“Bring the victim to the surface and then tow them to the far wall using the cross-chest tow I showed you last week.”
I lift my arms into the air, exhale deeply and sink down into the deep water. Luke dives down and swims into position right behind me. He wraps an arm around my waist, fingers splayed across my ribs. My skin burns with awareness where he touches me. He tightens his grip, then tugs me up to the surface. On the trip up through the blueness, we bump into each other and my body registers every point where we touch. I gasp a breath as we break the surface. He brings his left arm over my left shoulder, across the top of my chest and tucks his hand under my right armpit. It is warm against the coolness of my skin and even though my face is out of the water, I cannot breathe. He pulls me onto my back and heads backwards for the far side of the pool, kicking and sculling water with his free hand. I am, to all intents and purposes, lying on top of him. I know he must be hating this contact. I stiffen and start to freak out, not knowing how to endure the knowledge of the revulsion he must be feeling.
“Just relax,” he says into my ear. “Pretend you’re unconscious.”
I force myself to relax, muscle by muscle. How is it possible that we haven’t reached the other side yet? Part of me wishes we never will. It feels so good to rest against him; I wish he could just save me from all of my life.
We reach the wall and I clamber out quickly, so that he doesn’t have to touch me again. We sit on the paved surround, saying nothing, waiting while the others drag their partners and mannequins to the pool’s edge and out of the water.
“This is when you might need to do CPR – Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation. Watch while I demonstrate the ABC’s and remember what I taught you. You ladies over there, come over and watch please,” says coach and he takes us through the whole process, showing us the techniques on the orange mannequin which lie limbless and inert in front of him.
“Now it’s your turn to practice on your partners.”
Oh, for the love of fudge! There is an eruption of giggling from red cap and blue cap, Magda looks like her worst nightmare has come true, and Luke curses under his breath.
Aloud, he says, “Are you kidding me?”
“You’re obviously not really going to do proper compressions or breaths on the live girls, you boys who have partners, but you can practice the movements.”
I lie down on my back, wishing I were truly unconscious. It’s cool out of the water and I am covered in goose bumps; I’m desperate to cross my arms over my chest where, I’m sure, the evidence of my chill will be obvious to Luke.
“A is for airway, so check for obstructions to breathing,” shouts coach above the excited hubbub.
I open my mouth reluctantly and Luke peers into it like a buyer inspecting a horse’s teeth before the sale. He does not stick a finger into my mouth as the other boys are doing with their mannequins, for which small mercy I am grateful.
“B is for breathing,” shouts coach. “See if you can feel the warmth of their breath against the palm of your hand, look closely to see if their chest is rising or falling.”
Red and blue cap’s partners respond to this very enthusiastically – examining their victims’ chests closely like myopic diamond-inspectors – and there is a fresh outbreak of irritating giggles and ribald comments.
“Coach!” yells one boy as he prods his lifeless mannequin. “I think I’m man-down over here. It’s not breathing.”
I’m woman-down over here. I can’t breathe either. Heat radiates from Luke’s hand as it hovers over my lips, his ear almost touches my chest as he listens for breath and my fingers itch to wrap themselves into the wet hair at the back of his head. How can my heart beat so hard, thud so violently beneath my ribs when I am not breathing?
“C – start compressions! You four with the real girls – just pretend, please. We don’t want any cracked ribs. But I need to check you’ve got the position right – heels on the sternum, two fingers off the end of the bone – and the right rhythm with your arms.”
“Woohoo,” says the boy crouched above the girl in the red cap. He rubs his hands together, then stretches them out and prepares to lay them on her chest.
My eyes are wide open – perhaps I am dead, rather than unconscious – and they are drawn irresistibly to meet Luke’s. He looks at me, his expression fathomless. I am sure mine is not. I draw a ragged breath and stare at him for an endless moment. Then his hands, so big, so warm, move so that one is above the other, fingers intertwined where I wish mine were. He places the heel of the bottom one down, gently, just touching on the skin above my sternum. His fingers are carefully pulled upward so that they don’t touch the curves which rise on either side of the bone. Still, we look at each other.
“Uh-uh-uh-uh-staying-alive, staying-alive,” the old Bee Gees hit blasts out from the music system, beating out the speed and rhythm we’re supposed to use for compressions.
“Faster, you lot. Do it in time to the music,” shouts coach. “Thirty compressions, then two breaths into the mouth. Don’t forget to pinch the nostrils closed.”
There is a lot of laughing, cheering and singing around us, but it is somehow distant, apart from the immediate reality that is us. My world has narrowed to this moment, to Luke and me.
Luke pulses out the compressions, absorbing each push in his bent elbows, rather than pushing down on my chest. I count the pulses. My heart has never beat so vitally, so quickly, as when he approaches thirty. Then he lifts his hands and brings his face over mine. He can’t mean to …
I stop breathing again. There are flecks of gold and shards of emerald in the green of his eyes as they come closer. Drops of water cling to the tips of his black eyelashes. His lips hover over mine, almost, but not quite, touching and I can’t help what happens next. My lips part and they rise up to close the minute distance, and then they are touching his. His lips are dry, warm and surprisingly soft for a mouth usually set in such a hard, grim line. My heart kicks somewhere in the pit of my belly as his lips begin to return the pressure.
