Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) by Paulus Rajdeep

Author:Paulus, Rajdeep [Paulus, Rajdeep]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Playlist Fiction
Published: 2013-05-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Monday arrives not soon enough. I anxiously count down the minutes till lunchtime to tell Lagan that I ate his cucumber slices up. That they were yummy. That he can’t take the letters back. The letter. Really. The letter to me telling me that he hearts me.

We still sit seats apart. The end of the school year has enough days that I’m not willing to risk being pulled out of school and missing precious time with my prince. Gosh. That sounds so girly. I still have to watch myself. Limiting my smiles around Jesse. Don’t want to gloat. Keeping my poker face on when Dad is around.

Saturday streamed into Sunday, like any normal weekend. Chores. More chores. Homework. More work. And broken eggshells everywhere as Jess and I tiptoed around Dad’s cancerous anger. Well, I walked. Jess just lays there, a charade that has to be getting old. Then Sunday evening brought about the most unusual moment. As I carefully walked past Dad’s office to make my way up to bed, I could have sworn I heard a muffled sound, coming from his desk. I know that sound like I know the back of dad’s hand. He was crying.

I witnessed a similar incident a couple years back, but I dismissed it as a fluke. About three months after Mom passed away when packing our house up became top priority, I approached Dad in his office to ask whether to save or donate several books from his college days. He looked through them quickly, and after removing one from the stack, told me to toss the rest in the donation bin. I left the room to continue sorting when I realized I forgot to ask him about some jackets I found in the basement closet. As I turned the corner toward the den, I stopped in my tracks. Dad gazed at the saved book and turned page after page, one at a time. His eyes looked more tenderly at the words than I’d ever seen him look at anything or anyone. I nearly choked as I gulped back disbelief when I saw Dad’s hand wipe a tear from his cheek. He was crying? Over a skinny book called The Foundling?

I didn’t think to pay attention to the author’s name, but I looked up the word in a dictionary that night before I went to bed. Webster’s defined foundling as “an abandoned infant, a stray, an outcast.” I will never know if the tears were for Mom or for himself. That day marked the first and last time I ever saw my father cry. Until yesterday. Last night. But I just moved from a weeping to a waterfall willow. I can’t allow myself to dwell on Dad. I’d rather sleep and dream of days past and days to come, with a boy who says, “I heart you!”

School staff shortens lunch fifteen minutes early for a Monday afternoon assembly. Seniors shuffle into the auditorium, Lagan walking behind me. We both feel shafted. The talk is titled “Power Hour” by Principal Jenners.

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