Would You

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “We're just biking everyone home,” I say, “But we're stopping for snacks along the way.”

  Claire picks that moment to come steaming along.

  “Hey,” she says, grinning all round. “Hi, Coach Cop.”

  I make bug eyes at her so she pays attention.

  “Did you find your wallet that you went back to Leila's for?” I ask.

  She tilts her head at me. I tilt back. She puts her hand in her shorts pocket and pulls out a soggy wallet.

  “It fell in a puddle,” she says, smooth as a new-shaved leg.

  “Beside the pool?” says Burt.

  “Lotta splashing going on,” says Claire.

  “You were with these kids tonight, Claire?” asks Burt. Like she's a chaperone.

  “Yes, sir,” she says. “Trying to squeeze some sister time into the last few weeks before I go away.”

  “Good for you,” says Burt, patting her shoulder. He turns to us, all paternal.

  “Don't let us see you kids again tonight,” he says. Officer Foster grunts, like he's not fooled. But he doesn't know Claire, doesn't know that with Burt McCafferty, Claire's word is like a pledge carved on a shield.

  I'm surprised she lied so easily. Normally she's kind of upstanding. Teacher's pet material.

  “I forgot to tell you,” she says on the way home. “What Kate said.”

  “What?”

  “She said she thought you were going to be prettier than me. Someday.”

  “Typical Kate,” I say. “Insult us both with the same compliment.”

  Claire laughs. “No, I think she actually meant it the good way.”

  “Don't worry,” I say. “She's wrong.”

  The Y

  There's this moment whenever I get to work and stand beside the pool, before the surface is broken. The water is so blue and so calm it seems to actually reflect the sky, instead of just holding a thousand quarts of chlorine. Makes me want to slip in with hardly a ripple, to immerse myself in liquid turquoise.

  But then the morning shift begins. I crank up the music till the AquaFifties Plus think they're reliving their junior years in a dance club. Marlene and Liz and Joan and Phyllis, all my regular fatties, kicking and splashing, working up to the frosty mocha cappuccino and sour cream glazed at the Donut Barn.

  Then in come the children, herded by mothers in varying degrees of annoying.

  I go, “Hey, Tadpoles! Hey, Otters!”

  Shannon takes the Otters to the other side and I get into the pool for the first time today. Now that it's stirred up, the water looks way too used. I have to make a dunking seem fun for the Tadpoles huddled on the side. The brave ones have their legs in already, whacking at the surface to make foam. It takes most of the thirty-minute lesson to coax them all in, holding on to the side for dear life.

  Tadpoles are the cutest, though. When they get as old as Seals and Dolphins, those kids are brats. But even with demon children drowning each other and peeing in the pool, lessons win over laps anytime.

  Watching laps bites.

  There's this old man about eighty years old, or more, maybe. He's had the swim trunks for half his life, I swear. They're the color of dry dirt and tied on with string. I don't even want to think about what if the string breaks. He's got yellowy nails that curl over the end of his toes like he's some prehistoric reptile.

  He comes at 11:59 for the noon lap swim and takes ten minutes to get down the ladder. Then it takes him fifteen to paddle his way from this end of the pool to the other. We call him Driftwood. We take bets on his time. He's so slow it's mesmerizing. I've been tricked more than once into thinking he's dead in the water. He stops moving and floats along, as if there's a current. And I'm going, Please no, I have to do mouth-to-mouth on Driftwood?

  After Work

  I go to Audrey's after my job, before her job. We have an hour to lie in her backyard as naked as we can get, wearing screw-you-ozone oil, SPF 4. Zack's not here because he's digging in somebody's garden or serving ice cream. So it's just us, hanging.

  “If I had my eyebrows shaved off completely,” I say, “I'd have such a great tan line.”

  “Mmmm,” says Audrey. “Let's consider that for our initiation ceremony.”

  “Initiation to what?”

  “To our club.”

  “What club?”

  “Let's start a club.”

