Loving the Clouds

Chapter 10

It is three weeks since I have seen Everett when I find the note.

The weeks have not been kind to me. School has lost its spark, I no longer look forward to the class with the empty seat. My father has not come back to the house in months on his business trip. He is usually back after days. My mother is too focused on her work in court, as a lawyer, then say good morning to me. My past times have lost their charm. I am too afraid I will drown in my own daunting thoughts if I run. I simply go through the motions.

My friends notice this dullness, but they do not say anything. For some reason, this saddens me.

I remember it to be a dismal, rainy Saturday when I find the note. Despite the advancing summer, showers have managed to break through the clouds and soak earth. Slouching into my house after school, my soggy runners dampening the hardwood, I collapse on my bedsheets. A non-committal sigh escapes my parted lips, and I stare up at the blank, painted white ceiling.

It is too pale, I think, eyebrows pinched in a frown. Maybe I should paint it.

"Blue, like the sky," I hum thoughtfully, glancing around the room.

That's when I catch sight of the crumpled wad of paper, lodged in between the cracks of the windowpane. I am on my feet in a second and flying across the room. I suppose it is foolish to hope that it could be from the cloud boy, but I cannot stop my heart from beating just a little bit faster.

It is neatly folded up into squares, wrinkled at the edges from the hard spot it had been crammed into. As I unfold it, I wonder how long it had been there. It is certainly was not the first thing one would see right away.

One sentence, scribbled messily in scratchy black lead, occupying the page.

My favourite time to run is when I have no shadow to follow.

Sunset, I think. When the light from the sun leaves for a little while, and shadows cease to exist on the old running trail. I remember a day, weeks ago, when Everett and I were chatting casually over lunch, he had talked about how he occasionally ran on the trail. Of course, he would cut across a neighbour's lawn to reach it, his take-off point being a young sycamore tree at the edge of the trail. He would joke that he only ran at night so that he wouldn't be haunted by his shadow trailing behind him. I had laughed at his reasoning, only now I realize that it had not been a joke.

This thought makes me hesitate. Everett was never good at jokes. His personality does not allow much room for that. I suppose I could simply pass it off as a simple phrase, but I am not that keen to do so. He is the cloud boy after all, master of metaphors. It is seldom that I see a purely happy smile, for there is always a crack, a small hesitation, that breaks the facade. I wonder if maybe there are other clues I have disregarded about Everett. And here, I had thought to have solved the puzzle.

My mother catches me in my way out the door.

"Robin," her voice sounds from around the corner, in the kitchen, when my hand twists the door handle, "Could you come here for a moment."

It is not a question. I swallow my protests and swing around the corner.

She sits on the other side of the marble counter, a grey suit still hugging her frame. She used to be pretty in her youth, I could tell from the faded blond hair and once-striking pine green eyes that decorated her face. I could see what my father might have once saw in her. Though, the closer I look, the more I wonder where that spark went.

Steam coils up from a paper-white mug clutched in her hands, and she takes a sip before speaking. "Your father is coming home tomorrow."

I pretend to look surprised, for her benefit. I already knew, as he had told me a week ago.