A DIMPLE AND A WALL
Good Abby has done a thorough job of keeping Bad Abby in place during English class and maintains control when it’s time to move on to the last period of the day. When I get to the art room, most of the chairs behind tables arranged into the shape of a giant horseshoe are filled. I sit in one insulated on either side by an empty chair.
Once I’m seated, a boy entering the room catches my attention. He assesses the scene of the space. His countenance is assured and confident; a fist bump with another student near the door confirms he’s part of the pack. His gaze connects with mine and a charge buzzes the bottom of my spine, but his look bounces away to talk to the fist-bump guy.
I can’t help but watch him, his demeanor enigmatic but magnetic. He’s got this enchanting, dimpled smile that lures me. It’s the perfect complement to his features. His jaw is strong; his lips are full, but not feminine; and his nose is slightly crooked as though it was broken once, adding character to his otherwise perfect face. He’s lean, tall, and lithe. Locks of wavy, light brown hair with sunny highlights fall effortless against his forehead. I’m reminded of the surfers at home, shaped by the water like hands shape their surfboards.
I look away when he starts across the room toward me, chagrined to have been caught staring at him, and convinced that he probably gets stared at a lot. Good Abby isn’t happy with my staring, but then, he seems to be a part of the right crowd which reassures her. Bad Abby, on the other hand, is interested and that is dangerous. We know where that leads.
He takes one of the empty seats next to me, and glances my way, offering that easy smile. His eyes—brown with flecks of gold—twinkle, like he’s got a secret, and it bothers me that I can feel that look as concretely as if he touched my skin. I also don’t like that this practiced art of charm works. I’m reminded of Kanoa and feel shame reach up with gnarled fingers to squeeze my throat.
With a deep breath, I turn my attention to something innocuous, reaching into my backpack for a pencil. I notice that Adorable Dimple leans back against his chair, one leg stretched out, the other knee jutting out to the side. Someone on his left says something. He laughs. Familiarity brushes my consciousness with watercolor strokes. I have the urge to hug him and ask him how he’s been, but check the impulse, horrified. My cheeks heat knowing how embarrassing that would be. Switching gears, I adjust my bag, straighten in my chair, dismissing the strange whim.
The second bell rings just as another student steps into the room. The Wall I bumped into earlier! A glance around the room, I realize he’ll have to sit next to me since all the other chairs are taken. I feel a rush of unease. I’d been awful the moment someone had shown him disdain and feel ashamed of myself. But what could I do differently? There is so much riding on this new start. I can’t go backward.
He walks around the border of the desk arrangement toward the chair next to me. His lips, the bottom just slightly fuller than the top, nears the edge of a frown but seem to want to communicate apathy. His eyes study the floor as he walks. He swipes a hand over his forehead, pushing back his dark hair, the edges of it curling over the dark skin of his hand and pushes the hood of the hoodie off. The dark curls of his hair springs back around his face. When he glances up, his look collides with mine. I’m struck again by the depth of his blue eyes; how startling they are in contrast with the weighted countenance of everything else about him.
I look away, hoping he didn’t notice I’ve been watching him. There’s a curious effervescence of movement in my cells. A shiver— not unpleasant—steals across my skin while the chair legs of the seat next to me scrape against the linoleum floor. The Wall sits, crossing his arms over his chest. I sneak another glance. His profile is rigid and emanates the suffering artist. I’m so curious and Good Abby says, cut that shit out. Bad Abby says nothing but wants to keep staring at him.
The teacher’s voice catches my attention, but barely. I draw my look away from The Wall and focus on the teacher in the middle of the horseshoe.
“Welcome back arteests,” he says. “Let’s take a bit of time this afternoon to continue getting to know one another. Names again. And this time,” he pauses for effect, “a little-known fact about you. I’ll model. Mr. Mike Andrews. Again, please call me Mr. Mike. Let’s see. Ah. I got it. I play the guitar in a garage band, and I don’t mean the video game kind.”
A few in the class laugh. “Mr. Mike, no one plays that game anymore. It’s ancient.”
The teacher grins which makes me smile. “Laugh all you want about my ancient wisdom. One day soon you’ll join me in the non-video-game-garage-band ranks. Let’s start with you, Kara.” He holds out a hand toward the petite girl at the edge of the horseshoe.
One by one, the students share their names and a fact. I can feel my palms sweating, anticipating the moment I have to share something about myself. The words others say are incoherent. Are they speaking English? I’m running through possible things to contribute—something safe. There isn’t anything that I want to divulge. Whatever it is, the fact must be innocuous, so it isn’t memorable. How could I know that one day this “fun fact” wouldn’t be used against me?
In the time it has taken my gut to work itself into a writhing coil of sea snakes, the boy to my left is speaking. “I’m still Seth Peters,” he says, “and my fun fact is that I surf.”
“That isn’t ‘little known,’” the fist-bump boy says.
“That’s ‘cause I’m an open book, Ball.” Seth smiles. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
That dimple again.
The Wall makes a noise, a whooshing of air from his mouth as though he were going to say a bad word but stops himself.