  Who's Hot, Who's Not

  The guy next door turns on his lawn mower and Audrey groans.

  “Mr. Buckle is pornographically fixated on his lawn,” she says. “I'm not kidding, every Saturday, he gets practically horizontal to pick up twigs.”

  “And you call him Buckle because?”

  “His belt buckle is always open, swear to God. I'll give you five dollars if you look over that fence right now and his buckle is done up.”

  “I'm not risking it,” I say. “But isn't he the guy with Hot Jimmy for a son? The boy who works the bar at O'Dooleys?”

  “He's not as hot as the new Pizza Shack guy,” says Audrey, flipping over. “And definitely not hot enough to overcome the idea of ever having a conversation with his father.”

  “Are parents really relevant?” I ask.

  “Parents are so relevant,” says Audrey. “How else are you going to know if the guy will be bald someday?”

  “Bald is so wrong,” I agree.

  “And don't you think parents should be considered when selecting a life mate?” says Audrey. “What about Thanksgiving?”

  “Whoa! That question is loaded with flaws.”

  “As in?”

  “You don't select a mate the way you choose a shampoo, Audrey. They're not all lined up in front of you at the same time displaying themselves for possible selection. And why are you using the phrase life mate? There shouldn't even be such a thing.”

  “Too true,” says Audrey. “Who wants to be stuck with the same guy?”

  “For life” I say. “Forever. All you have to do is look at any of our parents to know what a pointless concept it is.”

  “My point exactly,” says Audrey.

  “What? That parents are relevant?”

  “Yes.”

  “As the lowest rung of comparison, maybe.”

  What If

  “What if,” says Audrey. “What if I got turned into an insect but you could hear me speak and I was still the same person, but I was an insect.”

  “What kind of insect?”

  “Something benign.”

  “A praying mantis?”

  “Sure.” Audrey rolls over and lunges for the sunblock.

  “Well, I'd keep you in my room … on my dresser, maybe, so you could see in the mirror. And I'd talk to you. But it really wouldn't be the same.”

  “No kidding.”

  Worst Words

  “What's your all-time worst word?” Audrey starts a new game.

  “No discussion. The worst word is moist. Moist! Could anything be more explicit? Mmmmooyysssst.”

  “Ew!” says Audrey. “And I hate mustache, don't you? Isn't that just nasty? I hate the thing and I hate the word.”

  “How about a moist mustache?” I say. “The bald gynecologist had a moist mustache.”

  “Ew!”

  “Oh, and another one,” I say. “Dangling. What about dang-guh-ling?”

  “Ew! Ew! Extreme ew!”

  Audrey has to get ready for work. Her uniform, naturally, is at the Ding-Dong, but she combs her hair.

  Getting Ready Again

  Probably should make it an early night except that Mom says I should be in early, meaning I'm staying out late. But nobody has any ideas for what to do anyway, so tonight is going to bite.

  Claire's in front of the only full-length mirror, and I'm waiting, barely. She's not even dressed and she's loitering; just to make me insane.

  “Have you seen my black thingy?” she says.

  “What black thingy?”

  “You know, my black thingy.”

  She leaves the mirror to look aga
in in the closet, in the drawers, on the floor, under the bed.

  I examine myself while I watch her in the glass.

  “With straps,” she says, “The one I got at Sheba's Thrift. I've been planning to wear it all week.”

  “Meh.” I'm noncommittal. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “Party at Terry's. You?”

  “Nowhere. Ding-Dong to start.”

  “Did you take my black thing? Did you wear it to Audrey's and leave it there? 'Cause if you did, I'll kill you.”

  “No, I did not wear it and leave it at Audrey's,” I say.

  “ 'Cause she'll cut off the bottom or change the straps or something, and it's the one thing that I—”

  “Claire, shut up. It's not at Audrey's.”

  “Well, where is it, Nat?”

  I go into the bathroom, shrugging. I wish I had a party to go to.

  The light is better in here for makeup. My hair is good tonight; skin too, for a change. What a waste.

