and jumping and calling out for Kyle. A few ran back to the shore. Others stood silently, awed or terrified, taking it in. Someone yelled, “Stay calm, dude!” and another cried out, “Oh, my God, he’s going to die!” Above the din I could make out laughter. Some kids, predictably, probably from nervousness but maybe it was meanness, just laughed and laughed.
For better or worse we were all our elemental selves for those few moments. I have understood this since the first playground fight I had to break up: how a crisis can reveal the inner workings of our nervous systems before we even know our own hearts.
In just a few seconds, Kyle was out of the water, shaking himself off, refusing comfort, glaring at Brady. His shaggy, dark hair was plastered to his forehead and his cheeks. He gleamed in the sunlight like a seal pup.
“We’ve got some towels in the visitors’ center, hon,” Margo said.
“I’m sorry, man,” Brady sobbed. “I’m sorry!” But Kyle turned his back to him and let himself be surrounded by the mob of kids eager to celebrate his newfound status as the kid who ALMOST DROWNED AT LAKE KASS.
“I’m really, really sorry!” Brady called after him, high and bereft.
I corralled the children, who were still howling with excitement, back to the shore, and I thought,
This is the end of that friendship.
But it wasn’t. It would take Kyle and Brady all of forty-five minutes to reconcile. They would be pelting pretzels at each other by the end of the day. They would come back together with the purity of ten-year-old boys, until, four years later, Kyle’s parents would split up and his mother would move Kyle and his sister to Kenosha, where she would find a job as the manager of an apartment complex.
Josie came up behind me, shepherding her own group. “Jose,” I said, “you’re an American hero.”
She chuckled and held out her hand to me. “I’m still trembling.”
“I swear to God,” I said, shaking my head.
She leaned into me for a second as we walked. There was a feeling between Josie and me, the goodness and pleasure of our friendship an electric thing humming and buzzing. We had this new story to tell Chris and Mark, and we shared the full and mutual delight of having survived it. I was already picking out phrases to quote to her later.
Oh, my God, he’s going to die!
When more screaming erupted from the horde of kids on the shore, I figured it was residual drama, an aftershock. We weren’t even concerned. We wandered back down to the dock. We lollygagged. And the screaming grew louder.
“Ugh, what now?” Josie said.
“I’m gettin’ out of this here racket,” I said, hooking my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans. “Thinkin’ about gettin’ into real estate.” We hurried the stragglers along, started jogging toward the confusion. Kelly and Andrea were there already.
“Claire Whitley has been stung by a bee,” Kelly announced, her words sharp and fast. “We need the med bag now, Mrs. Abrams. Can you please give me Claire’s. Epi. Pen. Right. Now.”
The children huddled in little groups, staring and whispering. Claire Whitley was still and scared at the center of it all, tears pouring down her face, which was, impossibly, paler than usual, a blank moon edged in pink. She was holding her wrist. She coughed a few times. Her lips were already starting to look swollen and strange. “I am very allergic,” she whispered, which of course we already knew.
And Josie was gone, sprinting toward the bus.
The medical bag was her responsibility, and she had left it on the bus. Later I would think,
It could have happened to anybody. Anybody could have made that mistake,
which both was, and was not, true. It didn’t matter. It was Josie’s mistake.
I sat on the ground and eased Claire into my lap, and I rocked her while we waited, the longest minutes, endless breaths. Andrea rounded up all the other kids and hurried them over to a spot on the shore about a hundred
For better or worse we were all our elemental selves for those few moments. I have understood this since the first playground fight I had to break up: how a crisis can reveal the inner workings of our nervous systems before we even know our own hearts.
In just a few seconds, Kyle was out of the water, shaking himself off, refusing comfort, glaring at Brady. His shaggy, dark hair was plastered to his forehead and his cheeks. He gleamed in the sunlight like a seal pup.
“We’ve got some towels in the visitors’ center, hon,” Margo said.
“I’m sorry, man,” Brady sobbed. “I’m sorry!” But Kyle turned his back to him and let himself be surrounded by the mob of kids eager to celebrate his newfound status as the kid who ALMOST DROWNED AT LAKE KASS.
“I’m really, really sorry!” Brady called after him, high and bereft.
I corralled the children, who were still howling with excitement, back to the shore, and I thought,
This is the end of that friendship.
But it wasn’t. It would take Kyle and Brady all of forty-five minutes to reconcile. They would be pelting pretzels at each other by the end of the day. They would come back together with the purity of ten-year-old boys, until, four years later, Kyle’s parents would split up and his mother would move Kyle and his sister to Kenosha, where she would find a job as the manager of an apartment complex.
Josie came up behind me, shepherding her own group. “Jose,” I said, “you’re an American hero.”
She chuckled and held out her hand to me. “I’m still trembling.”
“I swear to God,” I said, shaking my head.
She leaned into me for a second as we walked. There was a feeling between Josie and me, the goodness and pleasure of our friendship an electric thing humming and buzzing. We had this new story to tell Chris and Mark, and we shared the full and mutual delight of having survived it. I was already picking out phrases to quote to her later.
Oh, my God, he’s going to die!
When more screaming erupted from the horde of kids on the shore, I figured it was residual drama, an aftershock. We weren’t even concerned. We wandered back down to the dock. We lollygagged. And the screaming grew louder.
“Ugh, what now?” Josie said.
“I’m gettin’ out of this here racket,” I said, hooking my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans. “Thinkin’ about gettin’ into real estate.” We hurried the stragglers along, started jogging toward the confusion. Kelly and Andrea were there already.
“Claire Whitley has been stung by a bee,” Kelly announced, her words sharp and fast. “We need the med bag now, Mrs. Abrams. Can you please give me Claire’s. Epi. Pen. Right. Now.”
The children huddled in little groups, staring and whispering. Claire Whitley was still and scared at the center of it all, tears pouring down her face, which was, impossibly, paler than usual, a blank moon edged in pink. She was holding her wrist. She coughed a few times. Her lips were already starting to look swollen and strange. “I am very allergic,” she whispered, which of course we already knew.
And Josie was gone, sprinting toward the bus.
The medical bag was her responsibility, and she had left it on the bus. Later I would think,
It could have happened to anybody. Anybody could have made that mistake,
which both was, and was not, true. It didn’t matter. It was Josie’s mistake.
I sat on the ground and eased Claire into my lap, and I rocked her while we waited, the longest minutes, endless breaths. Andrea rounded up all the other kids and hurried them over to a spot on the shore about a hundred
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