Tangled

by Carolyn Mackler

  As I gawked, he turned around, stretched his arms over his head, and did a backward dive. When he didn’t come up for several seconds, I panicked that he’d smacked his head on the bottom of the pool. Great. Just when I encountered the man of my dreams, he had to go unconscious on me.

  I was trying to recall the specifics of that CPR unit from health class when he popped up on the other side. Here was my chance! I sucked in my gut and strutted past the pool, hoping he’d check me out. Once I was several strides away, I peeked over my shoulder, thinking how we could make long, meaningful eye contact, the start of our love affair.

  But no. He was swimming underwater, oblivious.

  Even so, I spent the next day and a half scheming about how I could talk to him. The biggest thing working for me was that, other than Skye (who wasn’t talking to anyone), there were no other girls at Paradise.

  Finally, on Tuesday, I saw him again. I was walking over to the grill to order nachos and I glanced toward the parking lot. There he was, opening the passenger door of a white car. A middle-aged woman was in the driver’s seat, probably his mom. Right before he climbed in, he stretched his arms over his head (oh my god), which made his shirt lift up (oh my god), and, with his shorts riding low (oh my god), I got a glimpse of an amazing V-cut leading down to his you-know-where (total visual orgasm).

  I veered into the parking lot and began racing through the rows of shiny rental cars. It’s almost like a force beyond my control was pulling me toward him. But just as I approached, he got into the car, slammed the door, and they sped off.

  seven

  Late that night, I was wide awake as usual. My mom, Luce, and I went to a phosphorescent bay earlier in the evening. It was a half-hour drive from here. Once it got dark, we rode out on a boat to see sparkling plankton. My mom spent the whole time gushing about how amazing it is and we never would have been able to do this on our own and thank you, Luce, for bringing us along. The phosphorescent stuff was amazing, but I was relieved Skye wasn’t here to witness my mom’s big display. Just as we were leaving for the bay, Skye bailed. She’d announced that she was ordering room service and going to bed early. For the whole drive Luce talked about Skye’s draining auditions, but I kept remembering what she said to me, about how she’s going through some stuff.

  When we got back to the room, Skye was asleep. I read the last seventy pages of The Bridges of Madison County in one hungry gulp. It’s a love story between two middle-aged people that doesn’t sound high on the sexy scale. But believe me, it was. Especially this one line that the guy, Robert, says to the woman, Francesca. It’s the last night they’re spending together and they’ve pretty much realized they’re going to have to go their separate ways after this. They’re laying in bed and he whispers, “In a universe of ambiguity, this kind of certainty comes only once, and never again, no matter how many lifetimes you live.” I wrote that in my everything book, and then cried into my pillow for five minutes straight.

  Around eleven thirty, I crawled out of bed. Other nights here, when I couldn’t sleep, I walked around the resort or chatted online with Ellie and Leora. Tonight, though, I wasn’t in a wandering mood. All I could think about was Robert and Francesca and whether that certainty will ever come my way (and, if so, please give me the time, date, and location). I needed something to calm me down. Maybe a soak in the hot tub. It was late, after all. No one around to see me in my poop-tankini glory.

  I tiptoed to the bathroom and changed into my bathing suit. I wrapped a white towel around myself, and crept out the door and down the stairs.

  The hot tub was steaming and there was only the dimmest light from the pool area. I tossed my towel on a chair, hit the button for the bubbles, and lowered myself in. As the warmth washed over my body, I stirred my legs around in the water. Maybe I could be like Francesca, full of untapped lust, waiting for the man of my dreams to pull into my driveway in his old pickup truck.

  I’d just closed my eyes when a voice said, “How’s the temp?”

  I looked up and my heart plummeted, I swear, into my colon. Because there, standing above me and ripping off his shirt, was the guy. The guy from the diving board. The guy with the muscular calves and, oh god, the swimsuit riding low enough for me to conjure up some serious imagery.

  “It’s fine,” I muttered. Then I sank even deeper into the water.

