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ELEVEN
in good fortune
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SOME VOIDS CANNOT be filled, and Ezekiel Liu left a gaping crater in his wake. We had always been a group of six, even when we were fourteen with growing pains.
Back when I was an awkward tangle of limbs with no relation to each other, fresh-faced with a collection of designer clothes I had no idea what to do with.
Back when Rosie was turning into the silver-spooned snobbish woman that she was now, and we had felt ourselves growing apart.
When Giselle had the overwhelming label of fat looming over her head, dark and brooding, before she knew that it would fill out into sensuous curves that would leave boys' eyes glued to her body.
Zeke was always the one who suggested we do things behind our parents' backs, met with our unanimous dissent. Ever the troublemaker, fifteen years old with a repertoire of bad ideas and boyish charm.
This was before the accent, before his characteristic ways were still unknown to his then alive father and mother.
Isaiah had yet to grow into his face, and I thought he was ugly as sin.
Little did I know. . .
And I supposed Tristan had always been cute. The blue eyes, sandy hair on the darker side and thin build with promise of muscle during years to come. He was pined after by both Rosie and Giselle, feelings that have now melted away into a brotherly sort of love.
That was much to my happiness, because I was not keen on swatting the blushes and your brother is so cute away for the rest of my summer vacations.
I felt it all now, the overwhelming nostalgia that came in waves crashing onto my shore, pulling away bits of sand when I felt the sadness that there wasn't going to be someone yelling vulgar remarks in public places and rolling joints under the setting sun.
Sure, it was quite depressing, but that was only if I let myself dwell on it for too long. I shoved it down like I did most things, the five of us pouring our longing away into shot glasses that we tipped back heartily, falling into blissfully drunk oblivion where we did not feel the missing puzzle piece.
It was better to think of instead how different my life would be if my family and I didn't start vacationing at the Cove, if one fateful meeting at an island festival didn't push together six kids with no business meeting otherwise. Six kids who could relate in excess wealth, absent parents and a sense of privilege.
It was ironic and sort of cruel that I had always felt closer to my Cove friends than the ones at home. I only had the chance of being with the latter two and a half months at a time.
