Transcendence by C. J. Omololu

and the fragrant spices overwhelm me. I take a deep breath and sit back against the concrete wall, feeling dizzy and unmoored. Rayne, Gabi, and the whole school fade until all I can see is a hot, smoky kitchen, the whitewashed walls punctuated with portraits of severe-looking old men.
    My mother bends before a cooking pot suspended over a fire, stirring a fragrant stew. Her long black hair is folded into a braid that hangs down the back of her neck and is covered with a loose scarf that she’s gathered in one hand so that it won’t drag into the flames
.
    I look down to see my bare feet with their stubby brown toes sticking out of my loose cotton pants. I sit on a chair, far off enough so that I don’t get in the way, but close enough to feel the heat from the fire. My stomach is rumbling in anticipation of her good cooking
.
    With deft fingers, my mother reaches into the fire and flips a piece of flat bread, handing one to me. “For you, my son,” she says to me. I smile and reach into the bubbling green stew with a torn piece of bread as the fragrance of the spices make my mouth water in anticipation—
    “You okay?” Rayne says, poking me in the side. “You look a little funny.”
    I shake my head to clear it of the vivid images. The fragrant smell remains, and I realize that it’s the same spicy scent that’s coming from Gabi’s thermos.
    “And since when do you speak Bengali?” Gabi asks.
    “What are you talking about?” I say, feeling vague and distant. I wonder what they saw while I was out of it. Obviously I didn’t faint this time or they’d really be freaking out, but it was probably easy to see something happened.
    “Bengali,” she says, looking at me sideways. “You were just staring off into space, and you said ‘
ozasro dhanyabad
.’ That means ‘thank you very much.’ The accent was a little weird, but that’s definitely what you said.”
    The image lurks in the back of my mind, as clear as if it were a movie, except that I knew things about the scene that a person who’s simply watching wouldn’t. I
felt
things about it. The hunger, the anticipation, the happiness that came from being with my mother in our house. A pang of loneliness remains as I realize I miss that woman. The mother of a little boy who isn’t me.
    “I, um … must have picked it up from the Indian restaurant we go to,” I say quickly, trying to cover up my confusion. I look at both of them and attempt a faint smile.
    The happiness I’ve been feeling over Griffon evaporates, replaced by cold, hard dread. A familiar place, a strange smell—it doesn’t take much to sweep me into other lives in other times. My mind races, although I know there’s nowhere to go. The problem isn’t anywhere I can escape from—it’s all in my head.

Six
     
    My shoulders relax and I can feel myself swaying to the rich, mellow sound that fills every open space. Flying over the strings, my fingers find the notes on their own as I fight to keep my conscious mind from interfering. My right hand holds the bow as it arcs back and forth, pulling the music from the deeply toned wooden body. As the last note resonates through the room, I hear clapping from the doorway and whirl around in alarm.
    “That was amazing,” Veronique says, her eyes shining with delight. She walks all the way into the room. “I can’t imagine ever being able to play like that.”
    I pause to catch my breath, feeling wrung out as I always do from the effort. “Thanks,” I say, immediately embarrassed. Mom must have let her in. I never play like that if I know anyone is standing there. I can handle playing in front of a few hundred people noproblem, but one-on-one where I can see their reaction, where they almost participate in the music with me—no thanks.
    “Who’s the composer? I didn’t recognize any of the score.”
    I rest the cello’s neck against my collarbone and drop the bow back in the case. “It’s just something I did a couple of years