struggle up to the surface, struggle for breath, eventhough it would be so easy to let the water put me to sleep.
I can see E floating along with the current. It’s a steady flow, but this river’s washed out. It’s not strong enough to make his limbs as useless as a puppet’s. He might be in shock or something. Not being able to see or breathe right probably isn’t helping.
Stroke, stroke, stroke. I speed up the current’s flow. I’m beside him in what’s not quite a minute, not quite a moment.
Three heartbeats’ time
, Amy and I used to call it. But my heart’s beating so fast, thudding bruises against my chest.
E’s breathing bubbles, all of his air streaming out of him into the water. I put a hand on his shoulder. When that doesn’t get his attention, I grab his head and pull him out of the water. He sucks in a deep breath and then the weight of his head, complete with soggy hair, becomes too much for me and I drop it again.
Bubbles in the water. White rushing above us.
White noise. White sound and fury.
My limbs are giving out. What’s the point?
But I give it one last shot and pluck at the knot I tied in the scarf. It floats away, and I can see it from the corner of my eye. A pink dream, lost in the water.
I pull E and myself up for another breath, but as soon as we’re down again he becomes a dead weight. I swim under him, trying to make eye contact, to threaten himinto moving. But his eyes are closed. His skin is loose, his features slack. Unconscious.
Shit. There’s no way I can force him to breathe for long enough. Acting as his personal ventilator is not going to work.
I need him to move fast.
I twist down in the water, spin my way through the current until I’m underneath him, and aim my knee at his pants. Bubbles spurt from my mouth. In this weird gravity, with my limbs floating everywhere, it looks something like ballet to me.
Who’d have thought that kneeing someone in the balls could ever be equated with beauty?
I’d like to say that my ballet-balls threat is what forces Explosive Boy to finally lift his body from the water, but I’m pretty sure he’s still out cold.
Truth? The water releases us from its embrace. Cold mud slicks my back, and suddenly we aren’t moving anymore. Suddenly, the sun is glaring at me and I’m not quite as wet.
E’s eyes sludge open. He turns over, lifts himself off me—because with the water whooshing out from between us, he’s practically on top of me. He sucks in sunshine and air.
I laugh. Triumph always makes me laugh. Living again and again and again always makes me laugh. Butwhen I laugh, water shoots into my mouth and nose. It floods my lungs. The sun is so bright, and I can’t help but think I’m dying.
I’m dying in a fucking puddle. On a sunny day.
I’ve one-upped Amy. She’s going to be so pissed at me in heaven, or hell, or reincarnation. Wherever.
I splutter. Air slides into my mouth and nose in trickles. I hear voices above me, feel arms under me; but I’m just not getting enough air, and I sink into blackness.
Chapter Ten
A
MY AND P ET and I are sitting at the kitchen table.
Amy drinks her punch as if she’s downing a shot and then scoops more out of the bowl we’ve hijacked
.
“Let’s play twenty questions,” she says. “Every time you reveal something totally tragic about yourself, knock back some punch.” She grins, golden skin lit by the soft light from the other room. “We all know it’s spiked.”
Because she spiked it
.
Mark dances into the kitchen. He opens my fridge and grabs a beer. “What are you guys up to?”
“Twenty questions,” I say. “You?”
“
Some girl just offered to give me a striptease
.”
“
Well, go have fun then,” Amy says. She drinks half her punch in one gulp
.
“Nah, Ames. I’ll skip it for you, ’cause I’m a good boyfriend that way.”
He takes a seat next to her, slings an arm around her shoulder. She squirms, as if she wants to push him away, then she
I can see E floating along with the current. It’s a steady flow, but this river’s washed out. It’s not strong enough to make his limbs as useless as a puppet’s. He might be in shock or something. Not being able to see or breathe right probably isn’t helping.
Stroke, stroke, stroke. I speed up the current’s flow. I’m beside him in what’s not quite a minute, not quite a moment.
Three heartbeats’ time
, Amy and I used to call it. But my heart’s beating so fast, thudding bruises against my chest.
E’s breathing bubbles, all of his air streaming out of him into the water. I put a hand on his shoulder. When that doesn’t get his attention, I grab his head and pull him out of the water. He sucks in a deep breath and then the weight of his head, complete with soggy hair, becomes too much for me and I drop it again.
Bubbles in the water. White rushing above us.
White noise. White sound and fury.
My limbs are giving out. What’s the point?
But I give it one last shot and pluck at the knot I tied in the scarf. It floats away, and I can see it from the corner of my eye. A pink dream, lost in the water.
I pull E and myself up for another breath, but as soon as we’re down again he becomes a dead weight. I swim under him, trying to make eye contact, to threaten himinto moving. But his eyes are closed. His skin is loose, his features slack. Unconscious.
Shit. There’s no way I can force him to breathe for long enough. Acting as his personal ventilator is not going to work.
I need him to move fast.
I twist down in the water, spin my way through the current until I’m underneath him, and aim my knee at his pants. Bubbles spurt from my mouth. In this weird gravity, with my limbs floating everywhere, it looks something like ballet to me.
Who’d have thought that kneeing someone in the balls could ever be equated with beauty?
I’d like to say that my ballet-balls threat is what forces Explosive Boy to finally lift his body from the water, but I’m pretty sure he’s still out cold.
Truth? The water releases us from its embrace. Cold mud slicks my back, and suddenly we aren’t moving anymore. Suddenly, the sun is glaring at me and I’m not quite as wet.
E’s eyes sludge open. He turns over, lifts himself off me—because with the water whooshing out from between us, he’s practically on top of me. He sucks in sunshine and air.
I laugh. Triumph always makes me laugh. Living again and again and again always makes me laugh. Butwhen I laugh, water shoots into my mouth and nose. It floods my lungs. The sun is so bright, and I can’t help but think I’m dying.
I’m dying in a fucking puddle. On a sunny day.
I’ve one-upped Amy. She’s going to be so pissed at me in heaven, or hell, or reincarnation. Wherever.
I splutter. Air slides into my mouth and nose in trickles. I hear voices above me, feel arms under me; but I’m just not getting enough air, and I sink into blackness.
Chapter Ten
A
MY AND P ET and I are sitting at the kitchen table.
Amy drinks her punch as if she’s downing a shot and then scoops more out of the bowl we’ve hijacked
.
“Let’s play twenty questions,” she says. “Every time you reveal something totally tragic about yourself, knock back some punch.” She grins, golden skin lit by the soft light from the other room. “We all know it’s spiked.”
Because she spiked it
.
Mark dances into the kitchen. He opens my fridge and grabs a beer. “What are you guys up to?”
“Twenty questions,” I say. “You?”
“
Some girl just offered to give me a striptease
.”
“
Well, go have fun then,” Amy says. She drinks half her punch in one gulp
.
“Nah, Ames. I’ll skip it for you, ’cause I’m a good boyfriend that way.”
He takes a seat next to her, slings an arm around her shoulder. She squirms, as if she wants to push him away, then she
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