I stopped tapping my foot on the plush carpet that lined the central aisle of my grandfather’s private jet and turned toward my mother. Typically, Mum would’ve taken a commercial flight, unwilling to spend unnecessary funds on private planes, regardless of the fact that her family owned multiple jets. But this trip was different. I just wasn’t sure why.
“I am a little nervous about all the school and social stuff,” I admitted. I hesitated, wondering if I should mention my Holyoke pen pal, Nash.
My mother shifted as she grimaced, her breath coming up short.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked.
While Mum still maintained her tan, the pallor underneath was becoming more visible. Or I was looking harder for it. Her features were still as beautiful as years before, but her brown eyes lacked their typical sparkle, and her eyelids drooped with exhaustion. Her hair was still thick and jet black, but its previous luster seemed dimmed.
My mother’s family was French and Tunisian. Mum liked to tell the story of an “indiscretion” between a French general in the late nineteenth century, not long after the French invaded Tunisia, and a noble family’s daughter, which produced a son. Because of the boy’s French blood, he eventually emigrated to France where he, my great-grandfather, met a Parisian schoolteacher. They’d raised my grandfather and three more children in a small flat in Paris, and he’d studied medicine at Sorbonne. In the late eighties, my Jeddi bought a bio-medical company in Austin, Texas, and he’d moved my mother and French grandmother there.
He liked the weather and the wide-open spaces, but that didn’t mean he’d left behind his heritage or traditions. More of them were instilled within me now that we’d spent the past few years in Nepal, reinforcing the Eastern philosophies Mum said Westerners brushed off.
“I have something for you.” She slipped her hand into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a black velvet pouch. She held it in her palm.
I stared for a moment before I plucked it from my mum’s thin hand. Opening the drawstring, I drew out the small, garnet beads, my thumb tickled by the matching silk tassel.
“Malas?” I asked. “You want me to meditate?”
“If you’d like,” Mum said. “Or you can say mantras as you were taught in the village.”
I stared at the twenty-seven uniform red beads, unsure if I wanted to accept what they represented. I’d enjoyed saying the mantras with the other kids in my classes…for a while. Until I realized they side-eyed me when I spoke their sacred words. Theirs, not mine.
It was just like it had been in Kenya, and Mozambique, and Laos. I was tired of participating in cultures I could never fully understand because of being born in London. I hadn’t lived in that city long enough to remember much about it, but that didn’t seem to matter. I was different, thanks to my faint British accent, parentage, and lighter skin.
So, wearing the bracelet felt like co-opting a culture that wasn’t mine. Yet I’d lived in Nepal longer than I’d spent in any Western country since toddlerhood.
“I’ll help you put it on.”
I held out my wrist though my jaw shifted, jutting outward with the need to balk at my mum’s request. My mum wanted this for me. Why, though, I wasn’t sure.
“I chose garnet because it enhances creative power,” she explained. “It can also help with feelings of abandonment.”
I clenched both fists and wrenched my arm back, not caring that the beads slipped from my wrist and pooled on the leather seat between us.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Mum closed her eyes, no doubt unhappy with my acerbic tone. “I need to get back to the US. I need… Let’s just do this one step at a time.”
She wrapped her fingers around the beads again and reached for my wrist, her long fingers cool against my skin. “Wear it, please. For me.”
I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, shrugging off my mother’s hand once the beads were in place. “I guess you’re going to make me go to that stupid rich-kids school, then?”
A thrill went through me, though, because that “stupid” school housed Nash Porter, currently my closest friend after years of corresponding. I had answered him initially out of boredom, but we had grown close through all those messages, and I… Heat spread up my chest and neck, suffusing my face.
I liked him. A lot.
I liked the way he teased me. I liked that I was the first person he contacted when he exited the school building. I liked that he confided details of his life that he didn’t dare tell others. Like that he, too, wanted a cat. Or about how his dad was riding him hard about composing new songs. I knew his favorite cake and that his musical hero was Asher Smith. I knew he lived near Jeddi’s mansion and that he hated to drive but had promised to teach me.
“Yes. You need an education, and it’s the best school in the area,” Mum said after a moment. “Your grandfather insisted.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.” But the idea of seeing Nash in person caused my stomach to dip, swoop, and realign with giddiness. Then I touched the smooth, red beads with trepidation. How long would I get to spend with Nash before Mum and I moved again?
I released a tiny sigh. No, no more moving. After this, I wouldn’t have to make new friends, and I wouldn’t have to learn how to navigate a new town. In fifteen months, I would graduate from high school. Then I planned to attend a nearby university known for its engineering program. While I didn’t love the idea of living in a large city, I did love the idea of settling in. And now I could make my own choice.
This move—or the next, to college—would be my last. Austin, Texas, was now my home.
8
Nash
Aya appeared at Holyoke one morning in April—with just six weeks left in our junior year—like a gift from the heavens or something. I didn’t realize at first, didn’t know anything special was about to happen, then bam! The teacher called Aya’s name, and she answered. Her voice was as pretty as the rest of her—soft, melodious, and with a faintly British accent. I remembered those lilting vowels from when I was a kid. I’d tried, for days after meeting her, to emulate her posh string of words. I’d never managed to do so, but that hadn’t stopped me from attempting, much to my parents’ amusement.
I turned my head and caught her looking at me, a small smile on her face. She mouthed, “Surprise!” and then turned back to face the front.
I continued to stare, unable to tear my gaze away from the girl sitting the next row over and two seats up.
Aya was even prettier than I’d expected her to be. Her long, long hair was streaked with reddish highlights that added an interesting depth to the dark strands. Her nose was littered with freckles and the faint peeling of an old sunburn. Her chin was as stubborn and delicate as I’d remembered from our brief encounter all those years ago. Her eyes were even brighter, even more amazing up close than any gem my mom or grandmother had ever worn. Aya’s cheekbones sat high in her thin face, her neck slender and elegant, and her body that slim, lithe shape most of the Hollywood elite spent thousands to try to create.
I sucked in a breath as I took her in. She shifted in her seat, giving me a partial view of her chest. She had fabulous tits: high and perky and definitely enough to fill my hand. I might have emitted a strangled breath as I stared at them. She glanced back, caught my gaze, and frowned.