Landon and Xavier (Discontinued)

I was born a hermit crab. I sit in my room. I listen to whale sounds on Youtube. I read books about merpeople. I don't like water. I have this memeory… I'm in a body of water offshore. Breaking through the crystal surface. I was little then. It's all I think about. What is the universe trying to tell me? Am I swimmer? 

I'll grow up to be nothing. I've got no motivation. That's what mum says. I agree with her sentiment. I don't want to become anything. And I have a non-dream of becoming a swimmer.

I live in a beach town. A well-stocked bookstore opened by the pavilion. I'm in the car with Mum. She's driving. There's ocean wave silence between the two of us. The bookstore is sardine-crammed. Mum stays in the car. We've parked next to  Jeep. The hood down. 

I'm stood behind a man. He's holding a pile of Macmillon textbooks. He's all dishevelled auburn hair. His body a boulder. Shouders spanning miles beneath his gunmetal grey hoodie. I pause. Then he's turning around to face me. He smiles. All white teeth.   

"Landon. Right?" he says. He has the same novel in his pile. "We are in the same Literacy Studies class."

"Oh." I hold the book to my chest. I don't recognise him. "Hi."

He's next in line. He gives me an awkward wave when he leaves. His seaweed-green eyes smiling. 

I throw the book on the backseat when I climb into the car. "What did you get?" Mum asks. 

"Something to read on the beach," I say to her.  "Sally Rooney." She says she doesn't recognise the author. I don't expect her to. Mum doesn't read. She works–a lot.   

The Jeep is gone. Mum pulls out of the parking lot. She turns onto the main road. We spending the day at Camps Bay beach.

"You should have bought a bathing suit," she tells me. 

"I don't know how to swim."

"You used to love the water when you were little," she says. 

I don't remember. I was little. I don't remember. I don't remember 'loving' the water. Not the beach. Not the pools. 

I'm afraid of being swallowed. In my memory. The ocean has this blackness. I can't break free. All of those waves. Swirling. "No, I wasn't." 

I can't find someplace quiet. The beach is body full. Neon bathing suits. Tropical board shorts. Waxed surfboards. I feel sick. Mum slings her tote over her shoulder. 

"Can you sit somwhere I can find you?" Mum says. I take her bag and the towel she gives me. "Look after my things."  

"Sure," I say. I'm pulled to the wet sand by the weight of the bag. She has bought the entire medicine cabinet with her again. 

"Don't forget to apply sunscreen lotion," she says. She walks to the water. She wears her turquiose bathing suit. I'm younger than it by five years.

I sling the tote bag over my shoulder. "Whatever."