The Making of a Life

Chapter 4

When I wake up, my mind starts whirring. I don't open my eyes, only sniff at the air. Where am I? What is this smell? It's a mix between coffee and fresh pastries. Where am I? Wracking my memory for an answer, I hear a voice in the background. I know that voice. Young and French. Calypso.

"Asa! Wake up! Asa!" his voice whines in my ear as he pokes and prods at my chest and shoulders. My left eye pops open and I stare at the boy. He jumps back, his hazel (definitely) eyes widening, with a little gasp. It grates at my ears more than his voice usually does. Quickly regaining his tact, Calypso clears his throat, but it soon leads to a string of harsh coughs. I feel my walls soften for a moment (in sympathy?), but I disregard it as a chance to observe and possibly diagnose his condition. But I can't. My nails dig into my palm as I realize that I can't. His coughs are like nothing I've ever heard of before.

"Sorry 'bout that," he says, scratching the back of his head. He leans against the dresser in the room and I remember exactly where I am. I'm in his room (right?), on the floor, my back reminds me. He had offered me a place to sleep last night, and I (reluctantly) agreed. I am not stupid. A free, albeit uncomfortable, room is better than a paid one. Also, Calypso was excited to talk about the quest. I, however, was not. Needless to say, his curiosity had not been satiated.

"Asa," he groans, "get up! My mother's made breakfast!" I fling an arm over my face and sigh deeply. It isn't until he begins to tickle at the soles of my feet, do I actually stand up. I feel sticky and grimy in my clothes. The long sleeves of my shirt hang past my fingertips and my jeans are worn and large. It is a tactic I use, wearing baggy, unassuming clothing, to stay beneath the radar. To ward away people. Or, at least, I thought it warded off people. Calypso, however, seems to be all too friendly (maybe he's not human?). An odd sun, that boy is.

He offers me his shower and disappears from the room. When I'm clothed in clean (but dirty-looking) clothes, and my hair is as decent as it will ever be, I leave his room, dragging my bag behind me. I had buried my book and knife under layers of clothing last night, trying to keep Calypso out of it.

I prefer Calypso to Cal. Cal seems too (friendly? Casual? Familial?) young for him. He is young, maybe eighteen, but he is not completely stupid. It is hard to admit that, but he isn't. He has some mental capacity; he does, after all, know two languages. Maybe Cal will start to sound more like him, maybe he will grow younger in my eyes, but, for now, he is only Calypso.

The hallway is empty, its only decoration being small, watercolor portraits of the face of France. Rolling vineyards and rocky beaches litter the framed paintings. I hear bustling from one end of the corridor. Following it, I find a small kitchen, in which Calypso and his mother are standing, having a quiet (but heated) conversation in French. Or, I think it's French, but, as I listen further, I realize it isn't. It's a language I don't recognize. It actually doesn't sound much like French at all. Almost sounds more like Spanish (but not Spanish).

Suddenly, they notice me and stop talking almost immediately. Calypso's mother, Marjorie (as introduced by her son last night), glares at me for a moment. She looks skeptical of me, though I don't know why. I do, though. I am a random, mute boy that her son took an interest in. Not only that, but now her son wants to leave Mount Harlot with me. I cannot be a good figure in her eyes.

"Do you know Basque?" she snaps, crossing her plump arms over her chest. Basque? Was that what they were speaking? I've heard of it before, but never cared enough to study it. Does that mean Calypso actually knows three languages? Maybe he's smarter than I give him credit for. Shaking my head, her brow softens slightly in what appears to be relief. Calypso's face regains color as he accepts my answer. I don't know what they were talking about, but it makes me suspicious.

"Well," Calypso begins, wringing his fingers, "how does breakfast sound?" I nod lightly. Breakfast is not one of my favorite times of day. It involves sun on the chair and gazes burning into my back. It is confusing, even to me (especially to me), how, no matter how bad breakfast might be, I always come back for more. Is that human? Is that one of my (possibly many) flaws? Maybe it is residual from after Mother and Father. Always returning to an empty home. The home that quickly became just a skeleton. Just a house in the middle of Redbrick Village. Just a memory of a beautiful, perfect family.

A small croissant and cup of tea is placed in front of me. I don't remember finding a seat at their personal kitchen's table. Marjorie has left for the storefront downstairs, her apron tied tightly around her generous waist. Calypso sinks into the chair across from me for the second time. Even still, it surprises me. Maybe I will never grow accustomed to someone else being in the sun's well-established place. Maybe I won't have to. Maybe Calypso's appearance in my life is just temporary, just another character in a twisted and tragic horror story. Maybe I am too worried. Maybe I am justly worried.