  This was not how it was supposed to happen. I was supposed to bump into him when I was clothed, my hair blown out, makeup on. I know some girls, like Skye, can pull off the au naturel thing. But I need all the intervention the cosmetic world has to offer.

  As he climbed into the tub, I had a sudden panic that I was going to fart and even though the light was faint he’d detect telltale bubbles. I quickly reassured myself that the jets were on (good move, Jena), so I was covered on one front. But that still left me in a hot tub, barely clothed, with the hottest guy on the planet.

  It doesn’t get more awful than this.

  I planted my ankles firmly on the ground so I wouldn’t knock into him and he wouldn’t think I was flirting and run screaming across Paradise, laughing at the notion that someone like me would think I had a shot with someone like him.

  But I could still gawk, right?

  And so, with my face angled toward the gurgling water, I watched this guy settle his body in the water (oh), groan slightly (my), fold his arms behind his head (freaking), and close his eyes (god!).

  Since his eyes were shut, I took this opportunity to slide as far as possible to the other side of the hot tub. Once there, I stretched my arms behind myself in an attempt to appear relaxed.

  And that’s when I felt it.

  My fingers had landed on a folded-up piece of paper sitting on the edge of the hot tub. I stared at it for a moment, debating between two competing impulses.

  Impulse #1: My self-preserving instinct to remain as motionless as possible.

  Impulse #2: My obsessive need to read the contents of any discarded note.

  Obsession beat out self-preservation. I opened the paper, careful not to ruin the ink with my damp fingers. There was just enough light for me to squint at the small, loopy letters. But once I began reading, a horrible, sick feeling washed over me.

  Oh my god, I thought.

  “What?” the guy asked.

  I looked at him. Had I said that out loud?

  “Oh my god what?” the guy pressed.

  I shook my head and gestured at the paper I was pinching between my fingers. My throat was tight as I whispered, “I just found this right there.”

  He paddled across the tub, slid in next to me, and glanced at the note. I reread it along with him.

  I keep thinking about slicing my wrists. I wonder if I could really do it? I can imagine the open wounds, but I don’t feel any pain. I just close my eyes and the blood soaks the clean white sheets and I finally feel free.

  The guy let out a low whistle. “Holy shit.”

  “I know,” I said quietly.

  “Holy shit,” he said again. “You just found this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “Right there.”

  Neither of us spoke. He was squinching his eyes shut and massaging his temples with his fingers. I was now fluctuating between two competing emotions.

  Emotion #1: To be utterly freaked out, bad-variety. After all, I was holding a suicide note in my hand.

  Emotion #2: To be utterly freaked out, good-variety. After all, the hottest guy in the planet was sitting next to me. His thigh had brushed against mine ever so briefly, and the tickle of his leg hair had plunged my brain into a complete state of freeze.

  I forced myself to muddle through the mental tundra. “Do you think we should do something about it?” I asked.

  “Like what?” He glanced at me. “Tell housekeeping to watch out for their clean white sheets? Remove sharp objects from the kitchen?”

  I swallowed hard, wishing I hadn’t said anything in the first place.

  “
I’m just saying,” the guy added, “that whoever wrote that note is a fucking idiot. If you want to die, go ahead and kill yourself. I’m not going to stop you. But it’s insane to take your own life. I mean, you never know when your time is up so why do it yourself?”

  I studied him, unsure how to even begin responding when he jumped out of the tub, jogged over to a table, and grabbed a beer from under his T-shirt. Then he slid back into the water and tilted the can into his mouth. After a long chug, he set the beer on the edge, wiped his lips, and said, “It sucks, okay? But it’s not our problem. Let’s start again. I’m Dakota. I’m from upstate New York. Who’re you?”

  Dakota. His name was Dakota.

