“Where are they?!” I yell to Charlie. I try to move in this space. To make myself loud enough.
I need something more.
I reach for my phone. It’ll make noise. An alarm. A song from my pregame pump-up playlist. Something loud. Something strong.
Something.
I pull my phone to my face. Tap the screen. Heart hoping. Heart crashing.
There’s nothing but fizz.
The water fried it.
The puddle of water I sucked into my mouth from the tips of my fingers to save my life killed my phone.
I don’t even have Leo’s picture anymore.
Charlie can’t even hear me tell him it’s gone. He’s yelling too loud to hear anything but his own voice. I yell, too. I yell loud and long. Until my throat is as raw and scratchy as it was before I found water. I yell until my voice is nearly lost.
The whistles back off. They push away like a bus from the curb. They didn’t come for us. False alarm. They decided nothing’s here.
Going.
Going.
Gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
7:21 A.M.
“Fuck!” Charlie shouts.
He smacks hard at something in his space. The walls creak. Like a haunted house. And then there’s a wobble.
“Stop it! You’re going to make everything cave in!”
“I don’t fucking care!” He smacks again. Growls. Punches.
There’s a crash. I shut my eyes. Hold my breath.
When it stops, he punches again. Another wobble. Another crash.
I cross my hands over my head to protect myself. “Charlie! What’s wrong with you? Do you want to kill us?”
“What’s the point, Ruby? Might as well make it quick and painless. Nobody’s coming for us, okay? Do you think rescue’s going to get any closer than it just did?”
“Charlie,” I whimper. “You’re scaring me. Please don’t do this. I need you to be brave for me. Please.”
“Shut up, Ruby. It’s done. Face it.”
His anger slices me wide open. I don’t even know this person. But maybe I never knew Charlie at all.
I’m angry, too. My whole body shakes with the force of it. But I’m not ready for these walls to come crashing down yet. I don’t want to stop hoping. My elbow and my hip bone grind into the hard floor underneath me. It hurts to even move my left arm now. It’s so hot. Puffy. Oozing. And the rest of my skin is already worn down, rubbed raw and chafed, drawing blood.
So maybe hope is useless.
Maybe all of my flesh will fall right off of me until I’m nothing but a heap of bones. I’ll be a pile of myself underneath whatever Charlie makes crash down on top of us.
I’ll die here.
I thought my dad was young when he died, but I’m thirteen years younger than he was. There is so much living I’ll never do. I won’t move into a dorm or play water polo in college. I won’t backpack across Europe like my mom did or make new friends in countries far away from home. Or see the friends I miss so badly it cracks my heart open. I’ll never again drive a car with the windows down and the moonlight bright. Or eat chocolate. Or float in the ocean. Or ski down a mountain.
I’ll never hug my mom.
I’ll never breathe in the gardenia-and-lemonade smell of her.
I’ll never hear her full-bellied, head-tilting, hair-falling-out-of-her-ponytail laugh again.
I’ll never see my room. Or home.
I’ll never kiss Leo.
There is nothing else after this. Just dirt. A laundromat grave. Flesh falling off my bones.
“Do it,” I say. “Punch it again. Get it over with.”
On the other side of me there’s only a heavy breath drawn in deep.
“Shit, Ruby,” Charlie murmurs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re all I have here. I’m losing it. Please don’t be mad at me.”
I can’t be mad. Because I understand. I do.
Pessimism lives here now.
It’s breaking both of us.
“I’m not mad,” I say. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Don’t say that. This can’t be how it happens.”
“But isn’t that how it is? One second you’re folding laundry and the next second you’re diving under a table in the middle of an earthquake.”
“One minute you’re hanging out at a fraternity house like any other Friday night, the next minute someone’s calling nine-one-one.” He punches at something again, and it creaks. “What’s the point?”
“The point is that you try. You tried that night. You’re trying now.”
“But why am I trying?”
“Because you can never stop trying, Charlie. You can never stop trying to fight for what you believe in or what you want out of life. Everything is connected. One thing leads to the next. It all matters.”
CONNECTIONS
People not in the know seem to think swimmers and water polo players are basically the same thing simply because both sports fall under the umbrella of aquatics.
They aren’t the same.
In my experience, swimmers and water polo players hardly even hang out with each other. That’s probably why I hadn’t known a whole lot about Leo other than the fact that he’d held our school’s record in the two-hundred-yard individual medley and the one-hundred-yard fly. I’d known only because the school paper plastered his name all over the sports section every week during swim season. But on the first night we hung out together after the Fourth of July, I also learned Leo held California state records and wanted to swim in college as much as I wanted to play water polo. He was already being courted by Division 1 schools and was hoping to get scholarship money as well.
It certainly felt like he’d earned such an opportunity after I heard his workout schedule. It was way more intense than mine for water polo. He went from five to seven a.m., Monday through Friday. Plus he worked out for two hours with the school’s swim team in the afternoon during the three months of swim season and, twice a week, two more hours with his club swim team in the evening. His weekend schedule varied depending on meets, but, in general, he worked out twice a day on Saturdays and had Sundays off.
