I’m so tired. I have to breathe for a second.
Pant, pant, pant.
I push again because I have no other choice. I push as the veins in my temples pop and throb in protest.
“Help,” I whimper to nobody but the empty air and Charlie’s last breath.
I remember water polo hell week and doing eggbeater in the middle of the deep end, hoisting my hands above my head. My arms were like noodles, ready to give out, but still I moved. I wouldn’t sink. I wouldn’t stop. I would never ever be the first one out of the pool.
I won’t give up now. I’m in the pool, my arms aching as if I’m balancing gallon jugs of water above my head. I won’t stop pushing. I can’t stop until I’m out of here. Sweat drips into my eyes. My heart pounds like it might burst from my chest.
Still I push.
Another shove and something shifts.
Then a crash.
I tuck my chin to my chest, clench my fists, close my eyes, and wait for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
1:11 A.M.
When the teetering stops I go back to digging.
I do it for my mom. For Coach and his pep talks. For Leo by the pool gate. For my teammates. For the hope of mending things with Mila. For Charlie.
Then suddenly a slash through the palm of my hand. Deep and instant. I pull it back toward me, crying out as the blood oozes, seeping until it coats the wristband of my sweatshirt. I push against the cut with my elbow from my other arm. I don’t have time for injuries.
I pull the wrists of my sweatshirt over my hands, punch my fists back through the hole, and continue to dig. Nobody else is going to do this for me. If I don’t get myself out of here, I’ll end up like Charlie.
I move my legs again, try to bend my knees, but there’s not enough room. I need to get my head through that opening. My knees scrape against the rubble above me, but I’m able to scoot up a few inches. I want to see if I can get my head free, but it’s still too dark. I can’t see. I don’t know what’s waiting to drop on me. I don’t know what could happen if I try to push myself out now.
It kills me to know I have to wait. Because all the work I’ve done could be ruined by another aftershock. But I need more light. I need to be able to see so I don’t hurt myself.
I pull my head down. Curl into myself on the ground. Whimpering. Hoping against hope that another aftershock doesn’t send everything crashing down on top of me again. Ruining the work I’ve done. Burying me. I tell myself I’ll rest for a moment. I’ll fill my head with memories until the half-hearted sunlight of dawn arrives.
MIDNIGHT
Once Mila was inside, I checked the clock in her car.
11:40 p.m.
If I hurried, I could still get to Leo before midnight. So I could kiss him. Make New Year’s Eve worth something after all. Make that night matter. I texted him. Told him I was on my way.
He texted back. Where have you been?
I’ll tell you when I see you.
There were cars parked up and down the block, plus a tangle of beach cruiser bikes in the front yard of Cody Calabrese’s house when I walked up. Music seeped out onto the street, the same radio station I listened to on Mila’s crappy car radio on my way over, playing a countdown of the top one hundred pop songs of the last year. I checked my phone.
11:57 p.m.
It wasn’t midnight yet. I could still find Leo. I could still save the night.
I pushed through the wrought-iron gate. Scanned the crowd. The backyard was filled wall-to-wall with people from school. It might as well have been a hallway crammed with lockers and seniors and school dance flyers.
11:58 p.m.
I weaved my way through the cold wintry air that smelled of campfire smoke and pine needles. I spotted Thea, Iris, and Juliette sharing the hammock, gently pushing themselves back and forth, waiting for midnight. Sitting there with them would’ve been so much easier than what I had done that night.
“Leo?” I mouthed.
Iris pointed across the pool. I saw him on the deck. Tall and sure, wearing worn jeans and a hoodie and checkerboard Vans. Holding on to a can of Coke. Surrounded by friends. He threw his head back and laughed at something.
His happiness made my tension melt away.
The pool lights were on and the water glowed turquoise at his feet, casting slippery shadows against the wall behind him. He looked like he was underwater. Like I’d have to swim to get to him.
11:59 p.m.
He turned. Saw me. Grinned a grin that lit up his whole face. It lit up the whole backyard.
