Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

on in a hurry, coming through the gate as the delivery man exits.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ You hug on your doorstep and, as you pull away, she says, ‘Can I be honest?’

‘Go on.’

‘I don’t really have an excuse. I’m just late. Was being lazy.’

‘You’re all good. Come in.’

She takes in her surroundings like a traveller mapping new lands. You watch her eyes graze over the photographs hanging in the hallway, working out what leads where, quickly gaining her bearings.

‘Just you, your mum and dad?’

‘My little brother too. He’s at uni but comes home for the ­holidays. And whenever he wants, to be honest.’

‘What’s the age difference? This him?’ She points to a photo of you and him, arms around each other’s shoulders, ­mid-­laughter, taken at a wedding the year before.

‘Five years,’ you say, nodding. On some days, like today, when he called and teased you about her coming over, the gentle ribbing descending into a back and forth which is never sharp, always underscored by rhythmic giggles which don’t quite match your large bodies, on some days, like today, the distance is short and easy. This is your brother, partner in crime, stubborn opponent, gentle man. And on other days, like today, in the same phone conversation, when the laughter broke and you could hear him gulping for air, could hear the panic in his body trying to rise, could hear the tears, and he asked you to help him, to care for him, which wasn’t a problem, is never a problem, except you have been doing it for years, especially when your father’s love failed, when your father was far, in body or in spirit, and the responsibility fell to you, without much choice, and it was hard, difficult for a child to take care of himself and another, impossible to do without one or other being neglected, on other days, like today, you’re reminded the distance is long and hard. This is your brother, your charge, your duty, your son.

‘You are a carbon copy of your mum,’ she says. She gazes at a photo of your dad, but doesn’t ask, so you do not tell.

She continues to map her route using familiarity, heading towards the kitchen to fill the kettle.

‘Tea?’

‘Shouldn’t I be the one asking you?’

‘Well, I’m here now.’ She tries one cupboard, then another, and finds the Earl Grey. She catches you smiling.

‘What?’

You shake your head. ‘Where are you heading later?’

‘Back to my old school. It’s a bit of a journey.’

‘You doing alumni stuff ? Talking to the kids?’

She laughs. ‘Something like that. Milk?’

‘No, thank you,’ you say, opening the fridge and passing her the carton of soya. ‘I had to do something similar last year.’

‘Where’d you go to school?’

‘In Dulwich.’

She stops. ‘You went to that school?’

‘Not that one, but one close to it. Same foundation. Similar group of people. Same set of fees.’

‘How’d that happen? I’m interested.’

As luck would have it, through taking a different route. You didn’t like the larger, ­single-­sex school, with its sprawling grounds and a feeling of discomfort you may come to know as implicit bias. But the journey home, on an alternative route, trying to avoid roadworks, will yield a glimpse of the smaller, ­mixed-­sex school. Smaller is a relative term here: you can’t see how far back the school stretches, but judging by the immaculate lawn preceding the casual hulk of the ­red-­brick main building, it will be larger than your prepubescent self can ever understand.

It’ll be the last set of exams you sit, and the last offer you receive. The kind ­man – you’ll learn that kindness is rarely enough, but equipped with a certain knowledge and awareness, it can ­be – talks to you about Arsenal and United in your ‘interview’. In the main hall, he’ll direct you towards the biscuits: thick, crumbly shortbread laid out in rows, served by a Jamaican woman with a single gold tooth, who you’ll later befriend. Your mother doesn’t tell you exactly what was said; the interviewing teacher never tells you what he wrote in the letter of recommendation to ensure you wouldn’t pay for this elite ­secondary-­school education. Before you leave, he shakes your small and slender hand, his large and ­vein-­ridden, bringing you close, as if to embrace.

‘We need more kids like you, young man.’

At your blank expression:

‘We need more young Black kids. We really do.’

‘O-­kaayyy,’ she says. ‘This makes sense.’

‘What does?’

‘Why we get along so well. Same thing. Seven . . . interesting years.’

She glances at the countertop behind her, body primed to leap up and seat herself atop the counter, but decides against it.

‘What was being at school like for you?’ you ask.

‘It was . . . a lot. I never felt unwelcome but there was always something I didn’t feel privy to.’

You, too, were likeable for a myriad of reasons, many of which you couldn’t comprehend. There should be no reason for the group of ­sixteen-­year-­olds to see your confused and lanky frame, unsure how you have managed to wander so far from the building which houses your cohort, and approach with the intention of friendship.

‘You look lost, bro.’

‘I am.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Lower school.’

They walk you back, grateful for this makeshift security detail.

‘Who is your form tutor?’

‘Miss Levy.’

‘What? She used to be our form tutor. Tell her we said hello.’

One of them studies you closer. ‘He looks like Gabs, doesn’t he? What you think, Andre?’

Andre gives a ­non-­committal grunt. Gabs, when you meet, is an enormous Nigerian boy, holding a ­quick-­witted charm with an easy smile. The comparison is obvious, a little lazy. When faced with this supposed doppelgänger, there were questions: Do we look like each other? Are we all meant to be the same? Do you feel this strange feeling too, Gabs, the physicality of it, something hard and heavy at the top of your chest, like a shot of something clear which won’t slip down? And if so, do you have a name for it?

Instead of an impromptu Q and A, you perform a complicated, natural handshake, to the glee