Leo lived to swim.
“And I thought I was made up of fifty percent chlorine,” I said as I wound my chopsticks through the sheen of my ramen broth, creating a kind of eddy so my noodles would be more secure before I slurped them into my mouth. We’d gone to a restaurant by the mall so we could see a movie after. It was a lot for someone with Leo’s schedule to pack into one night. “How are you even here right now? How are you awake?”
He gathered his noodles with his chopsticks. “I really wanted to be here so . . . I planned ahead.”
“What do you mean?”
“I swam for three hours this morning instead of two so I’d only have to do one hour this evening. That way, I could go to dinner with you. And a movie. Plus it’s summer. I got to take a nap.”
“I’m flattered?”
He laughed. “Good.”
“But wait.” I set my chopsticks across the top of my bowl and studied him. “I don’t remember you sneaking off for swim practice on the Fourth of July. Did I miss something?”
“Well, yeah. It was a national holiday. I get national holidays off.”
“So you’re like a mail carrier.”
He laughed. “Pretty much. They’re the ones with that motto about delivering letters through rain or sleet or snow or blazing hot sun, right?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Might as well be a swim motto.”
“Polo, too.” I felt such camaraderie in that moment. Like Leo was someone who would always understand me. “Actually, no. Polo is only twice a day.” I added up the hours in my head. “You spend six hours in the pool some days. That’s brutal.”
“I only do the triple workouts during high school swim season.” He added some heat to his ramen by taking a spoonful of rayu from the metal jar at the edge of the table. “Otherwise i
t’s only twice a day.”
“Can I ask you something?”
He mixed the chili oil into his broth with his chopsticks. “I think so.”
“Why even bother with the school swim team? It’s not like they’re that good. Why not just focus on club?”
“Now you sound like my parents. Have you been talking to them? Conspiring against me?” He smiled.
“Nope. I promise.” I crossed my heart.
He took a sip of water. “I look at swim team like it’s the one thing I can do to feel like I’m part of something at school. Otherwise, I’m only there for classes.” He bit into his soft-boiled egg. Chewed. Swallowed. “I mean, I guess I could run for ASB or something, but I don’t exactly have the time. Swimming is something I’m good at, so why not just do that? And then I can actually feel like I’m having a sliver of a high school experience.”
“That makes sense.” And then, “So not much of a social life for you, huh?”
“Not a stellar one.” He grinned at me. “But I’m hoping it just got better.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
9:00 A.M.
I pull the hood from my damp sweatshirt over my face. Talk to Charlie with my eyes shut. The sleeve covers the cut on my left arm, and I beg for the wet cold of it to tame the fire carving a crevice through my skin.
It doesn’t.
I push at the heat. Suck in a breath. “Can my arm fall off from infection?”
“No.”
“But maybe?”
“You’re fine, Ruby.”
“They could have to amputate it. To save my life. What if someone has to saw it off to even get me out of here?”
I’d have to go to a hospital. I hate hospitals. Hospitals are where people go to die.
“If cutting off injured body parts is the only way out, they’ll have to saw me in half. So count your blessings.” He coughs. “Think you could talk about something else?”
“Like what?”
“You said your mom’s dating your coach. That sounds salacious.”
“More like weird.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I like him fine. I just don’t like him dating my mom. Except. . .”
“Except what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Nope. Can’t forget it now. You already started it.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it? How things that seemed like such a big deal yesterday don’t matter as much today? Like if my mom and my coach showed up right now, I’d probably throw them a wedding.”
“I’d eat all the cake.”
I think about the things I was worried about before the earthquake. My mom and Coach. Finding a dress for the water polo banquet. AP tests in May.
“So much doesn’t matter anymore,” I say.
“I know what you mean. I guess now we have to decide what still matters.”
There’s something. Mila. And that’s a big thing.
“My friend has a drinking problem. I’m afraid she’s going to end up like your friend.”
He shuffles. Something creaks. We stay still. Wait for quiet.
“The one on your team? Who lost her ring in Hawaii?”
“Yeah. Mila. I understand you more than you know, Charlie. I just kept everything about Mila to myself, and she ended up in a lot of trouble because of it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind of trouble people with drinking problems get into. The kind of trouble friends want to be able to fix, but it’s too big. Too much.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with that kind of trouble.”
“I know you are.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re going through that. And I’m sorry for your friend.”
“Me too.”
I can hope I’ll get out of here and Mila’s okay and we’ll be okay. I can hope she wants to try.
FRIENDS
The beach was windy, and the cold of the sand seeped through the back of my jeans. I was holding a can of beer, waiting for Leo to text me back, and watching Mila run around, singing some annoying song about counting stars at the top of her lungs. Beer sloshed out from the can she was tipping sideways when she tripped and fell into the guy, giggling and patting his chest.
Turned out his name was Robert.
“Ooh,” she said, smoothing her hand across Robert’s chest. “You’re hard.” She tittered. “I mean . . . here.” She patted his pecs.
