeeze on the shoulder.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Not great, unfortunately.” He waved Shane inside. “Warning: he’s on some painkillers.”

  Nate was sprawled on the couch, his leg propped up on throw pillows, his body relaxed like he was asleep. A pair of crutches leaned against the arm of the couch.

  “Hey, man,” he said sleepily.

  “Hey.”

  “My leg’s fucked.” He laughed, a loud cackle Shane had never heard before. Usually, his friend bottled up his laughs, kept them contained behind a tight-lipped smile so they wheezed inside him and shook his shoulders. This laugh was loud and almost villainous.

  “How are you feeling?” Shane asked cautiously.

  “Like a million bucks.”

  At least there was still that sarcasm Shane knew. “I’m sorry this happened.”

  “Me too.” Nate closed his eyes. “I don’t know what I’ll do after senior year now.”

  “You’ve got a long time to figure that out.”

  “Nah. I don’t,” Nate said. “You don’t either.”

  “God, did my mom call you?” Shane asked with a laugh. “Or Cass?”

  “Yeah, they’ve got me saved as a favorite. Always texting me like, ‘Hey, you up?’”

  Shane laughed. “I think we’re both fucked.”

  “At least your knee works.”

  “Yep, me and my golden knee are going to rule this crumb of an island.”

  “King of the crumb,” Nate said, lifting his hand as though he were going to cheers Shane with a drink.

  “Kings of the crumb,” Shane said back, knocking his imaginary cup into Nate’s. Shane held his grin—for Nate—but he was starting to feel like everything was teetering. If the world tipped an inch more, he was going to lose his grip.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NATE

  Thirty days before

  JANIE CAME OVER after school wearing battered Birkenstocks, a tie-dyed T-shirt that said Camp Karankawa, and a gray skirt that fell to the tops of her ankles. She had a canvas tote bag hanging over her shoulder, a yoga mat across her back, and a paper plate wrapped in plastic in her hands. He opened the door and tried to smile like this was any other day.

  “Brought your books,” she said, lifting her shoulder with the canvas tote bag. “You know, so you can study for finals.”

  “Study? That sounds awful. I’m supposed to be convalescing,” Nate said, trying to keep his tone light.

  She laughed and pushed the plate into his hands. It felt unusually heavy. “Mmm. Hockey pucks. My favorite.”

  “Oatmeal raisin, you ass.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said. “I’ll call up Nana and tell her you made her some cookies.”

  She put her hands on her hips in mock anger. “Nana Herschel wishes she could eat my cookies.”

  “Well, she certainly needs the fiber.”

  Rolling her eyes, Janie pushed aside the coffee table and then unrolled the yoga mat for him. Dr. Dennis had scheduled Nate’s surgery to repair his ACL for summer break and sent Nate home with crutches and some prehab exercises to strengthen his muscles. Yes, he might play soccer again, Janie’s dad had said, but it could be a year or two. And even then, his knee may never be like it once was.

  Janie read from the packet of exercises her dad had prin
ted: “Okay, for the first one, you have to lie on your back and slide your heel toward you and then away.”

  He set down the cookies, hopped to the mat, and lowered himself. It smelled like a hot day at the beach, like brine and dried seaweed.

  “Count,” she said, and he did, exhaling each number with a grimace. His knee ached, and the dread was still there, tight against his throat. A pinprick and it would all leak out.

  What was he supposed to do without soccer?

  He tried to push away the question. To forget about the scouts at camp this summer. The cool green grass of Maryland. The dream of standing on the field, hand on his heart as they played the national anthem before his first professional start. But there was nothing else to think about. Not with his knee throbbing so much it felt like there was a bright light behind his eyes.

  “Tell me about Maryland,” he said.

  She flinched at the name like he’d thrown it at her. He braced himself for her to snap, but she didn’t. “Maryland,” she repeated softly.

  “What was it like?”

  She was quiet a moment, and Nate wondered if she was thinking of her mother. “It could be hot and humid in the summer like here, but it never lasted as long,” she said finally. “And, in the winter, it would snow. Sometimes a lot.”

  He smiled at this, imagining snowflakes falling from the ceiling, kissing his skin—light and cold. It never snowed on their island.

  “Next one,” she said. “Bridges.”

  He dug his heels into the mat and lifted his pelvis. “Did you live near the ocean?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “Not that close. We’d go to Ocean City sometimes, though. They have these french fries on the boardwalk that they serve in paper cones with malt vinegar.”

  Nate could taste the sourness and salt on the back of his tongue. He dropped his hips with a gasp. “Let’s watch TV,” he said.

  “You’ve still got to do the glute ones,” she said.

  “Yeah, yeah, you want me to get a good ass.”

  She blushed, but still managed to throw it back. “Everyone wishes you had a better ass, Nate. It’s flatter than our island.” She grew serious again. “Don’t you think you should follow my dad’s instructions so you won’t regret it after the surgery?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what happens after.”

  Janie could miss social cues sometimes, but she didn’t now. She helped him to the couch, then dragged the coffee table back over and positioned a pillow on top so he could prop up his knee. Once seated, she kicked her feet up next to his and wiggled her toes unselfconsciously. They both sank down, their heads pushed back into the cushions, which had long ago become dented with their bodies. While he waited for the apps on the TV to load, he stared out the window, which faced the front porch, the street a story below, and the beach—if you managed to see beyond blocks of interceding houses.

