Page 55 of Sharkbait
Somehow, though, I have managed to stress over the lack of James in my life.
Which is ridiculous, I know.
After all, I was the one who told him I wasn’t interested.
But after that interaction next to Meilani’s tank a few weeks ago, I felt something shifting in me, like I was softening toward him. And I guess I assumed he’d keep popping up in my life.
I spotted him once on hump day while he was scrubbing the tank—I’m ashamed to say I popped into the aquarium on my lab lunch break in hopes of seeing him—but he just gave me a little wave and was out of there as soon as he finished.
The diving team was doing deep cleans again on Monday, but he didn’t show up at all.
Maybe he’s out of town?
Maybe he’s avoiding me.
Maybe he finally took me at my word and moved on.
I take one last look at the Schuylkill River, roll my shoulders back, and speed walk toward Ralph and Calliope’s building before I have the chance to change my mind.
Plenty of people give the Schuylkill a hard time. Sure, it’s impossible to spell, confusing to pronounce, and it often looks more like a brown, wet, winding road than a sparkling river, but I love it. I feel peaceful whenever I’m near it. I looked up where itsname comes from once. It’s a Lenni Lenopi indian word for “slowly moving river.” I think that’s what I love about it. It doesn’t care that everyone can see its muddy bottom constantly rising to the top. It takes its time and keeps moving forward, steady and strong.
Whereas I feel like I’m always rushing.
Rushing and hiding.
But not today.
Today I will do my daughterly duty and face my mom.
No matter how much emotional energy gets stripped from me.
I ring the bell, and the outside door immediately unlatches. I forgo the elevator and stomp up the five flights instead. A little internal tantrum is exactly what I need right now.
The door to their apartment is propped open for me.
Here goes nothing.
As soon as I enter, I’m hit with the pungent scent of my mother’s perfume. And not three seconds later, I’m tackled with her tiny, tan body in an explosive hug.
My mom’s personality may be in perpetual flux, but her Elizabeth Arden perfume and projectile hugs always stay the same.
“Baby!” she shouts into my shoulder.
“Hi, Mom.” I squeeze out the words with very little air left in my lungs.
She pulls back and places her hands on my face. “How’s my baby? Is she doing okay?”
I look around, confused. “Byshe, do you mean me?”
“Of course! Who else?”
“I’m okaaaay. How are you?”
“Never better!” She weaves our fingers together and pulls me by the hand into the living room. “You have a funny look on your face, Wheezy baby. What’s going on?”
“I guess I’m curious why you’re using third person when I’m right next to you. And can we skip calling me Wheezy? I’ve never loved that.”
“Oh really? You never told me that.”