  Claire comes in and gives me a hip check so she has room over the sink. She's wearing a white V-neck shirt and her haircut from before the prom still looks so good.

  “You look nice,” I say, not saying she looks too gorgeous for words. I squelch my vile, bitter envy. Her life is going to explode. She's going away!

  “ Joe-boy better be worried about the swarm of boys waiting for you at school,” I say.

  Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I'm breaking up with him tonight.”

  “What? But he adores you!”

  “Mmmm,” she says. “If by adore you mean behave like a bloodsucking leech around.”

  “Does Kate know?”

  “This has nothing to do with Kate. He's been kind of bugging me. He's all morbid about me leaving. He's acting clingy and annoying and … and young. I want to have my summer without all the stress of saying goodbye. And then I want to just leave, you know?”

  “Wow,” I say. “He's not going to like this.”

  “I'll be gentle,” she laughs.

  “What's the point of no curfew,” I say, “if there's nowhere to go? This town is so boring!”

  Claire grins at me and uses Dad's voice. “An intelligent person is never bored.”

  I punch her shoulder and she punches me back.

  “Ow!”

  “Gotta go,” she says. “Joe's waiting.”

  “For the last time,” I say.

  “Mwa!” She goes.

  “Bye.”

  Poor Joe, I'm thinking.

  I pull off my gray sweater and untuck her black thingy from my jeans. It looks great. But she doesn't have to know that.

  DQ

  We're sitting in a row on the concrete divider between the Dairy Queen parking lot and the Cosmos Launderama parking lot. Zack just got off work, but too late to catch the late movie. Nobody really wants to go anyway. We usually wait for Twofer Tuesdays. We still have about an hour until it's dark enough to go pool-hopping.

  Carson is on a roll. “What if someone told you the world was going to end? What would you do in the last three days before the end?”

  “Is your source a credible one?” asks Zack. “Or counter-factual?”

  “Christ, Zack! Let's say the world is going to end. What do you do with the time left?”

  “I'd go skydiving,” says Leila.

  “I'd tell everyone what I really think of them,” says Audrey.

  “Oh, like you don't do that already?” Carson has been the recipient of many an Audrey earful.

  “I think I'd sit really still,” I say. “And watch everybody else flip out.”

  “Lame,” says Carson.

  “Okay, what would you do?”

  “I'd have sex, of course. With twenty or thirty different girls, and no fear of STDs ’cause the world is going to end anyway.”

  “And where are you going to find twenty or thirty girls whose last wishes include having sex with Carson Jefferson?” I ask him. “Where are you going to find one?”

  “Oh, I'd find them.”

  “You need a taste of reality, Carson.”

  “I love reality! Especially when it's on TV.”

  “And then let's say your source is proved wrong,” says Zack. “It was all a hoax and the world is not going to end. Then what would you do?”

  “Go straight to the doctor.”

  “I'd be glad I told people what I think of them,” says Audrey. “Anyone who can't take the truth shouldn't be using up oxygen on my planet.”

  “Well, aren't we supposed to do that anyway?” says Leila. “Live every day as if it's our last? You know, fully?”

  “Fear of public speaking and fear of getting fat are way above fear of death in opinion polls,” says Zack. “Fear of deformed people and fear of making mistakes are also up there.”

  “And that is relevant because?” says Audrey.

  “Depends on how you're going to die,” I say.

  This inspires Carson. “Would you rather be attacked by a huge genetically engineered plus environmental-fiasco spider or be up against a ruthless, brilliant assassin who was under orders to take you dead or alive?”

  Audrey groans. “I hate movies where there's a blob for an enemy—there's no challenge, no psychology. With a human being there's always a chance you might just—”

  “Oh that's so typical of a girl,” says Carson. “You think you could just use sex to save your life.”

  “Oh that's so typical of a boy,” says Audrey. “You represent the decades of sexist pigs who've created the cultural stereotype of an imprisoned woman bargaining with her charms to save her life, and then you turn around and act like there's something wrong with it. Like you wouldn't let someone out of jail for a blow job?”