“Enough! Enough! You kids!” says coach disgustedly.
We pull apart immediately, not looking at each other, but coach is staring down at the girl with the red cap and her partner who have abandoned any pretense of pulmonary resuscitation. Their lips are locked together and they are kissing each other passionately, while all around, classmates hoot and cheer. The girl is still wearing her goggles and I notice that they are steamed up. I steal a glance at Luke, but he leaps to his feet and walks to the concrete steps where towels are scattered in colored heaps, snatching up one and wrapping it around his waist, rubbing another over his face and chest.
My heart still races as I sit up and try to calm my breathing. I look for a towel in which to hide my flushed face. My lips tingle, my breath is ragged. I feel more alive than I have in months – in over a year, if I am honest. I have been numb, going through the motions of my life. Today’s CPR was effective. I might not have been dead, but I realize that for the longest time, I have not been truly alive.
22
Luke
The last twenty-four hours have been craptastic, and I figure things are about to get worse. Might as well get it over with.
Mom or dad?
Mom is in the living room, gazing with unseeing eyes at the TV where a documentary on Antarctic wildlife is showing. Dad is on his computer in the study. I know he hates to be disturbed when he’s working and don’t think I could handle another lecture about the importance of his job given the strained finances of our family. So Mom, then.
I’m about to hand her the letter when I see that her eyes are brimming with tears. I’m guessing it’s not the whales on the screen who have set her off. She’s lost inside herself again.
I give her shoulder a soft squeeze and head to the study instead.
“Hey, dad?” He looks up when I place the envelope on the desk beside his keyboard. “You need to read this and sign it.”
“What’s this?” he says, ex
tracting the letter. Even before he begins reading, he’s frowning.
Banjo runs in and leaps up against my legs, demanding to be picked up. Dad’s scowl deepens at her yelps.
“Can’t you keep her in the kitchen?”
“No.”
Neither of my parents is happy about the new addition to our family. Dad says dogs are expensive and where will we find the money for her food and vet bills. Mom hasn’t said anything directly, but she flinches at the noise and motion, and steers clear of engaging with my puppy. I don’t understand how this is even possible, because Banjo is the cutest, sweetest, softest creature there ever was. She melted my heart the first time I saw her. But maybe mom’s is more frozen, like one of those icebergs she’s watching.
I’m ignoring their negative reaction to Banjo. Saving her is the best thing I’ve done all year. I’m beyond bummed out that I can’t save them all. Last night I wanted to adopt all the doomed animals from the shelter, but no way would my parents have allowed me to bring home two dogs and three cats. So all I could do was go with each animal into the procedures room and hold them while they got sent into the sleep that they would never wake from.
On the way home, it all just felt too heavy to hold inside. I wanted to cry. I wanted to break something or hit someone. I did not want to have to make dinner and watch while mom didn’t eat it and listen while dad described his last game of golf.
I was still feeling really down this morning when Sloane came in the classroom, rubbing hand-sanitizer between her palms and fingers. What is with her? Her hair was still wet from swimming, and that reminded me irresistibly of what I’ve been trying to push out of my mind for the last few weeks. Images from that damn gym class flashed through my mind – her impossibly long legs, the feel of her body against mine in the water, how her swimsuit clung to her curves, the way her lips moved to touch mine, the way my body reacted.
Argh! It feels like a betrayal of Andrew to remember that, to think about her in that way. This is the daughter of my sworn enemy. I had her on the floor under my hands. I should have strangled her and yet I almost kissed her. What is with me?
Then Perkel arrived and started his usual BS again, playing favorites and acting like a total asshole. Who the hell asked him to hold me up as some kind of example to the world? Then I got hit with a bunch of flak about being the pretty boy with all the looks and talent and money (ha!) and lucky breaks. It’s ironic really, because “golden boy” was never my role. It would’ve been funny, except that then all hell exploded and now here I am standing in front of my frowning father, waiting for the inevitable.
Annnnnddd, here it comes. Dad looks up from the letter, gives a deep sigh and says, “This is very upsetting, Luke. I can’t think what’s got into you.” Really? Really? “We never had problems like this with Andrew. I’m sorry to say that I’m very disappointed in you.”
Yeah, take a number, dad.
23
Fire fighting
I am sitting in the small waiting area outside Principal Comb-Over’s office. Miss Kazinsky, his secretary, has explained that he is running late.
“Mr. Como is meeting with the parents of a student on a very urgent matter,” she says, breathy with excitement and running her hand over her bouffant, brassy-red hair. They have seriously bad hair in the admin block of the school. Como earned his nickname from the long, dark strands of hair carefully combed over and affixed to his balding skull. Opinions vary as to what he might use to hold it in place: spit, axel grease and Miss Kazinsky’s lip gloss are some of the less revolting guesses.
“You’ll just have to be patient for your appointment, I’m afraid,” she says.