I wanted to tell him everything and nothing at all.
He rounded the pool. Met me in the middle of the grass. Around us, everyone counted down to midnight, sending streamers flying and party horns bleating.
Leo pressed his mouth to mine at exactly midnight.
I went loose in his arms with relief.
Letting go of the whole night. Of Mila and Robert and beer and the beach.
“You made it,” Leo said.
“I made it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
6:05 A.M.
It feels like I’ve been waiting for daylight forever. Hours have surely passed since I initially stuck my hands through the hole. But finally, the first specks of morning light hit my face, warming my nose and cheeks.
I pull from the small well of strength still left in me. Manage to push myself up again. And then I poke my head out. I’ve barely got enough room. I want to be able to pull my whole body out, but I can’t. I look around. You’d never know this was a laundromat if not for the washers and dryers. The walls and doorway have been hollowed out, everything collapsed and broken. Metal. Glass. Concrete. Dust and dirt. I see the road through the shattered window and crushed cars abandoned in the middle of the street. Collapsed buildings. Buckled asphalt. Above me, half of the roof of the laundromat is gone. A blue sky and puffy clouds hover overhead. Looking up, the world seems the same. I can almost pretend nothing has changed. I lean back and pretend I’m gazing up at the sky in the middle of that beach in Hawaii that Charlie helped me imagine one time.
“Feel it,” he’d said. “Smell it. Like you’re there. Like you’re home.”
I take a moment to pretend. But then I have to return to where I am. Where the rubble is concrete and heavy and I’m not sure how to free myself.
And then I spot it.
Charlie’s hand.
A glimpse of his wrist.
Poking out from the rubble.
His bloodied knuckles.
The blue streaks of paint on his fingernails.
I suck in a breath and use my shoulder to push against the hole enough to get my arm through. It scrapes up and down from my shoulder to my fingertips, everything too tight. Too sharp. But I can’t care. I won’t. All this time, when I kept reaching for Charlie, I couldn’t.
But I see how close he is now.
How close he was.
I’ve spent so much time digging that I can barely breathe. My lungs are full of dust, and it hurts to suck in air. Still, I wiggle. I roll. I push and shove until I have enough room to get my other arm out. I’m twisted sideways on my back with my head outside of the hole and my arms above my head. I need leverage. Something to give me purchase or pull me free.
My eyes dart. Frantic. They snag on rubble and metal and dust and dirt.
But then. Charlie’s hand again.
I reach for him. Grasp his hand to help me. It’s cold and his fingers don’t tangle with mine the way I want them to. I’ve longed for that contact for hours. Days. To know I didn’t make him up in my head. To know I wasn’t alone.
I summon up the last ounce of strength I have to pull myself free. And when I’m finally all the way out, I collapse.
Exhausted.
Panting.
Sweating.
I’m a fish pulled from the sea, struggling for breath on the hardwood planks of the pier.
I’m still holding Charlie’s hand. The only part of
him I can see. I take in the massive pile of debris that’s buried him. The blocks of cement. The steel wall of triple-load dryers. Piled up. Pressing down. Against his chest. Making it so hard to breathe. But he managed to get one hand out, the fingernails worn down and bloodied.
Was he digging?
Was he trying to get himself free so he could get me free?
Was he reaching for me the way I was reaching for him?
Could he feel the warm rays of sunlight on his fingers? Is that how he was keeping track of day and night?
I want to pull Charlie from the rubble. Take him with me. But everything is too heavy. I’d find the strength if I thought there was a reason. But I’m holding Charlie’s hand in mine and I know what he is.
Cold.
Dead.
Still. I remember my promise.
I work the championship ring from my finger. It doesn’t slide right off. I have to twist and turn it. Pull it free. And when it finally comes loose, it almost goes flying, lost to the rubble forever. But I manage to catch it. Grip it. Not let go. I slide it down Charlie’s finger, twisting it past the knuckle on his pinkie. It almost looks like it belongs there.