I wonder about it but then zero in on Dimple’s name: Seth. That name adds to the watercolor painting in my mind that his face started. My subconscious analyzes the information for something with which I’m familiar. Seth. Seth. Seth Peters. It begins to coalesce into a tangible, recognizable work. I once knew a Seth Peters. I look at him directly. Could he be the same one? I want to ask him about it, but realize the room is silent. All eyes are on me, waiting for me to share.
Mr. Mike gives me a cue, “Next.”
“Sorry. Abby Kaiāulu,” I pause, embarrassed and flustered and add, “I just moved here from Hawaiʻi.” It seems safe enough.
“Nice to meet you, Abby. Thank you,” Mr. Mike says.
I look to my right at the Wall.
“Gabe Daniels.”
A random voice blurts, “Freak,” just loud enough so that the class collectively stifles laughter.
Mr. Mike clears this throat and telegraphs a disheartened gaze around the class. “Mutual respect is a non-negotiable,” he says. “And your fun fact, Gabe?" Mr. Mike encourages him to share.
“I like sports.”
“Boxing especially,” someone mutters clear enough for the rest of the class to hear. Snickers, eye rolling, and elbow jabbing make a wave around the room.
I glance at Gabe and his jaw tenses. I see the muscle work, bunching up slightly as he presses his teeth together. He removes his hands from the tabletop, shoves them into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and slips down a bit further into his seat.
“Enough,” Mr. Mike says, the ease of his smile and easy-going nature gone. “Any more comments get you sent out of this class and into cleaning the room just through that door,” he points to an open doorway beyond his desk, “where all of our dirty paint brushes, old clay buckets, cutters, palettes among other art supplies are waiting for volunteers to clean them. Is this non-negotiable clear?” Mr. Mike pauses, the look on his face drawn by gravity toward the floor.
I wish I’d had a Mr. Mike last year, then think about Kumu Ike in whose room I’d often hidden away during free periods. I suppose I had in a different way, but no one had stood up for me like Mr. Mike just did.
Mr. Mike says, “Thank you, Gabe. Next.”
I take that moment to look at Gabe again as the name game works its way around the horseshoe. I’m confused as to why he would he cause such a reaction. His handsome looks and imposing stature should have commanded premier social standing. It didn’t make sense. What could he have possibly done to be the social outcast? He leans back in his chair, his long legs out in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest, and stares straight ahead. I see that he isn’t as indifferent to his classmates’ reactions as he wants to appear. Something we have in common.
In the next instant I realize that I’m staring into his disconcerting eyes. One of his eyebrow’s arches in question at my perusal. Mortified, I look away at my notebook where I can doodle away my embarrassment. It’s then that I see a note has been scrawled in the margin:
Abby? Really from Hawaii?
I write back: Yes.
Seth, the boy who I think I know, reaches over my left arm to respond. His warm skin brushes against mine as he writes:
Did you used to come to Cantos during the summertime? Spend time with your Grandma Bev?
A smile blossom grows on my face and tension in my shoulders dissipates like steam. I write:
YES! You’re Seth? Grandma Bev’s next-door neighbor, Seth?
I look at him, and he smiles with that dimple again. I remember all those summers spent at Grandma Bev’s before she’d moved to Arizona. Seth, the little boy who’d lived in the house next door. Seth, my first crush!
I smile at him, a real smile. For the first time all day, it’s a smile I don’t feel like I have to measure against one of Abby’s rules.
“I can’t believe it,” he says with a shake of his head when Mr. Mike sets us free to look at art books for inspiration.
“I can’t remember the last time–” I turn the page of a Van Gogh coffee table book. When I look up, Seth watches me.
“Six summers,” he says.
Something peculiar happens in my stomach when he says it. A sense of déjà vu. A moment that seems to hint I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. A feeling that announces to my heart that of everyone I have interacted with today, this person is safe. But how can I know that? I barely know him, and the last time I did, I was ten. A lot can change in six years. I should know.
“That’s right,” I say, turning the pages of the tome. “Grandma Bev moved to Arizona six years ago.”
Seth looks at an equally large book about Rembrandt. “I was sad when that happened,” he says, flipping the page. He keeps his eyes on the book, leaning forward to scrutinize one of the pictures more closely. It’s a painting of a man who’s holding his son down, an angel grasping the man’s arm and a knife falling from the man’s hand. I glance at the title, The Sacrifice of Isaac, and shiver. “Nana Bev was an awesome lady,” Seth says his eyes on the image, then he straightens back up.
I nod and smile, thinking about my Nana traipsing around the world and snow birding in Arizona. “She is. She’s the world traveler now.” I tell him about what Nana Bev’s been up to.
Eventually he asks, “Do you surf?” He looks at me then, his smile a little different this time, not so bright and practiced. It’s as if those edges have softened and something less tangible but more real emerges. A slight variation, but I notice it.
“I do; surfing was born in Hawaiʻi you know.” I glance at Gabe who’s flipping through a volume about Dali. He looks up at me. His attention darts from me to Seth, then he looks back at his art book. He appears bored.
“I love this one,” I say and point at one of the Van Gogh paintings. Seth leans toward me and our shoulders graze. My muscle memory kicks into gear, and my nerve endings spark at our touch.
Don’t get caught up, Abby, Good Abby warns. That’s how we got into trouble last time.
Seth leans over his book to mine and follows me on my journey through Van Gogh land. We laugh at a skull smoking a cigarette.