I can be patient. With ease and with pleasure, I can be patient. As I sit here, staring at a copy of The Desiderata which is stuck to the wall opposite me, I am missing L.O. I consider it a lucky escape. For the past few weeks, Luke and I have been working as separately as possible on part two of our project. When we’ve had to work together, he has been business-like and impeccably polite. When we work apart, he pays me no attention. At least he has stopped glaring at me. Except for how my body registers his presence, his absence and his every move, it’s like the burning hope and horror of the Gym class never happened. Coach Quinn has declared our class “too immature” to learn responsible life-saving, so we’re back to practicing softball throws and catches in the gymnasium.
I have tried to focus on my own life, catching up on work where I am behind, reading our assigned English text (Atonement by Ian McEwan), spending time out with Sienna, practicing my photography and trying to make new friends. I have been making a real effort not to focus on Luke. It’s a bit like trying not to think of a pink elephant but, still, I was doing a reasonable job. Until yesterday.
Due to a serious lack of motivation, I’d cut my before-school swimming session short, so I was a little early for English class. The room was empty as I walked inside, except for Luke, who was busy with a folded piece of paper at the windowsill on the far side of the room. Curious, I edged over to take a look. Luke was, very gently, easing a spider onto a piece of paper. Moving slowly and carefully, he brought the paper up to an open window and gave it a little shake to release the critter.
He turned, gave me a long look, then swallowed and said, “What?”
“Rescuing a spider? Really? You couldn’t just swat it?”
“There’s too much death in the world already,” he said, which effectively put me in my place – in the naughty chair in the guilty corner.
The other students arrived in twos and threes. When L.J. shuffled in, alone, some of the kids razzed on him, which set the Jaysters to singing the lumberjack song again, sending a twitch rippling across L.J.’s shoulders.
“Shut up. Just get off his case,” I told both groups of smart mouths.
“Ooooh,” said Juliet, shaking her blonde hair, “the monster puts her foot down!”
“Oh grow up.”
L.J. took out his sketchpad and drew something in black ballpoint on the paper – a man with hollow eyes, bleeding gums, outstretched arms and intestines spilling from a vertical slash up his stomach. I think it was a zombie, though I’d be the first to admit that I am no expert on the undead. He must have been unsatisfied with the picture, because he crumpled it up and swept it to the floor. I craned my neck to read the title scrawled at the top: Lifeless Jerk.
Everyone was in their seats or sitting on the tops of desks, chatting and checking phones, by the time Perkel arrived – ten minutes late – and called the class to order.
“Forgive my tardiness. I was meeting with Principal Como. That reminds me, Sloane, your transfer documentation is apparently still outstanding, plus Mr. Como wants a quick chat with you. You are to take your personal file and all completed transfer forms to the Principal by no later than tomorrow. He says to set up an appointment – Miss Kazinsky keeps his diary.”
We were spared the word of the day ritual; Perkel hurried straight on to the day’s assignment.
“This is an exercise in personal, private writing. You are to write down three lists of goals for yourself – short, medium and long-term goals. Where would you like to be, what would you like to have achieved at the end of the next six months, the next year, and the next five years?”
There was the usual round of questions as the class tried to delay beginning the work – if we could only blow off another twenty-five minutes, we would have wasted the whole lesson – but Perkel soon shut the queries down.
“No, Mike, it is not too difficult. I am not asking you for a doctoral thesis in post-modernism, just a list of goals. You can do this. You have only ten minutes to complete the exercise, so get cracking, please.”
Fifteen minutes later, Perkel read out L.J.’s goal. (He has only one, apparently.)
“Goal for the next six months: to become a zombie killer. A zombie, or Homo Coprophagus Somnambulus,” Perkel sneered the words, “is one of the walking undead, a person with no soul, personality or imagination,
who goes through the motions of life, destroying and feeding on living humans to satisfy their unnatural appetites.”
Perkel shook his head, as if saddened by the words.
“What am I to do with you, L.J.? Do you have no real goals for your future? Failing to plan is planning to fail, my boy.”
Get off his case, already, asshat!
Let’s see someone else’s work, shall we?” said Perkel.
To no-one’s surprise, he moved to Luke’s desk and picked up Himself’s list. I sat up straight in my desk and leaned forward, eager to hear.
“That’s private, Mr. Perkel,” said Luke.
Nooooo. It was the perfect time for Perkel to be an insensitive, tactless ratfink so, of course, he came over all considerate and respectful.
“Of course, of course. But I do not think I am betraying confidences –”
(There were confidences in Luke’s list? I had to get my hot little hands on that paper!)
“– when I commend you for setting goals for your sporting achievements,”
(Ha! Sectional or National swim team, I bet.)
“academic achievements,”
(Yes, yes, get on with it!)
“family life –”
(He set goals for his family life? Weird. I wondered what –)
“and charitable community involvement.”
Wow. Luke did charitable community work. I resolved at once to end my slothful, boob-tube watching ways and to volunteer at the local homeless shelter or orphanage. Eileen was right – I have been over-involved in myself. If I knew where Luke volunteered, then I could offer my services there, too. No, no, no. I had to stop thinking like that.
I would have given my right arm to read Luke’s list. Okay, not literally, but I really, really, really wanted to see it. A lot. My own list looked a little shabby by comparison:
Scarred Page 9
