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Chapter 2 - Jax

“I got suspended. What’s your name so I won’t have to call you sexy?”

I’m betting this type of charm works on girls his age, but still, I indulge him. I’m enjoying this distraction. “It’s Jax. What’s yours?”

“Dante.” Then he tilts his head a click to the side. “Hey, I know you.” He lets his scooter fall to the ground and, in one leap, hops up on the wall, staring down at me. “I saw you with your grandma when I was visiting my great aunt, Lydia.”

I recognize instantly he’s talking about Rose and Oak Grove, and I’m sure I’ve even spoken to Lydia before. My new connection with Rose has me there more, but not to volunteer. “That’s not my grandma,” is all I say.

“I heard you reading that boring ass book to them old ladies.” He turns away and takes a few steps along the wall as if it’s a balance beam.

“That boring ass book is Pride and Prejudice—a classic.”

“Yeah, well I’m against prejudice,” he says in a serious tone. Then he squints over his shoulder and shoots me a grin.

“So why’d you get suspended?” I ask, finding myself liking this kid’s style for some reason. I have no idea what time it is, so I should leave soon. But I still need my sign, and I want to find out more about Dante. This is what I live for—the opportunity to meet an interesting soul. It’s the reason we’re on this earth: to love, learn, and experience. One of the most worthwhile ways to do that is through human interaction.

“We were in English class, and I turned to my friend Eugene and said, “Whoa, dat ass!”

I hold back a smile and say, “So they’re pretty strict about language at your school, huh?” I went to private school and less than that would have gotten you suspended. That’s why I spent half of eighth grade at home watching Days of Our Lives.

“No it wasn’t the language, it was dat ass.”

“What?”

“Dat ass belonged to my English teacher.” Dante spun on the wall, up on one toe like a ballerina. He was clearly proud of his performance, here and in the classroom.

I laugh, but contain myself quickly. I know I shouldn’t encourage the kid. I went through my own time of disrespect and challenging of authority, but this is his journey. I can hear in his voice; he will learn. “So shouldn’t you be at home then?”

“My mom sent me to the store. Shit, I better go before she beats my ass.”

“Well it was nice meeting you, Dante.” I shield my eyes with one hand and reach up to him with the other. He’s not paying attention to me and is now facing the water.

“Damn! Did you see that, Jax?” He points out to the sea, and I swivel back that way. My gaze follows his arm, my eyes scramble around until they make a connection. There it is. A solitary whale, bobbing in and out of the water, blasting a beautiful spray of ocean in the air. I fill my lungs with refreshing sea air, then let it all whoosh out freely.

“Thank you, Dante.”

●●●

I sit in the waiting room staring at my phone. I should leave Sage a message, in case I’m late. I’d driven twenty miles out of the way to get to this place, to make sure I didn’t run into anyone I know. So I’ll be cutting it close to get home on time. But I hate to lie so I decide otherwise and turn my phone off. It’s not only that I hate to lie; often I’m simply incapable of it. I don’t tell someone their new haircut looks nice if it’s crap. I don’t say I’m fine with something if I’m not. If you know me, you understand you’re going to get it straight. I might throw out a warning of, “You don’t want to hear my opinion.” That’s when you get lucky.

I search through my giant purse for something to do to keep my mind occupied. It’s cluttered, but contains most anything I’d need in a variety of situations. I’m nothing if not prepared. Watching CNN as the other three in the room are doing is not an option. I couldn’t care less about political bullshit. The bracelet I made for Sage’s grandmother, Rose, is still in the plastic bag in the side pocket and catches my eye. She loved it, but it was too big so now I have to adjust it. I should have remembered her wrist was smaller than mine, withered away from age and illness. I wonder if I’ll see Dante the next time I’m there. He seems sweet under all that swag. Plus, he found my sign, which makes me want him as a friend.

I snatch my book out and begin reading. I leave the bookmark in place because the girls will notice if I don’t read where I left off. I really don’t mind. Pride and Prejudice is my comfort read. After a few minutes a nurse steps through the door.

“Jacqueline?” she says.

The four of us eye her and then each other, but no one gets up. I turn my attention back to my book, but I’m soon distracted by a pair of hideous white shoes that have appeared next to my chair.

“Ms. Kensington?”

“Yes,” I say, looking up. Her expression is fake happy. Like she’s annoyed she had to seek me out.

“Jacqueline Kensington?”

That name is stuffed so far down my subconscious; I rarely recognize it or respond to it. “Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t answer.” I jam the book in my purse and stand. “It’s Jax.”

After we’re behind closed doors and she’s measuring my height, she says, “Is your name really Jacqueline Onassis Kensington?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” My grandmother’s obsession became my legacy. After my mother got knocked up at seventeen, my controlling grandmother promised to take care of us, pay for my private school, and let us live with her in Ocean Beach.

“I think it’s beautiful. She was beautiful,” she says as she jots something down and then points to the scale.

“Yes, but I’m nothing like her.” And I spent my life trying to convince my grandmother, and everyone else, of that.

I step on the scale. I don’t register my weight or ask her what she wrote, as I’m sure Sage and Emily would do. I’m an average girl and that’s fine with me. Sage is masterfully thin and literally works her ass off to be that way. Emily’s weight fluctuates between dangerously thin and big as a house because it seems she is always preparing to get pregnant, is pregnant, or has recently delivered.

We finish with the preliminaries, and she directs me to a room. It’s cold and feels hollow. Even the posters on the wall are clinical instead of sappy or inspirational, similar to some offices I’ve been in. My every movement echoes the sound of crumpled paper and makes me cringe. I hate being here, but I have no choice. As I sit and wait, I think about life. I think about how one night can change everything. Your destiny. Your identity. Then I think of my whale and how it surfaced just at the right time. Everything’s going to be all right. But when I glance down, I wonder why my hands are shaking.