Even If the Sky Falls (2 page)

I
CASUALLY WALK A WAYS AWAY FROM HIM AND DOWN THE
bottle in less than a minute, ignoring the bit of my brain that says I am probably dehydrated, because that part has clearly not gotten the memo about not agreeing with anything Tavis has to say. When I look over I notice that he hasn't taken his eyes off me and suddenly, despite the distance, I feel trapped. He smiles when I notice him and I let the corners of my mouth lift just a bit before turning to toss the bottle away in the makeshift recycle bin we put together.

“Time for prayer circle,” he says to me.

Great. Prayer circle is usually at the end of the day, but we're cutting work short today for some reason or other.
There might be a storm coming, but I wasn't really listening when he was talking about it. All I know is he'll probably want to hold my hand.

“I'll be there in a second.” I wait until he's far enough away before I wipe my brow with the bottom of my shirt. This heat and humidity is going to kill me, if not from dehydration (so,
so
much sweating), then by burning me to a crisp. The sun has been in and out for most of the day, but I can still feel it even when it's hidden behind the clouds. It's been too long since I've been in heat like this. Abuela Julia would be disappointed by my lack of stamina.

But it's not just the heat now that's building. I've tried ignoring it all day, concentrating on the tasks at hand, but it's still there. Between Tavis, the looks, the impromptu chats, the sweating, hand-holding, and incessant sharing of feelings—

Has the sun always been this hot? I feel something about to bubble up from inside me. I am an animal in a zoo and everyone is watching, waiting for me to perform, to cry, to break down, to let them help me. Save me. That's what I should want, right? Help. Pity. Absolution.

“Anytime, Julie. Anytime.”

“How about next Tuesday?”

The reply leaves my lips before I can stop myself. Old Julie would never have snapped back; she would've apologized and rushed over. She was the type of girl who stayed late painting fake moss on rocks for a community
production of
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
New Julie still smiles, but it never reaches her eyes. She finds excuses not to hang out with her friends and avoids eye contact. New Julie just wants to make everything go away. New Julie doesn't want to be Julie anymore.
And how exactly do you do that?

As I trudge my way over, I notice another group—on their last day—packing up to head out into the city to celebrate all the good they've done on their project. I wonder if they can feel the need and desperation radiating out of me. Probably not. Tavis motions to the girl beside him, making a place for me in the prayer circle; I sigh and lock hands with him—his hands are moist yet rough, his grip weak yet stifling. Our heads bow in prayer.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” he starts.

The sweat works its way down my back, one rivulet after the other. I curse every single fashion decision I made this morning. Shirt? Too hot. Jeans? Clearly invented by a demon spawn from hell. The wind picks up a little but not enough to dampen this heat. Tavis gives my hand a little squeeze as I start to squirm.

HEEL, Tavis.

A laugh escapes, but I hide it with a cough.
Don't let anyone see cracks in the walls, Jules.
People don't like to see them. Not the true cracks that travel deep and splinter your heart. The ugly cracks that aren't easily healed. Those you keep to yourself.

I push the thoughts back deep into my mind and concentrate on the pinpricks that travel up and down my arms. Everything is closing in on me. Fabric too close to my skin, Tavis's hand too hot in mine, the sun, the sweat, the lack of wind. My kingdom for some precipitation!

Katie, Katherine? No, Katie is to the other side of me and gives me a quick reassuring smile like she for sure knows I'm about to lose it but could I please keep it together for Jesus this one time?

Another laugh.

Jesus, Jules, keep it together for Katie!

I take a deep breath and with it comes Adam again, images of closed doors and red-rimmed eyes and hush-toned conversations.

This is all a mistake. I should be home with Adam, not stuck here pretending this work is of any help. I look around. Everyone's head is bowed, their bodies serene, as Tavis continues to pray for every single person in the world, for understanding of what the Lord's plan is for us all.

There is no plan. I see this now. Not God's plan anyway.

Behind us the other group is filing into a tiny bus that belongs in a commercial for coconut rum, their voices a cacophony of joy, ready to head somewhere fabulous on their journey of awesome while I'm caught in the grip of Tavis's clamminess. My body leans toward them, sensing a way out.

