Pavane for a Lost Boy (Or Rather, How to Survive Loss after Rejection)

Chapter Twenty-One

How does it feel to be human yet want to fly?

For me, being human is knowing that you have a lot of flaws that keep you rooted to thee ground without a chance of escaping from the words of bitterness from the people who supposed to care for you while playing favorites with your siblings.

But that doesn't mean that I don't want to fly away and be free from the misery.

And since living with the Lomax clan and undergoing this dynamic shift in my life, you can pretty much guess that it's like my feet aren't even touching the ground anymore since everyone is insisting that I speak life to myself despite my rocky start. Now, I will admit that I have these thoughts from Mommy Dearest that still nag at me for being such a poser, trying to fake my way to the top when everyone can see right through my soul- and that's true, whether I want to believe it or not. If you can see me right now, you can tell that I'm still this bitter Black teenager who's been broken and abused like a rag doll my sisters would like to toss around and imagine that I was ready to be thrown away.

But the one thing about surviving my late parents and siblings and a failed suicide attempt that I can remember now is that I have nowhere to go but forward. I have no idea where I'm heading and I'm clueless about what's ahead when Mom's voice warns for me to save face and end it all. But this strange force that's pushing me to keep moving forward is all but too real. So, I'm just going to keep running forward and find out what the real endgame is. It can either crash and burn on me like a time bomb or it can lead to something...more beautiful. The only way to know for sure is to keep moving forward.

One week after Epiphany and Serenity gave me the heads-up about Jillian and Ryan, I made it a mission to stay away from both of them. Believe me, I want no dealings with a lovelorn jock who clearly has some unwanted baggage who has platinum-blonde hair, statuesque-built like Julie Newmar, and can carry a grudge like Joan Crawford and Bette Davis combined. Something told me that I had to focus on myself and let my spiritual and emotional wounds heal.

Which is why I'm currently at swimming and diving practice with some of the guys, feeling grateful that my late parents allowed me to do such things back at the neighborhood YMCA since neither of my brothers nor sisters thought it was cool enough. For all its worth, I was able to get out of the house while they did their thing (partied and conspired against me when not out and about) as the Tuckers were there to cheer me on when I flipped and swirled in the air before splashing into the waters effortlessly when I wasn't beating my competitors.

And as I finished a somersault full twist from the five-meter springform, everyone could see that I was meant to be a part of their world, even if it meant feeling subconscious in my dark-black triangular spandex swimsuit while all the other guys looked like athletic gods in theirs.

"Nice work, Bader!" boomed Coach Lanier, a middle-aged woman who was rumored to be a part of the 1984 water polo team for the USA Olympics, as I emerged from the water and accepted my chamois from Javi (who was on the team and my current partner for the platform). "Kid, I didn't see why your late family never supported you for being a diver. You could give Ipsen and Dumais a run for their money if you had enough training."

I shrugged my shoulders before sitting down just as I saw her approach me. "Well, ma'am, my late mother only valued football, basketball, and track/field as 'the sport of winners,'" I replied, huffing a deep breath. "And she didn't want to see guys wearing little spandex, but I guess anything that was to keep me out of her way was better than sticking around and dealing with her rants at me."

"Her loss," a tanned redheaded female swimmer scoffed. "But she's dead alongside her henpecked husband and her group of haters while you're alive and breathing. She didn't know how good she got it."