  “You wanna drive to the beach? Just sit on a blanket or something, for old times’ sake?” Janie asked.

  When he was younger, the beach had pulled at him the way the moon pulled at the ocean. Maybe he’d grown out of it later than everyone else, but he had eventually grown out of going on adventures there. Now he only went to the beach for the occasional party.

  “Nah. It feels like a hot, damp washcloth out there,” he said. The joy of going to the beach was something he’d lost without even noticing. Was that all life was? A string of losses—both unnoticed and deeply felt—that you dragged behind yourself like a broken tail?

  The dread crept from his throat and settled cold and heavy on his chest. Thinking about it was only making it heavier, compressing each breath into a quick gasp. He felt like he wasn’t getting enough air.

  “Are you okay?” Janie asked.

  Nate nodded and tried to inhale slowly and deeply like the instructors in the yoga videos his mom did each night. He just needed to empty his brain and lose himself in a TV show he’d seen a million times before. He scrolled through the episodes of an old show about a group of disgruntled employees in an office. The show always made Janie cackle—an eruption of sound that shook the couch.

  He pressed play and pasted a smile on his face, pretending like nothing at all had changed. When, in fact, everything had.

  EMAIL THREAD

  From: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  To: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  Subject: Research Question

  Dear Mr. Ryerson,

  I’m a student at the University of Houston working on a thesis on trauma and grief. I’m especially interested in studying people who have lost loved ones to a traumatic incident. I saw your father’s accident referenced in newspaper archives. Would you mind answering a few questions?

  Israel J. Castillo

  From: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  To: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  Subject: RE: Research Question

  Ok. What do you want to know?

  —Peter

  From: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  To: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  Subject: RE: RE: Research Question

  Peter,

  Thank you so much for your willingness to participate. Can you tell me what you remember about the accident?

  Israel J. Castillo

  From: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  To: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: Research Question

  I was 12 so I don’t know much about the accident. It happened on a curve a few miles from our house. My mom said it was rainy and he was going too fast. His car slipped into the lane of an oncoming car. There was a vehicle fire and the rain wasn’t heavy enough to extinguish it.

  From: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  To: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Research Question

  Peter,

  Thank you. Can you provide a little more context about your father? What did he do? Do you have a photo of him I might include in my paper?

  Israel J. Castillo

  From: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  To: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Research Question

  He was a country veterinarian who specialized in farm animals. We lived on a ranch outside Honore, so we always had a ton of goats, pigs, chickens, dogs, and barn cats.

 

  —Peter

  From: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  To: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Research Question

  Peter,

  Would you be willing to meet in person so I can ask more questions? I need to know more about your relationship to analyze your response to the trauma.

  Israel J. Castillo

  From: PRyerson984@LyteCorp.com

  To: IsraelJCastillo@youremail.com

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Research Question

  Who is this really? Why are you so interested in my father?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IZZY

  Two days after

  LUNA PACES OUTSIDE my room. She’s looking for Israel. I get it; I am too. But it makes me feel like there’s a centipede under my skin because every time her nails click by on the tile, I’m reminded that he’s gone.

  I fling open the door. “He’s—not—here!” I yell—even though she can’t hear what I’m saying and wouldn’t understand me if she could. She wags at me, lifting her head so that I’ll scratch under her chin.

  “I’m not Israel.” I nudge her away with my knee and knock
on my parents’ door. My mom hasn’t left her room in twenty-four hours.

  “Hey, mami, are you . . .” But I can’t finish the question. “Can I come in?” I say instead.

  “Sí,” she finally says, her voice hollow. I push open the door and Luna springs in, probably excited to have a new room to search.

  “La perra hiede,” my mom says—though the room smells far worse than Luna, like sweat and sleep breath. She’s curled under the blankets, her spine to me, her hair a stiff nest.

  I swing open the French doors that lead to their balcony. It’s hotter outside, but the air is fresh at least and you can hear the ocean several blocks away. I step out and Luna follows, sniffing the ground as though she’s on his trail. It feels like we’re on top of the world in this house. It’s two stories stacked on a garage that our old house could have fit inside.

  I inhale and try to imagine that Israel, wherever he is, is hearing the same crash of waves, smelling the same mix of dead fish and salt and seaweed. Like we’re characters from our favorite childhood movie—Fievel Goes West. When Fievel and Tanya are separated, they sing “Somewhere Out There,” and it comforts both of them to know that they are wishing on the same bright star. I think of Israel and me, wishing on the same ocean right now. The thought settles the centipedes under my skin a little.

  “It’s too bright,” my mom calls from inside. “Shut it.”

  I shoo Luna back inside and climb into bed to spoon my mom, but she’s radiating so much heat I scoot back to the edge of the mattress. Who knew grief could feel like fire?

  “Mami, do you believe that our souls can live inside other things, like animals?” I drag my fingers through her streaked-honey hair, working out the small knots at the ends.

  She rolls onto her back so she can see my face, and I realize she hasn’t looked at me since Israel disappeared. For our entire lives, our parents invested their hopes and dreams in Israel. He was the hard worker, the quiet, responsible one. I have always been the loud troublemaker. I shouldn’t be surprised they’re disappointed that I’m the one who’s left.