| |
Mr. Johnson is grand.
He’s one of those grandiose people, standing at a solid 6’2’’. Silent like the night, and the epitome of the calm that comes after the storm.
His hair is growing back. Wispy strands of night, just long enough for them to hover over his chin. He seems happy in the midst of the festivities and sunlight that dominate the area.
Stalks of fresh grass make up the space, the summer sun beating down on the ground, grass strands attempting to reach out and catch a few beams of light.
We seem to live in the sun.
My parents are here, only a little ways away, my uncle by the grill, his wife flipping the sizzling pieces of meat.
Mr. Johnson doesn’t normally say a ton, but when he does, his voice carries through the atmosphere, and Laura smiles like her dad is everything and more than all the oceans combined.
My hands slip into my pockets as my eyes flicker over the space. My pale white shirt is tucked into paint-splattered jeans, everything about the braids that make their way down to my elbows screaming sun.
Emory Richards is here. His burns are gone. The day Brett had returned to school premises, he didn’t say much. Of course, there were still the occasional comments, the lacrosse team trying to recapture what it was they had before.
Despite their efforts, however, I don’t think it’s possible for them to recreate it. And they had seemed to think so, too, because the group had broken off into smaller subgroups. I’m certain some of their parents had issued orders of avoidance; ones that had (halfheartedly) been carried out.
There’s a faint flush to Emory’s features, healthy and blooming beneath the sun.
He’s laughing.
Off to the side is his older sister, hair a mess of almond curls, eyes bright as her floral dress billows in the wind. Look a little further back and you’ll see his parents, deep into conversation with Laura’s.
Once my eyes catch onto Emory Richards, his lips turn into a lopsided grin. He doesn’t glance away. This time, he raises his can of soda to the atmosphere, and I mime clinking my glass with his.
Orion is here, organizing a little game of soccer with Claudie and her friends, the little kids glancing up at him, one dribbling the ball from foot to foot. Nat is next to him, arm slung around the former’s shoulders.
And like his namesake, Orion’s eyes seem to reflect the galaxy. His lips are pulled into a neutral line, but his eyes seem to glow.
Of course Ms. Knox is here. She’s seated at one of the outdoor tables, knife and fork oh-so-gracefully cutting into the burger seated in front of her. Yasmine is speaking excitedly to her, Ms. Knox most likely dishing out book recs.
My eyes flicker over to Laura once more. Even during a day as light as this, Laura’s shirt is a deep read, reading MMIW. She’s thrown campaigns over the past few months before school closed for summer. Awareness posters have been hung in the hallways, always present.
An arm is slung around my shoulder, startling me out of my thoughts. It’s so familiar that the aura has grown on me. A scent of autumn and sweetness and the cold atmosphere that’s given way to the warmth of summer.
“Laura,” I say, a grin sliding onto my lips as I look out onto the barbecue sight, filled from corner to corner with my family. Chosen and biological.
“Amina,” she echoes in the same tone, black ponytail swishing from side to side.
“I’m happy you’re here.” I say, Laura grinning over at me like we’ve known each other for infinity. As though, even before infinity, the stars begged for us to be inseparable.
“Imagine me not being here,” she says, silver bracelets dangling on her wrists as the hand that’s not resting on my shoulder is holding onto a recyclable plate, her lips twitching in amusement.
“Things aren’t perfect,” I say for a few moments, watching as Laura’s gaze flickers over to me.
“Perfect is overrated,” she finally says, her shoulders brushing against mine in an easy nudge.
“Or maybe,” I begin, voice soft. “This is my version of perfect. This,” my hand waves over the area. Everyone who's here, my family, my friends. Everyone that I would fight hard for and everyone who would fight harder for me. “This is my perfect.”
Laura nods. A smirk curves onto her lips as she sets her plate down, hands finding her hips. “Try and make it to the other end before me?”
A laugh. “Try? You’re insanely slow.”
Her eyes flash with vibrance. “We’ll see.”
In seconds, Laura is running, her hair flickering behind her in a mess of black, and then I’m behind her, running like my life depends on it.
And I’m flying, laughing, screaming, and shouting out yells of euphoria into the cerulean sky.
I’m on top of clouds, harnessing the universe like it’s always belonged to me.
Crying out, I will my feet to catch up to Laura as they fly over the clouds of grass and dirt, weaving around everyone that feels like blood to me.
The stars belong to us at this moment in time.
My chest swells.
And hell, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I like to think of this book as something vital, something I’ve poured my life into. However, as with all accomplishments, this could have never been done without the assistance of those close to me.
Firstly, my parents with constant support from the sidelines and on the playing field. Secondly, many of the people around me, thoroughly scanning over this book and suggesting pieces of feedback.
All in all, many thanks go out to all those close to me, as you were crucial in helping me paint Amina Davis’ world for her audience, and for that, I can’t be more grateful.