  “I’m—I’m Jena,” I stumbled. My brain was darting all over the place. This guy—Dakota—was starting a conversation with me (wow). But I was currently in possession of a note written by someone who was about to slit their wrists (even bigger wow). Or maybe Dakota was the bigger wow? But if someone killed—

  “You’re cute, you know that?” Dakota added. “In a shy way. I like that. Where’re you from?”

  That did it. I set the paper on the edge of the tub and swirled my hands around in the hot water. “Topeka,” I said.

  “Kansas?”

  “No, the one in Westchester County, north of New York City.”

  He studied me, but didn’t say anything. And so I, immediately, went into hyperkinetic babble mode.

  “People don’t realize this,” I added, “but there are also Topekas in Indiana, Illinois, and Mississippi. Supposedly Topeka is a Native American expression that means ‘to dig good potatoes.’ Great, right? Some people live in the entertainment capital of the world and I live in a place where you can dig good potatoes.”

  “You sure have a lot to say about Topeka,” he remarked, his lip curled in a lopsided grin.

  I flushed. I am such a moron. I tried to imagine Skye here instead of me. She would definitely not be talking about potatoes. Then again, she’s the kind of girl who could recite a monologue on root vegetables and still have him begging for more.

  Dakota took another swig of beer. “So what do you think of Paradise?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t going to say another word for the rest of my life. Not one.

  “I’m here with my mom and brother,” he continued, “so it’s kind of boring.”

  Oh my god! There were two of them? I couldn’t help myself. “You have a brother?”

  “Yeah, but you can barely tell,” Dakota said. “He’s younger than me, but he’s really tall and has reddish hair. You probably haven’t seen him. All he does is hang out in that business center.”

  I was incredulous. “The Loser with the Laptop guy is your brother?”

  Dakota laughed. “That’s one name for him.”

  I was starting to feel light-headed from the heat, but there was no way I was going to climb out in front of him. Not in this tankini. Not with these thighs.

  “How old are you?” Dakota asked.

  “Sixteen. How about you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  As I rested my head against the side of the tub, Dakota told me that his mom brought his brother and him here in an attempt to bond, but they haven’t been spending any time together. Mostly, Dakota’s been sleeping late (that body in a bed…sigh), scoring beer from the bar, and swimming out in search of fierce currents.

  “In the ocean?” I asked, lifting my head up.

  “No, in the pool.” Dakota laughed. “Yeah, in the ocean. It’s pretty cool, almost like you’re losing control. But once you hit undertow you have to float for a while until you can swim back to the shallow water.”

  “That reminds me of this line from an Edie Brickell song. ‘Choke me in the shallow water before I get too deep.’”

  “Who’s Edie Brickell?”

  I shrugged. “A singer. She’s not new or anything.”

  “Haven’t heard of her.” Dakota drained the rest of his beer. Then he hoisted himself out of the tub and tossed his can in the trash.

  I watched as he pulled on his shirt and combed his fingers through his hair. But then, just as I was expecting him to leave, he reached for my towel and held it out. Oh, no, I thought, shrinking into the water.

  “Come on,” Dakota said. “I’ll dry you off.”

  “That’s okay,” I squeaked. “I mean, I’m fine. I think I’ll stay in for a few more minutes.”

  Total lie. If I soaked any longer I’d die of heatstroke.

  “No, seriously,” he said. “Now you’re getting all shy again.”

  I climbed out of the tub, gripping the rail to steady myself, and dove into the outstretched towel. Dakota wrapped it around me (phew), but then, as he was tucking in the front, his hand lingered on my boob area.

  My legs went jelly on me. I leaned into him for support. He stepped in closer too, reached his arm around my waist, and touched my chin with his thumb, gently pulling my face up.

  “You’re cute, Jena from Topeka,” he whispered.

  My teeth began clacking inside my skull. Was this happening? Was this happening? Was this really—

  Dakota kissed me. It was soft at first, but then his lips pushed harder against mine and his tongue darted into my mouth. It all transpired so quickly I didn’t even have a chance to worry about whether my braces were butchering his flesh.

