Asunder

Chapter 4 - Moving Van

Idle chatter rises in the blinding sunlight as I approach the vehicle parked in front of the next-door house. The moving van immediately strikes me as familiar, and I quicken my pace, raking my memory for where I could've seen it. Stepping over the sidewalk and squinting at the car, I veer my attention to the conversation.

Talks of "When did you get here?" and "Oh! you have a daughter!". The chatter continues, and I realize that I know two of the voices: my parents' conversation is formal and courteous enough for me to guess that whoever they're talking to is of recent acquaintance.

My parents' faces come into view as I arrive to the middle of the street: my mother stands unnaturally close to my father, as he laughs politely at something someone said; someone apparently moving in next-door. Two other people speak, still hidden from the van, voices soft and kind—

I freeze, wincing at this unexpected task. The mere thought of meeting a new neighbor sends a chill down my spine, makes dread vibrate in my bones. My entire body tightens and tenses, and I become an awkward extension of the pavement. I begin flipping through all the imaginable ways I could enter without my parents seeing me, all the while trying to suppress my quickening heartbeat. There must be some way I can avoid this... I could circle the block, go around the house, I could hide behind the van and pass between the houses to the back...

For a few seconds I entertain the fantasy that I could climb up to my window, when my dad abruptly whips his head toward me.

"Shit," I hiss, bracing myself for the call-over:
"Kingsley!"

My arms go taught at the bark of his voice, which the broad smile stretching his face does nothing to attenuate.

That's all it takes. My throat closes up, my fingers begin to shake. My muscles cramp up and become like rusted tin, my eyes tunnel vision on my parents, and every one of my racing heartbeats sends pain flashing through my chest. Suddenly it's hard to breathe, it's hard to see, every one of my senses is insufficient. Turned off by a strange emotion, which travels through my whole body in tremors and settles like an anchor in my stomach.

He waves me over with violent enthusiasm, and a paralyzing sensation pangs through me at the sight of his hand slicing through the air.

Pushing against my fear, swallowing it with a shaky step forward, I struggle to control my squeezing lungs.

You idiot, a voice shrieks in my mind, be normal, why can't you just be normal?

I see the words, they block my vision— I see them in every step I take, in my mother's hardening eyes, in the supercilious slant of her brow. Nausea rises to my throat.

Somewhere beyond, two black heads of hair appear, fading into the confused blur of my vision. A few more steps, and I successfully reach the van, then step onto the sidewalk, my breath slipping in and out of me on its own accord.

What are you doing? Why are you like this?

Sooner than I'm ready for, sooner than I'm prepared, my father's big hand grabs my upper-arm, pulling me to his side to face two people.

He says something I don't quite understand, something that's loud in my ear. I ball my hands into fists, struggling for control, control—

Warm, calloused fingers touch mine in a gentle tap.

My head turns to my mother, whose hand encapsulates mine, squeezing it gently and repetitively, in a slow and steady rhythm, as if to say: breathe.

Breathe.

I attempt to squeeze back, and manage to pinch her palm with two shuddering fingers. Her answering smile is soft, and humorous. As if a cool breeze passes by in the squashing heat. And I can feel my pulse calm against the pressure of her fingertips.

Turning it towards the couple standing before us, I bow my head, if only to hide my face for a few seconds. I manage to squeeze out:

"Hello. It's very nice to meet you."

Immediately, my head aches with a thousand thoughts, saying my voice sounded weird, a little too high, a little too airy. But when I look back up, the couple's smiles are lovely, and I somehow feel as if they are the ones welcoming me to the neighborhood.

My mom takes over for me, as I worry about mustering what I can only hope is a pleasant smile.

"Kingsley will be in the eleventh grade in the fall. Didn't you say your son went to Liston, too?"

A twinge of curiosity softens my edge. Did this son graduate? Is he a few blocks down, at Emma Simmons' party?

"He used to," the man before me corrects, glancing towards his new house, "he left before the start of this year. You two are in the same grade," he finishes with a smile, his eyes disappearing in his full cheeks. It makes me want to hide, makes me feel guilty and ashamed. I avoid his gaze.

"You sure you don't know him?" the lady beside him chirps, making some genuineness infuse into my smile. Though the sweet lilt of her accent offsets her expression; there's worry in her gaze. It pulls down the wrinkled corners of her smiling eyes and lips. "His name Sky."

I can't help but raise my brows. I'm pretty sure I'd remember meeting someone named Sky. And if he left Liston before the start of this previous school year, then I couldn't have met him. This was my first year there.

I try to come up with the words to explain this, but they get stuck in my throat, and come out in shambles:

"I... no, I never met him..."

Just when my hands begin to shake again, my mom deftly interrupts: "Kingsley, I have to go to the donation center tomorrow morning. Go clean out your closet. I left a box for the clothes in your room."

I nod at the shooing of her hand, maybe a bit too vigorously, and don't even think to said goodbye before running to the house at top speed.

I'll regret that later, I tell myself, as I hear the woman shout a startled goodbye after me.

The door approaches with every bound I take, and I can barely clamp my lips together hard enough to suppress my sigh of relief. I can just make out the drunken key-scratches around the keyhole when I hear the conversation pick up behind me. By the time I grab the knob, laughter sounds again, and I sigh, turning the handle, thankful to be forgotten, erased—

The handle blocks.

I try it again, but it won't budge. Locked.

Oh god, I usually knock. A new panic rises within me at the thought of interrupting the conversation for a key. Stupid to not have one myself at my age, childish. I slowly turn, dragging the soles of my shoes on my porch. My hands curl into fists, and I brace myself for a disapproving look from my father, an awkward stream of stuttering, and a whole lot of shame.

I didn't brace myself to see him.