LIV: SPRING BREAK 8.0
Light.
Dark.
Light.
Dark.
Light.
I cycle through conscious and unconscious. I’d sleep the whole day if I could, but my mind won’t allow it.
The wondering doesn’t stop. There’s no answer at the end, but I can’t keep from trying, like a hamster on a wheel. It’s habit. Or need. And exhausting.
A sliver of Lana’s window is visible though a small gap in my curtain. I used to think of it as my outlet to the outside, but now, inside, outside . . . it’s all inside of somewhere.
I stare at the computer and realize how much I miss Breck, especially at this moment. It’s ironic that I can’t talk with the one being capable of truly understanding what I’m going through, because I succeeded in coaching him through the same experience. He’s elsewhere now. I’d wonder where, but a mind can only hold so much wonder at one time.
I think about his experience, about what his reactions were, what he learned, and what he taught me. About how he found peace, in spite of knowing the full truth. About how open-minded he was to it all. About how he learned to appreciate what he had. About his courage in facing the truth.
At what point does the master become the student? Maybe it’s time to listen to more than the clutter in my head.
As Breck’s words sink in, so does Jessica’s advice. Maybe the questions I’m asking aren’t that unique. Who made me? Why am I here? What am I supposed to do? What does this mean? These are the basic questions of existence. Nobody has a clear answer, no matter where or how they exist. I mean, I’ve wondered about this stuff before, but I never felt any pressure to answer it. Now I do.
Perhaps all that has changed is that I’ve been given a good reason to dwell on it.
I plant one foot on the floor. It’s a start. The world doesn’t feel any different than it did when I woke yesterday. The mattress still squeaks when I sit on the edge. The tight carpet is as firm as ever. My toes still crack when I bend them.
One more foot follows, then steps. I draw open the curtains, raise the window, sit on the sill, and call Lana.
“Well it’s about time!” she says, as I stare at her empty window.
I apologize and she accepts because she’s Lana. Then she peppers me with questions, and I answer a few. I don’t lie, but I do omit. Maybe we’ll talk about it someday, but for now, I don’t want to question what we have. I just want to appreciate it.
“We’ve talked about me for the last six weeks,” I say once I’ve answered enough of her questions. “Let’s talk about you. You’re moving to Massachusetts. That’s our reality. I want to hear about it. Then, let’s figure out how often I can get up there to visit.”
I’m lightly sunburned by the time we hang up.
The tempting smell of breakfast floats through the room. I don’t need the added encouragement today, it’s time to leave this space. My stomach groans when I settle in front of the computer for one last quick chore.
Jessica,
I’m happy to have won but I am going to pass on the internship this summer. I have some priorities closer to home. I hope you understand.
Liv
Specifically, I’m planning on a killer road trip. Lana and I are going to make the most of the time we have before she moves.
I’m about to close my email when a message catches my eye. It’s the one about the birthday gift list that I never responded to. I don’t know why, but I look at it again. In re-reading it, the closing words stop my breath. It’s a question.
Can we buy these online?
I gaze at it as dots connect. Some timing seems so coincidental that it makes me wonder. But a mind can get lost too deep in wonder. I’m just going to run with this one.
A few minutes of Googling gives me all I need to know before going downstairs.
I push away from the computer and leave my room. As I step into the unlit hallway, something feels different. I feel different. My room has always been my shelter. I never liked leaving it, no matter where I was going. It was like walking away from a warm blanket.
No longer. There is a world beyond here which I’ve only begun to explore. I feel liberated.
Mom is in the kitchen sitting at the table reading the paper. Todd is within eyeshot watching Sports Center on the couch.
“There’s the champ!” Todd chirps.
“Congratulations,” Mom says, without looking up. It’s earnest, but only passably.
“Thank you and—” I hesitate, lingering in the space between what I know I want to do and actually doing it.
“Yes,” she says, her eyes peering up at me without changing the position of her head. “You want to say something else?”
“I wanted to know if I could cook dinner tonight for you and Todd,” I say.
“You?”
“Yeah, me.”
“What are you cooking?”
“I haven’t really planned it yet. But I thought it would be nice for me to do something for you for a change, and for the three of us to sit down and talk.”
“About what?” she asks, eyeing me up, looking for an ulterior motive.
“About nothing. Just a family dinner,” I say. “But I also have an idea I want to talk about whenever you have a moment. It’s for Renaissance.”
She folds the paper on the table, leaving her hands crossed on top. Todd glances in our direction. The volume on Sports Center lowers. I take a seat at the table, leaving an empty chair between us.
“What’s the most common comment that people make in the store?” I ask.
“No thank you?” She guesses.
“Sort of, but I think it’s more like, ‘No thank you, because we’re only looking right now.’”
“Okay.”
“Or, more specifically, how many times have you heard someone say they’re looking for birthday gifts.”
She rolls her eyes wide and groans.
I continue. “We’re a place where people look for ideas. A chance for kids to touch, feel, experience. That’s what we offer that’s different than any place online,” I say, looking for her to agree to this before moving onto the idea.
She nods.
“But we don’t make it easy for them to carry through. Think about the person who gave me that gift list. Whoever wanted to buy something from it had to come back to the store and find the list.” I raise a preemptive hand in the air. “Which I get I should have been there for, but I wasn’t. And when they came back twice yesterday, the store was closed when it should have been open. I know this because the guy sent me an email telling me how frustrating it was to do something that should be easy. And he’s right.”
Again, Mom nods. She’s still with me.
“That’s where we sell online.”
Mom’s eyes taper.
“Hear me out.” I’d better keep this short and sweet. I don’t know how much runway I have. “Someone brings their kid to look for gifts for their birthday, Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever. They touch, they play, and they decide. We take that list and create an online registry which we email to them. They send it to family or others as gift ideas. They click and buy. We wrap and send it to the house.”