  Dakota stepped back, grinning. “See you around, okay?”

  I nodded, unable to speak. He headed across the lawn. As I watched him disappear into the darkness, I held my towel tight to my chest. I was grinning and my teeth were chattering and I kept thinking, No way. No way. Oh my god. Yes way. I must have stood there, smiling and repeating that in my head, for five minutes. But that’s the good thing about being an insomniac. You’re up so late there’s no one around to witness your crazier moments. And even if there were, I was flying way too high to care.

  eight

  The next morning, the roosters woke me at six. I stretched across my bed in disbelief. Did I really meet that guy in the hot tub last night and did he really say I was cute and did he really wrap me in a towel and kiss me so passionately it was like I’d stepped out of my life and into a romance novel?

  No, I kept telling myself. That’s too good to be true. There’s no way it could have happened.

  But it did.

  I knew it did.

  I don’t generally believe in heaven. But as I lay there reliving last night’s encounter, I was so up there.

  Breakfast takes place in a large open-air space that doubles as a grill for lunch and a bar in the nighttime. On Wednesday morning, as I navigated the buffet line, I kept looking for Dakota. My mom was in front of me, ladling syrup onto her French toast. Skye was behind me, picking through the fruit selection. I was trying not to be obvious, but I wanted to see him so badly I couldn’t even think about food. I took some mango slices and a small container of yogurt, but ate only a few bites.

  Near the end of the meal, I was back in the buffet line getting juice for my mom when a voice behind me said, “Hey there.”

  It was Dakota, freshly showered, wearing khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and that seashell necklace. He looked every bit as gorgeous as I’d remembered.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I mumbled, nearly dropping the glass.

  “What are you up to today?”

  “Just hanging out. What about you?”

  Dakota rolled his eyes. “My mom wants to hike to a lighthouse on the other side of the island. We probably won’t get back until tonight.”

  “Oh,” I said. (Damn, I thought.)

  “Want to meet up later? Down at the beach?”

  DID I WANT TO MEET UP LATER??!!!!!

  “Uh…sure.”

  “What’s your number?” Dakota pulled out his phone. “I’ll text you when I get back.”

  HE WANTED TO TEXT ME!!!!!

  “Number?” Dakota asked.

  I had to pull myself together. “I don’t get reception here,” I s
aid.

  “Want me to call your room then?”

  I thought about what would happen if Dakota called our room and Skye answered and ended up joining us on the beach. No way was I getting myself in a situation where he had his pick of her or me.

  “That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’ll just hang out down there until you show up.”

  “Let’s meet around ten,” Dakota said. Then he leaned toward me and whispered, “I’ll get us some beer.”

  “Who were you talking to in the buffet line?” Skye asked as we were walking back to the suite. The moms were ahead of us, harmonizing some song. They were in an a cappella group in college. Whenever they get together, they invariably break out in a bouncy bop-bop-de-bop tune.

  “Some guy.” I shrugged. “He’s here with his mom and brother.”

  “You seemed pretty friendly,” she murmured.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “He looks kind of suburban, doesn’t he?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said defensively. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure what she meant. But given that I’m not all New York City cool like Skye, I most likely fit into that category as well.

  “Did you see that necklace he was wearing?” Skye asked. “Does he think he’s Hawaiian?” Then she shook her head and added, “Do whatever you want, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  All I could think about the whole day was Dakota, our amazing kiss, meeting him on the beach tonight. Now and then, my thoughts drifted to the suicide note. I’d reread it in the morning and even taped it into my everything book. I’d contemplated showing my mom, or maybe Skye, but then I decided that Dakota was right. At the end of the day there was nothing we could do to stop this person.

  That night, when my mom and Luce went to the bar for a drink, I washed my hair and shaved my legs. After I toweled off, I borrowed a squirt of Skye’s expensive lavender moisturizer. Then I got worried she’d smell it, so I lifted my shins into the sink, scrubbed them off, and rubbed on my cheap stuff.