I feel Tavis's grip tighten, trying to bring me back to where I belong . . . where he wants me to belong. But my body takes over. I pull away, forcing a cough and excusing myself with a few quick hand gestures. Tavis continues praying as I maneuver over to the small transport van where we keep all our stuff. I feel more in control than I have in weeks as I grab my purse, tuck in another bottle of water, and then slip behind the super-happy group heading out of the Ninth Ward. I keep my head down, and no one stops me as I board the rum bus all the way to the back.

When the engine starts up I expect to be caught at any moment, for someone to scream, “Hey, you with the scowl! You aren't part of the super-shiny-group-of-happiness. Get out of here before you infect us all!” But I'm not. As we head out, I inch closer to the window and hunch down in my seat.

I listen to them jabber on about what things they want to see and what they want to eat and take pictures of, and I am lulled into a sense of accomplishment, of freedom. I watch the stream of houses as they pass by: Damaged. Rebuilt. Rebuilt. Damaged. Destroyed. Destroyed. Empty lot. The aftermath of almost a decade of storms. Some homes were easier than others to fix: water damage, missing roof. Others had been torn down and built back up on stilts. They remind me a bit of the houses by the beaches in Puerto Rico that I saw when I used to visit with my grandmother, the color of guava, mangoes, and avocados.
Brightened even more with touches of white, colors defiant against the past. It wasn't just Katrina either, I learned that from the locals who drove us down to the work site each day. Nature didn't stop after that hurricane. Nature kept coming, kept destroying. It didn't stop, but neither did New Orleans. The city picked itself up; its heart kept beating.

I zone out trying to find a pattern to the growth and destruction. A tingle in my stomach starts. Chatter bubbles up again, like a pot of water ready to boil over with excitement. We're almost there. Where? I have no idea, but we're close.

Until we're not, and the bus stops. I jump up from my seat, looking out the window for any clue of what's going on—all I see around me are tall buildings, mostly fancy hotels from the looks of it. My fellow travelers are as clueless as I am, though their heartbeats probably aren't as steadily on the rise as mine. My mind races with possibilities: We've run out of gas or coconut rum, or lost a spark plug or the carburetor is broken or Tavis has caught up to us, running all the way here, desperate to hold my hand in his clammy palm once again. The driver ushers everyone out—whatever stopped the bus has stopped the AC and the temp is ticking its way up to sticky and sweaty quite fast.

I step out of the bus and pretend to head over to everyone else, but instead I round a corner and keep going. I take a chance that no one will notice the girl that isn't supposed to be there. I'm right. No one runs after me or yells my
name as I sprint away. When I finally find a street sign I know I'm somewhere on Canal Street—which means nothing to me, but should the police put on a dramatic chase for my return, I can answer without impunity when questioned that “Yes, sir, I was on Canal Street.”

Keeping a brisk pace, I walk a straight path through the neighborhood, paved roads turning into cobblestones, veering left away from the hotels and into the zone of smaller buildings. I don't register which direction I'm going, just that I need to keep going until I feel—until I know—that I am as far away from the group, from Tavis, as possible.

A strange lightness takes over my body the farther and farther I get from our construction site. Perhaps delirium or heatstroke has finally set in because my legs don't burn or ache, but I keep pushing my body forward to freedom.

When I finally slow down I realize: 1. I have no idea where I am (as I am no longer on Canal Street), and 2. Everything is gorgeous. I mean seriously gorgeous. The buildings, the terraces, the dangling flowers all over the houses, like
whoa.
I spot an entrance in one of the brick buildings leading to a wide-open courtyard—a perfect place to stop for a moment and gather myself. I walk in, pass some signs that declare it the Jean Lafitte Visitors Center, and collapse on the nearest bench. It's quiet here and cool in the shade with the occasional breeze flowing in, making it even more of a tiny oasis.

Done singing its song of escape, my heart finally quiets
down, drifting into its regular beat of life, and I don't know if it's the feel of the breeze traveling along my skin or the tranquil sounds of bubbling water that do it, but before I know it a laugh erupts, then another. Because I did it! I'm friggin' free! Sure, I don't know where I am (minor setback) and I'm probably being tracked as we speak (future major setback) but I'm free. Only
I
can decide what to do next, not Tavis, not my parents, not Adam. Me.

Go, me.

S
HORT RECAP:
I
AM FREE.
N
OW WHAT?