  “Uh, gee, Audrey, now that you mention it…”

  We push him to the ground and throw gravel all over his perfect white T-shirt.

  Police Activity

  We manage to kill a couple of hours, just riding around rearranging people's porch furniture. We're coming home cheerful and we pass Devon Road. A cruiser is parked sideways across the end of the street. There are lights and extra cops and one of those yellow plastic ribbons being stretched around pylons.

  “Good,” says Audrey. “Keep the officers busy while the teenage delinquents wreak mayhem all over town.”

  “Havoc, Audrey. Wreak havoc.”

  We split up at the corner and I head for home.

  The Phone Call

  My cell is ringing as I turn onto our block. I pull it out of my back pocket but it's only HOME, so I don't answer. I'm nearly there anyway.

  I put my bike in the garage and pull down the rusting, rattling door. The kitchen light is on. Actually, every light in the house seems to be on. Bit late for them, isn't it?

  My cell rings again. I go in the back door with it still ringing. Dad's at the wall phone and Mom is at the table with her head in her hands. One look and I feel thunder in my brain. There's something really wrong.

  How the World Turns in a Heartbeat

  I look at them and they look at me. Dad hangs up the phone and my cell stops ringing. He half smiles but then shrugs and his face scrunches up like someone poked him in the eye.

  “What?” I say.

  “It's Claire,” he whispers.

  “Claire,” says Mom. She scrapes the chair back and stumbles up. Her eyes look wild, extra blue. She opens her arms and I walk into them.

  “Claire what?”

  I pull out of the hug and Mom slumps back down on the chair with her face hidden in her hands.

  “There's been an accident,” says Dad.

  “Oh,” I say, “we might have passed it. On Devon Road?”

  “They didn't say where,” says Dad.

  “What? You mean Claire?”

  “Claire has been hit by a car.”

  There's not enough air for a second.

  “Is she … is she alive?”

  “She's very seriously injured,” says Dad. “They say. We were trying to reach you
before we go to the hospital.”

  “We should go now.” Mom jumps up. “We have to see Claire.” She snatches her bag from a chair but it flies out of her hand.

  Dad puts his arm around her, trying to slow things down, but she jerks away and cries, “Now! We have to go now!”

  “I'm coming too,” I say. They look at me, ready to say no, but how could they say no?

  I am swamped with a clammy sweat. My bathing suit's still wet under my clothes.

  “I have to pee,” I say. “I'll meet you out front.” I race to the stairs. Claire was hit by a car. No way. Claire was hit by a car. For real?

  Claire's wardrobe tornado is still all over the room. I peel off my swimsuit and toss it in the tub while I pee. I put on underwear, put my damp clothes back on. I'm wearing Claire's black thing. I'll wear it to the hospital, show her I've got it, confess. The horn beeps; I fly down the stairs. Dad said “very seriously injured.” What does that mean? What the hell does that mean?

  They Make Us Wait

  When we say Claire's name to the reception nurse in Emergency, she says “Oh” and looks around in a panic, like she needs someone to help her. Or maybe I'm making that up because the place is freaking me out.

  “If you'll take a seat,” she says. “Someone will be right with you.”

  “We're not taking a seat,” says Dad. He's tall anyway, but he's making the nurse shrink.

  “I need to see my little girl,” says Mom.

  “It's the family,” says the nurse into a phone, like there's only one family, like everyone knows.

  “Is she still alive?” I ask.

  “Yes,” says the nurse. “She's inside, in the trauma bay. Someone will be out to speak with you shortly.”

  We stand there waiting. Maybe it's not so long, but it feels like forever. At least five minutes. Like holding a baking pan without an oven mitt for at least five minutes.

  There's a lady in one of the seats, clutching her wrist and whimpering. There's an old guy wearing an undershirt and wrinkled khakis. He's sitting on the coffee table instead of a chair, his hands fumbling around, not finding his knees to rest on.