Calypso's hand waves in my face, and I blink. "Have you heard a word I've said?" he asks, crossing his arms. I stare at him blankly. I seem to be doing that more now. I never realized it before, but when I'm in situations with other people, it seems that is all I can do. With Ms. Tate, interaction wasn't strictly necessary, but with Calypso, I have to communicate somehow. For once, I almost with I weren't so shy. I almost wish I were like a portrait of myself from when I was younger. But I don't wish that (no, I can't), because to be my ten-year-old self again would mean being open and vulnerable. Too trusting and too needy. Too young.

"You're doing it again," Calypso says, breaking me from my trance. A look of utter displeasure crosses his face for a millisecond before another loud cough shakes his frame. I feel my throat tighten because of it. Glancing down, I notice that my tea and croissant have disappeared, presumably into my stomach. Presumably. What an phrase. So unlike myself. I'm usually so sure of everything. In some sense, at least. And now (after the bus ride? after Calypso?) I question everything more than I did, in a different way, too.

"Asa!" the French boy across from me shouts, his eyes wide with frustration. I blink rapidly and begin to listen to him. "Like I was saying, your cheek looks better. I don't know what happened, but it looked pretty bad yesterday. D'you feel okay?" he asks, leaning into his braced palm. It's just then that I notice the ease with which he speaks English. It sounds natural to him, maybe even more so than it is to me.

Nodding, I watch as a breeze from the open window shifts his curls. Almost curls, at least. More than wavy, less than curly. I like his hair. It seems so tame compared to mine. His skin, too. It looks alive, warm, where mine seems dead. It is peculiar. I've never looked at someone else and directly weighed myself against them. The religious, the scientists, the dreamers, all of them, they're one thing, but Calypso, he's another.

"It's time to go, Asa. Where are we headed?" Calypso questions, his eyes holding a glimmer of something I've never seen. The hazel seems greener, too.

A notepad and pen materialize under my fingers and I find myself scrawling at the paper.

I don't know. It's hard to show to him, hard to admit that I'm not as all-knowing as my eyes (apparently) tell him. His eyes scan the paper and his brow furrows lightly. This time, however, it is not in anticipation of a cough.

"What are you looking for?"

A missing page from my book. Almost. I thought it would be enough, but Calypso sees through it.

"No, it's not that. You wouldn't be here if that's all you're searching for." He stares at me for a moment. "You know, Asa, I'm not stupid. I just want to help. But in order for me to be able to help, I need to know what it is you're looking for. So, tell me, Asa, what're you looking for?"

My stomach drops (figuratively) along with my jaw (literally). Something in his eyes makes me want to tell him, even if I know it will make him laugh. Is this the making of a friendship? I don't know; I've never had a real friend before. More importantly, do I want a friend? Yes. I do.

The meaning of life.

His eyes brighten a little. "I know just where to go. We'll have to fly, though. Do you have a passport?" he asks, the cogs behind his eyes turning at double speed. I shake my head, not really wanting to tell him about the death certificate. His eyes flick up in thought. "Ah, well, we don't have time to get one, so I suppose we'll just have to find a private pilot with his own plane."

Where? I scribble, my handwriting getting sloppier and sloppier with speed. With a suppressed cough, Calypso's lips turn into a bright smile.

"Just downstairs. His name is Westley. He comes here pretty often during his bad hangovers. Mama has a soft spot for him. And if I remember correctly, he's got a plane and a license. Hopefully, he'll be willing to help us," Calypso rambles, abruptly standing and tossing our dishes into a small sink. He motions for me to follow as he pounds down the creaky wooden stairs to the floor of the coffeehouse.

Westley is a character. An irritable, but somehow agreeable character. Not only is he a character, he's a character with a plane. And he can fly me without a passport. Suddenly, I find eccentric old alcoholics much more attractive an asset.

"But y'er gonna haf'ta 'elp me get Ol' Bessie back in workin' order, ya 'ear me, boys?" he demands, his voice still slightly slurred from the night before. Calypso glances at me before agreeing.

"We'll help. Right now. Where is it?" the French boy asks, nearly pulling the old man from his chair. Westley glares at him, but pulls a marker from his pocket. Gripping my hand, he scrawls down an address in barely legible handwriting. With that, the man stands and clambers out of the coffeehouse and down the street. Calypso shoots me a look and I feel my lips twitch up (by their own accord).

He returns the smile. My throat clenches again.

Friendship? What an interesting sensation.