Pulling the water bottle out of my purse, I swig about half of it before tucking it back in. A quick look at my phone puts me in the French Quarter, which explains the gorgeous architecture with its delicate iron balconies shaped into
fleurs-de-lis
and other looping forms. Even the small courtyard I've escaped to is breathtaking. The central fountain is tiny, nestled among various trees and potted plants; it feels like the sort of place where time is relative, a minute turning into an hour into a day, and a dangerous place to set goals. Tavis promised us a guided tour of the Quarter a few days ago but never delivered. Good ol' Tavis.

There's a burst of laughter to my left, and a group of girls
run out of what has to be a hidden public restroom. I say a prayer that it is at least semi-clean and head inside where I take one look at myself and immediately scrub my face with the hand soap. It's impressive how easily dirt can cling to your skin, shirt, hair. After redoing my ponytail, I pull my backup tank and deodorant from my bag—just because I can't smell the stink doesn't mean other people won't.

Using the dirty shirt to rid myself of the last of the sweat, I pull the new tank on and head out the door, back to my freedom.

I follow the beat of my heart down one street after another, not knowing how long I've walked, until I realize it's not my heart I'm hearing, it's music.

The beat of drums and cymbals and trombones travels up my legs and sinks into my skin as if I were the instrument itself; the beat moves forward and I move with it, weaving through the streets until I'm deep in the current of this magical, writhing mass. All around me bands of fairies, demons, and leprechauns head down the streets, inviting me into their revelry. I twist around, capturing every single amazing flash of color—blues, fuchsias, yellows—and it takes a moment to identify them as people.

What is this?
I wonder when I bump straight into a fish wearing a tutu.

Not really a fish—obviously—but a man around my father's age, his brown skin dusted with powdered gold, a vibrant pattern of blue and green scales painted all over
his arms and legs, and on top of his head a coral-shaped crown made of aluminum foil and spray-painted gold. A snort quickly escapes as I imagine my quiet-as-a-mouse dad wearing a tutu and fairy dust.

“What you laughing at, girl?” the man shouts with the brightest smile I've seen in ages. I can't help but smile back at him—he's contagious.

“You look AWESOME!”

He tips an imaginary hat. “Thank you, child. Takes a village.” Looking up at me, he drops his smile. “But where's your costume? Don't tell me your village was out today!”

He laughs at his own joke, like my dad would, which I usually never find funny but for some reason is very charming whilst wearing a tutu.

“I—don't actually know what's going on right now,” I yell over the blasts of the horns. The music seems to be coming from every balcony, every corner, every plank of wood. New Orleans is made of music, and I am right in the thick of it.

“What you mean you don't know? You in New Orleans and you don't know it's Mid-Summer Mardi Gras, girl?”

I shake my head. “Guess not.”

“Well”—he pauses for effect—“it's Mid-Summer Mardi Gras, girl! One of the biggest celebrations of the year—and my favorite. You in luck.” His many-layered tutu sways with his hips. “And so is everybody here, especially me!” His laugh travels up, up into the beat. “We're all
heading up to the Maple Leaf for the parade if you want to come with. You better do something about your costume, though. Shows a lack of imagination walking around like that—plus it hurts my heart. And nobody hurts my heart, young lady, not even a pretty little thing like you.”

With a flick of his hands he shoos me away. “Go on now. The next time I see you, you better sparkle.”

“Sparkle?”

“Um-hmm.” He waves as he travels into the throng. “All that glitters! Don't break ol' Julius's heart!”

“Julius?”

He nods. “Like the caesar.”

“How do I get to the Maple Leaf?”

Julius turns with a swish of his skirt. “You can walk for an hour, or take the streetcar, or you can scoot onto that van over there.” He points to a van painted just as bright as the people around it. “Don't keep Mid-Summer waiting!” And with a wink he is gone, swallowed into the pulsing heart of the city.

Pushing my way against the crowd is harder than I anticipate—how do salmon do this? But then I spot a grocery on the corner and dive in. The cool air and fluorescent light have a calming effect I wasn't expecting. I walk through the aisles unsure of what I'm looking for when it hits me.

I snag a roll of red cellophane, two wire hangers, and some clear tape.

“Do you mind if I stand over here and take all this stuff apart?” I ask the lady behind the counter after I pay.

She looks at me for a while. “Nah, guess not.”