He shook his head. Smiled. Then dipped her, like he was all romantic and was going to kiss her, but she lost her balance and toppled to the ground. Robert hovered above her like a shadow, offering to help her up. Mila slapped at his hand, laughing.
I walked over to them. Mila came up to his armpit when she was standing, but I was as tall as him. Mila grabbed my hand.
“Come count the stars with me,” she said, pulling me to the ground. Her wobbly grip made me stumble, and I landed on top of her.
“Well, all right,” Robert said, grinning down at us. “Three is always more fun.”
He angled in.
Breathed his breath.
I scrambled up. Moved back.
He laughed, pushing forward. He pinched my waist. “Oh, come on. I like a big girl who doesn’t need me to be gentle.”
I spun away. Put up my hands. “Don’t touch me. Ever.”
Mila stood. Swayed. Squinted.
Competed.
She grabbed Robert’s hand and pulled him behind her toward the sand dunes. Shouted, “Ruby already has a boyfriend.”
I hated her right then.
I paced. Rolled my hands into fists. I wanted to punch something. But I felt so helpless. He touched me without my permission. What was he going to do to her?
But maybe she actually liked him. Maybe she was good with it. She invited him here. She pulled him behind the dunes.
No.
She was too drunk.
I needed to check in with her.
I brushed off my jeans and headed to the dunes.
“Mila!” I shouted to let her know I was coming.
I rounded the sand dune where she was giggling and swatting at Robert, who was nuzzling her neck.
“Stop,” she murmured, and that’s all I needed to hear.
“We should go,” I said. I walked around them and pulled at Mila’s hand.
She giggled.
“Are you fighting over me now? You’re always so jealous, Ruby.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Robert said, pulling Mila toward him. “I don’t think your friend is ready to go.” Friend. He didn’t use her name. Wanted to keep her anonymous.
“She said stop.”
“She didn’t mean it.” He looked at Mila. “Right, beautiful?”
He angled his body over hers, trying to ease her back into the sand.
Mila’s eyes went wide, and she squeezed my hand. Tried to use me for leverage to roll out from under him. But he was big. And strong. And not giving in.
“Actually”—she sounded out of breath as she pushed on his chest—“Ruby’s right. We need to go.” She tried to twist away, but she was wedged between him and the sand.
She looked at me. Eyes pleading. Help.
I grabbed her hand. Pulled hard. Her shoulder nailed Robert on the chin.
He bolted up, sending sand flying. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Mila said, scrambling away. Heaving. “Ruby,” she whimpered, “hold my hair.”
She shoved her hand out to me, opening and closing it, fluttering her fingers, wanting me to grab them. I didn’t.
“We’re good here,” I said to Robert, standing tall and squaring my shoulders. “You should go. I’m pretty sure she’s done for the night.”
Robert grabbed my arm, digging his fingers in tight. “What about you? Are you done?” My heart skittered in my chest. Breath stuck in my throat. I was too frozen with fear to move.
“Ruuuuuuuuby,” Mila whimpered. She stood up, teetering lik
e a newborn colt.
Robert looked at me. Looked at her. Finally loosened his grip. Pushed me toward Mila.
I gathered her hair into my fist right before she lunged forward and threw up into the sand.
“Unreal,” he said, walking away. “Happy fucking New Year.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
11:33 A.M.
I would give anything for a runny nose.
My mucous membranes are cracked. My sinuses sting. My throat feels like I swallowed a handful of sand. I can actually imagine my teeth crunching down on the bits and pieces of it and wincing as it goes down, cutting up my insides along the way.
I dream of snot and postnasal drip.
How disgusting is that? This is what I’ve become. This is how dried out and cracked I am.
Even my tongue hurts. It stays stuck to the roof of my mouth like it’s coated with paste. The sides of it tingle, like when your feet and hands fall asleep. I try to stretch it by rolling it from one side of my mouth to the other. My lips smack and stick. The skin on my body burns with cracks and fissures. My arm is agony. The heat. The heartbeat.
And I’m cold. Shivering in this damp puddle of water.
I can’t check my phone to know what time it is. But a whole day has to have passed at least.
How many days can I go? How long will it be before I cave in on myself? Before I’m a dusty heap of nothing?
“I don’t think I’m okay, Charlie.” I try to twist my limp neck, but it’s almost too hard to lift my head.
Charlie shifts. Groans from the effort. “Negativity like that is not allowed here, Ruby. We’re getting out. And when we do, we’ll be friends.”
Not strangers. Friends.
“Promise?”
“I’m holding up my fist for you to bump.”
“Bump.”
He sucks in a breath. “I really am going to come watch you play water polo, so be ready. I’ll bring one of those giant foam fingers to your games to embarrass you. And after you win we’ll go to a taco stand by the beach and I’ll ask you a million questions because I still won’t understand anything about how to play.”
“No way. I’ll make you an expert in no time. I’ll make you get in the pool. Teach you how to eggbeater.” I manage a laugh. “And then I’ll bring a foam finger to your poetry readings. Or when I watch your films. Or go to your art shows. Would that be tacky?”
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