I’ll Give You the Sun(62)
Author: Jandy Nelson

“Mom?” I say, my throat suddenly so dry it comes out like a croak.

“Everything’s going to work out,” she says quickly, quietly, and starts the engine. “Don’t worry, honey.”

I think about all the horrible things that happened the last time someone told me not to worry, but nod, just the same.

• • •

The end of the world begins with rain.

September washes away, then October. By November, even Dad can’t stay on top of it, which means it’s pretty much raining inside as well as outside the house. There are pans and pots and buckets everywhere. “Who knew we needed a new roof?” Dad mumbles to himself again and again like a mantra.

(PORTRAIT: Dad Balancing the House on His Head)

This, after a lifetime of replacing batteries before flashlights conk out, lightbulbs before they go dark: Can’t be too prepared, son.

However, after much observation, I’ve concluded that it’s not raining on Mom. I find her on the deck smoking (she’s not a smoker) as if under an invisible umbrella, always with the phone to her ear, not saying anything, just swaying and smiling like someone’s playing her music on the other end. I find her humming (she’s not a hummer) and jingling (she’s not a jingler) through the house, down the street, up the bluff in her new circus clothes and bangles, her own private sunbeam enclosing her while the rest of us grip the walls and furniture so we don’t wash away.

I find her at her computer where’s she’s supposed to be writing a book but instead is staring up at the ceiling like it’s full of stars.

I find her and find her and find her but I can’t find her.

I have to say her name three times before she hears it. I have to bang on the wall with my fist when I walk into her office or kick a chair across the kitchen before she even notices someone’s joined her in the room.

It occurs to me with rising concern that a blow-in can also blow away.

The only way I can snap her out of it is to talk about my CSA portfolio, but because she and I have already chosen the five drawings I’m painting in oils with Mr. Grady, there’s not much to discuss until the great unveiling and I’m not ready. I don’t want her to see them until they’re done. They’re close. I’ve worked on them every single day at lunch and after school all fall long. There’s no interview or anything, getting in is based pretty much only on your artwork. But after seeing that sculptor sketch, my eyes got swapped again. Sometimes now, I swear I can see sound, the dark green howling wind, the crimson crush of rain—all these sound-colors swirling around my room while I lie on my bed thinking about Brian. His name, when I say it aloud: azul.

In other news, I’ve grown over three inches since the summer. If anyone still messed with me, I could kick them off the planet. No problem. And my voice has dropped so low most humans can’t register it. I hardly use it, except occasionally with Heather. She and me, we’re sort of getting along again now that she likes some other boy. A couple times, I even went running with her and her runner friends. It was okay. No one cares if you don’t talk much when you’re running.

I’ve turned into a very quiet King Kong.

Today, a very worried, very quiet King Kong. I’m trudging up the hill from school in torrential rain with one thing on my mind: What am I going to do when Brian comes back for Christmas break and he’s with Jude?

(SELF-PORTRAIT: Drinking the Dark out of My Own Cupped Hands)

When I get home, I see no one’s here, as usual. Jude’s hardly ever home for very long these days—she’s taken to surfing in the rain after school with the diehard surftards—and when she is home she’s on the computer chatting with Brian aka Spaceboy. I saw a couple more of their exchanges. In one he talked about the movie—the one we were watching when he grabbed my hand under the armrest! I almost threw up on the spot.

Sometimes at night, I sit on the other side of the wall wanting to pull off my ears so I don’t hear the ding of yet another message from him over the hum of her stupid sewing machine.

(PORTRAIT: Sister in the Guillotine)

I drip through the house, a raincloud, dutifully kicking over a bucket by Jude’s bedroom so the dirty water soaks into her fluffy white carpet and hopefully mildews it, then enter my room, where I’m surprised to find Dad sitting on my bed.

I don’t cringe or anything. For some reason, he doesn’t bug me so much lately. It’s like he drank a potion, or maybe I did. Or maybe it’s because I’m taller. Or maybe it’s because we’re both all messed up. I don’t think he can find Mom either.

“Storm catch you?” he asks. “I’ve never seen anything like this rain. Time for you to build that ark, eh?”

This is a popular joke at school too. I don’t mind. I love Bible Noah. He was nearly 950 years old when he died. He got to leave with the animals. He started the whole world over: blank canvas and endless tubes of paint. Freaking the coolest.

“Totally got me,” I say, grabbing a towel off my desk chair. I start drying my head, waiting for the inevitable comment about the length of my hair, but it doesn’t come.

What comes is this: “You’re going to be bigger than me.”

“You think?” The idea’s an instant mood-lifter. I’m going to take up more space in a room than my father.

(PORTRAIT, SELF-PORTRAIT: Boy Hops from Continent to Continent with Dad on Shoulders)

He nods, raises both eyebrows. “At the rate you’re going lately, sure seems like it.” He surveys the room as if taking inventory, museum print to print—they pretty much cover every inch of wall and ceiling—then he looks back at me and slaps his hands on his thighs. “So, I thought we could get some dinner. Have some father-son time.”

He must register the horror on my face. “No”—he makes fingers quotes—“talks. Promise. Just some grub. I need some mano a mano.”

“With me?” I ask.

“Who else?” He smiles and there’s absolutely no asshat anywhere in his face. “You’re my son.”

He gets up and walks to the door. I’m reeling from the way he said: You’re my son. It makes me feel like his son.

“I’m going to wear a jacket,” he says, meaning a suit jacket, I guess. “Want to?”

“If you want me to,” I say, bewildered.

Who knew the first date of my life would be with my father?

Only I realize as I put on my one jacket—I last wore it at Grandma Sweetwine’s funeral—that the sleeves come closer to my elbows than my wrists. Holy Jesus, I really am King Kong! I walk to Mom and Dad’s bedroom with the evidence of my gigantism still on my back.