She leans toward me, dropping her elbows on the table then propping her chin on her knuckles. “So, it’s not an online store?”
“Correct. It’s a way for people who come to the store to share ideas. It’s a way to take what we do better than Amazon, but give them the convenience of Amazon.”
“That sounds like a Camaro in the woods to me,” Todd chimes from the other room.
“Can you create this?” Mom asks.
I smile. “Easily. I can buy a software package for under a hundred dollars and have it running in a day or two.”
Mom leans back in the chair and crosses her arms. “It’s a good idea. I think we’d sell more with it. But I don’t know that it’s enough. I’ve done a lot of soul searching about this over the last few days. I think I’m fighting a losing battle.”
“I know we are, Mom. And I know that this isn’t the solve. But it’s a step in the right direction. And it’s a way that I can help. I want to show you what I can do, and I want to work with you at the store this summer to do more. I turned down the DoRC internship.”
“Why? Wasn’t that the prize, and the whole point of the contest?”
“Yeah, I thought it was. But I learned a lot of things I wasn’t expecting. Winning is enough. It’ll open doors and I’ll have more opportunities. I’ll never have another chance to build this with you. I want to spend the summer working with you. And if we fail, then we deal with it. But we give it everything we have. Together.”
She doesn’t answer. She kicks the chair between us out of the way with a swift flick of her foot. She uncrosses her arms, reaches for my hands, and pulls her forehead flush to mine.
“I’m not going to try to hug you again. But I’m in. I’m all in.”
LIV: FALL 1.0
A car horn blares in the driveway.
“My ride is here. Gotta go,” I scan the kitchen for my backpack. “Where the heck did I put—”
“It’s at the bottom of stairs. You sure you’re going to stay awake today?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, I just need more of this. You okay?” I ask back, snatching a Yeti full of coffee from the counter.
Mom picked me up at the airport late last night after a weekend trip to Massachusetts. I’ve been a little frazzled this morning.
“I slept in the car for two hours before you got there,” Mom answers. “I’ll be fine. I have meetings with two more schools this afternoon.”
“Want me to come?” I ask.
“If you can.”
“Sure. I’ll skip chess. It’ll be fine.” The horns beeps once more. “Okay. Now I really have to go. Bye!”
We knock knuckles on my path out of the kitchen because, despite best efforts, I’m still not a hugger. It’s our compromise, one of many we found this summer.
Against the odds, Renaissance is still open and even coming closer to living up to its name. The registry worked but needed legs. Fortunately, living next to a departing board member at the elementary school helped start some conversations. They now promote us as their official partner for birthday gift registries. In return, we give them educational toys and their principal darts around the hallways on a Saturn with a Renaissance logo. In late September, we signed up two more schools. It looks like October will be a good month also.
Speaking of Saturns, I finally learned to ride one. In fact, I give rolling lessons and tours every Saturday morning on the Rice campus. Again, we sponsor that one.
Amidst other small changes, there’s one more meaningful mention. There are now two entrances to the store—the front door and a hole in the wall between us and CVS. Parents who are picking up prescriptions at CVS can let their kids entertain themselves in a special Touch & Play area in the back corner of the store. The best part? We got CVS to pay for that one. Grandpop would be proud.
We’re still swimming upstream, but we’re doing it together.
“I heard the first honk,” I say, tossing my bag inside the backseat then following it.
“I only honked once,” Chloe says, lowering the radio.
“I may have hit it the second time,” Emma calls from the passenger seat in front of me.
Chloe and Emma are two of the three girls in the male-dominated chess club. I am the third. Together, we are the Dork Force.
“I’ll remember that the next time you ask for a draw,” I answer.
“Which hasn’t ever happened.”
“This week,” I add, smirking as I catch eyes with Chloe in the rearview mirror.
“That game didn’t count! How many times do I have to . . .” Emma continues her protests as we pass Lana’s old house on our path forward. These girls are no Lana, but they’re my people too. And I was surprised how quickly I found them when I was open to doing so.
“Did you hear about the new kid?” Chloe asks.
It’s right before the start of first period calculus. We’re seated next to each other on the window side of the room as the final stragglers parade in before the bell.
“No.”
“It’s some guy that wandered into a hospital last spring, collapsed, and ended up in a coma. He woke and doesn’t remember anything, and nobody knows who he is. No parents, no nothing. All they got from him was his first name before he went into the coma.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
She’s about to respond when our principal, Ms. Elkins, steps into the doorway, capturing my and Chloe’s attention. She says something to someone still in the hallway, out of view except for a sliver of broad shoulder and upper arm. As the bell chimes, she walks authoritatively toward our teacher’s desk. They exchange a few hushed words before the principal waves for the lingering student to enter.
“Students, please welcome . . .”
Holy mother . . .
“Breck,” I say, along with her. Chloe shoots me a questioning look as Ms. Elkins continues with her introduction. She says nothing about the story Chloe told me. She only gives us a reminder of how difficult it is to move to a new school and asks us to be welcoming.
Breck’s curious eyes pan the room. It’s like I’m seeing a caricature in reverse. He isn’t the same fleshy personification I dreamed of, but he’s not far off. His athletic frame is still there, but lankier. His skin is imperfect, as blemished as the rest of us. And his wild locks of brown hair are gone—cropped tight, just beyond a buzz. But these are only minor differences. He is undeniably Breck.
He meanders to one of the few open desks in the class. I didn’t realize how unique his affect was until now, intangibly eager and earnest.
I turn around as he sits right behind me.
“I’m Chloe and this is Liv,” Chloe says, beating me to it.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “Welcome to Houston.”