Chapter-30.1 Havanna [Part-I]

[Havanna—Five years ago]

"What're you making Havanna?" May, her bestie, turned around and asked, her chin resting on Havanna's desk. Recess time washed away the fatigue, even the laziest bunch who snored during the classes now romped around, their garbled chatters and cackles permeating the classroom. 

"Hmm…" Havanna scratched her head with her bandaged thumb and gave a mindless reply, blocking out the noises and focusing on weaving the neck gaiter. 

"What are you making? Ooii…." May knocked on the desk.

"Hmm? What?"

May tapped on the charcoal-colored cloth and the sewing set on the desk. "What's this?" she asked.

"Gaiter," Havanna replied, gesturing towards her neck.

"Why're you making it yourself?" she asked. "Just buy one." 

"It's a gift."

"Handmade? For who?" May asked. "Sorry, for whom?" She emphasized the change, mimicking Ms. Palma, their teacher of the common tongue.

Havanna changed the needle and sewed a section, then checked the gaiter as a whole—the newest part curved to the right. But this was just a practice piece, mistakes would only fuel her improvement, so she let the problem be and continued.

"Tell me." May shook Havanna's hand back and forth, pouting. "Please," she said, stretching out the word.

Havanna clicked her tongue and stopped weaving. "Don't disturb me," she said. "These needles hurt a lot."

"Just tell me then," May murmured and lay her head on Havanna's desk, still pouting. "Is it for him?" she jerked up and asked, her eyes glittering with a wide smile.

Havanna bobbed her head. "His birthday's coming soon. I couldn't even wish him last two times; I'm going to make up for it this time."

Her mind wandered to Ewan; his current state worried her. He looked better than he did two years ago, but his eyes were still dead, and he often forced his smile for others. The neighbors gossiped he was doing well, that he got over uncle's death and was living a good life now. They couldn't tell, but she could, she spent all her childhood with him after all.

"Didn't your parents tell you to not contact him?" May asked. "Why did they do that anyway? Weren't your families super close?"

"Don't know, they don't tell me anything. I didn't even know we had to move," Havanna said. "But I'm not going to listen this time." She clenched her fist.

"Maybe it's because he's unlucky or cursed."

"He's not." Havanna scowled at May.

"Okay, okay." May pulled back. "But think about it. His mother almost killed him once, his father died so early, his relatives stole all his inheritance, he's barely surviving. And then you guys bailed too, and when you came back, your parents didn't want you to contact him," she said. "It really sounds like he's cursed."

"He is not!" Havanna glared, she wanted to punch May's nose. She wasn't the only one to say these words, the neighbors and his classmates did too, even the teachers followed along. They must think Ewan wasn't listening, but he heard it all, because she could too when she was with him. He kept everyone at a distance now, he always had his defense up. If this continued, he would always be alone….

She didn't know the reason why her parents became so frigid towards him, but they must still care—after all, they always whispered about Ewan and how he was doing when she wasn't paying attention, when they thought she wasn't paying attention. If she could convince them that he wasn't doing well and needed their help, they might let her meet him, or better yet, they might go back to how they were themselves.

"Base station to Havanna. Base station to Havanna, over."

"What?"

"Where're you wandering off to? Thinking about him?"

"No." Havanna started sewing again. "Stop interrupting me. I need to finish this," she said. 

"Fine, fine. By the way, I need to buy something after school. Come with me," May said.

"I can't. Mum told me to come home early."

"C'mon, please, I really need to buy this, it's the last volume of 'Nocturnals'." She pressed her hands together and begged. "That bookstore gets super busy, I don't want to go alone."

"You're still reading that creepy stuff?"

"It's not creepy! It's literature, you need to read it to understand," May said. 

"Fine." Havanna sighed. "But I have to get back by evening."

"Yay!"

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