I break into the hangers first, reshaping them until they look somewhat like butterfly wings. Then I wrap them in the red cellophane, probably left over from a Valentine's Day promotion or something. When I'm done I secure them to my back with bits of tape. They promptly fall down. On my third try I'm ready to give up.

“You need extra support,” the clerk says. I guess she'd been watching me all along. “Hold on.” She picks up her purse from under the register and moves stuff around, pulling a pair of heels, a dress, and a million other things from her bag. She is maybe twenty-five? Twenty-three? Her bleach-blond hair and hazel eyes spark with amusement as she finally excavates a few large safety pins. “Here you go; this might help.”

“Thanks!”

After another failed attempt at putting wings on myself, the clerk snatches them out of my hands and motions me to turn around. “I'm going to pin these to the back of your bra—is that all right?” I nod and she pins away.

“Can I ask you a quick question?” I say.

“Mm-hmm.”

“That, like, random van taking people to the Maple Leaf out there? Is that legit or should I be worried?”

She muffles a laugh. “Legit. The OAK Krewe sometimes
helps coordinate them—they put on Mid-Summer. Helps with the traffic and all.”

“Awesome, thanks!”

When she's done I wiggle from side to side, testing the strength of my new wings.

“Not bad,” she says. “You're missing something though.” She digs back into the purse and pulls out gold-hued eye shadow and what I think is body glitter. “Um-hmm. All that glitters, come here.”

“Oh, it's okay. I don't really—”

“All that glitters,” she repeats, a bit annoyed now.

“I'm sorry . . . I don't.”

“It's this year's theme. All that glitters or glistens, shines, or whatever it is.”

“That doesn't really mean . . . ,” I reply.

She waves me off. “I know what it means, don't get hung up on it.” She motions me
forward. “Plus every now and then you need a little something in your life—something that shines so bright it pushes everything else away. Right?”

Her words echo. Something that shines so bright it pushes everything else away. It's just what I need.

“Come on now.” Her patience is running low, and I step forward.

“Do you always carry all of that in your bag?”

Smiling, she tells me to close my eyes. “I do if it's Mid-Summer. Store closes in about an hour, but the party is just starting! You think I can make it home to change with this
crowd? No way—gotta be prepared. Got myself a nice mermaid costume tucked in the back. My skin's already itching to put it on and head out.”

“Well, I bet you'll look amazing.”

“Oh I will,” she says with a smile. Satisfied with her work, she sends me off and motions to the person behind me. “Next!”

I exit the store transformed with wings on my back and glittery—no, sparkly—skin ready for Mid-Summer. The van ride takes no more than ten to fifteen minutes—it's all a blur of bumping into other fairies, tangled wings, and mermaids who share the same electricity, the same anticipation, as we near our destination. We flow out of the van like memories caught on a slow shutter speed: bursts of energy rushing into the world.

I disappear into the crowd, dancing with strangers, alive, free, and for the first time in a very long time, I don't think of Adam.

W
HAT FOOLS THESE
mortals be!
I think as I travel from block to block. The party is endless and unstoppable. When the wind coils around us we twirl, letting it pick up our skirts, ready for a dance. Every corner, every alley is infected with music, dance, and sweat as we all parade down the street as one big entity. Ahead of me I see a sun, dripping glitter as it's pulled along by a motorcycle, while behind me someone has recreated a chunk of the ocean floor out of pipes and
streamers. I can't help but be disappointed in the few who haven't bothered to dress up. I shake my head, channeling Julius, although by the end of the night they will shine with us all.

I catch a glimpse of a tutu and I run, sure I've caught up with Julius, ready to show off my wings and my sparkle, but I end up being sorely mistaken as the man I approach is not only not Julius, but his costume and attitude lack Julius's lively imagination. I am not impressed, and he is not amused.

I don't let it stop me; the rhythm carries me from one block to another. I follow brass bands, dance with strangers both young and old to music I've never listened to. It is loud and fast but lacks the shallowness of most dance music, like it has a soul, a story. Quick but not repetitive, each swell takes turns I am unfamiliar with; the type of music you can't overthink. For a moment I close my eyes. I want to let go and dance until my body breaks away into hundreds of little notes, floating above the crowd until I disappear. Truly free.

I bump up against a tall, broad-shouldered stranger, a deep smell of whiskey surrounding him like a cloud. I crinkle my nose as I turn to apologize. Then I freeze. He looks just like Adam.