My vision blurs. I swipe at my face, wet with tears. For Charlie.
My friend.
I want to leave something that will tell whoever finds him who he is. But I’m slumping. Slipping. Going under. Until I catch the handles of Charlie’s duffel bag. C. Smith stenciled on the side. I drag it to me. Rest his hand on top. Hoping this will be enough. The bag slips open, its zipper already undone. Charlie’s journal peeks out. The gold stenciled letters across the front. C. Smith. Charlie’s words are inside it. I can’t leave them behind for a stranger to read. Or worse yet, throw away without caring. He deserves better than that. I promised him.
I grab the journal.
Zip it up inside my sweatshirt.
Safe against my heart.
I have to go.
I crawl, dragging my legs behind me as I claw my way out of here. My arm burns with blinding pain. My fingernails are ragged from the digging, some of them torn all the way off and bleeding. The palms of my hands are worn raw and bleeding, too.
And my mind is slipping.
So tired.
So done.
But I’m almost to the blown-out doorway. I’m almost to the parking lot. I’m almost where someone can see me. I don’t know how far outside I get when it feels like I can’t move anymore. Like I’m literally anchored here. I hoist my arms in front of me. Settle my head on the bent elbow of my good arm.
I just need a minute to catch my breath.
I just need a minute to feel my legs.
I just need a minute to close my eyes.
I just need a minute.
A minute.
A MINUTE
Sixty seconds.
Fifty seconds.
Forty seconds.
Thirty seconds.
Twenty seconds.
Ten weeks.
Nine is my cap number.
Eight teammates on the bench.
Seven starting players.
Six-meter shot.
Five friends.
Four quarters.
Three cheers.
Two breaths.
One survivor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
8:15 A.M.
I’m carsick. Brain dizzy. Stomach twisty. Like I’m driving way up into the mountains. Or higher, then higher. Up and up. My head goes so light it floats.
My toes and fingers float, too.
There’s no ground beneath me.
It’s water.
I think I see Charlie. Reaching out to me. I spread my fingers. Want his hand. But he’s too far away. I can’t grasp it.
“Let go, Ruby Tuesday,” he says.
I’m a limp body along the cold surface of the swimming pool.
The drain gulps beneath me.
Glug, glug, glug.
It pulls me toward it.
My stomach buckles first. I fold in half like a piece of paper.
Down, down, down I go.
Until I am pulled all the way under.
I am floppy arms and mermaid hair.
I am weak bones and popping bubbles.
I am here and I am not.
It feels good to let go.
It’s a relief to disappear into the drain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
11:01 A.M.
Something crunches. Moves. Pants. Sniffs. Someone is here. Something is here.
It presses against my hand. My eyelids flutter. I make out the black damp nose of a dog. It pulls back. Barks. Barks again.
Footsteps pound. Slip on uneven ground.
Thump, thump, slide.
Shouts. Whistles. Echoes. People.
And then it comes.
Fingertips to my pulse. A voice. A man. A stranger. Help at last.
“Right here! I’ve got someone!”
The fingertips wrap around mine. A full hand squeezes. The voice asks me to squeeze back. My hand is so small compared to this other one.
One day I will meet someone with bigger hands than mine.
Rough calluses and strong fingers. “Squeeze,” the voice says again.
It’s effort. My fingers barely bend. I try to grip. Force the faintest movement. Then slip.
“Good, good,” the voice says. “We’re gonna get you out.”
In my mind, I nod. Say thank you.
“Over here! Bring a board!” he calls to the others.
More footsteps. More people. The crackle of rocks slipping. The echoing thump of rubble being cleared away. Space opens up around me.
Hope.
I can’t tell how many are here. Talking. Shouting. All of them in heavy boots. Stomping. Slipping. Crunching. They smell of sweat, acrid like onions. And their faces are smudged with too much dirt and soot to make out the details of them. How many others have they saved? How many hours have they worked?
Inch by inch, they prep me. It’s meticulous.
It takes hours.
It takes years.
My neck is clamped into a brace. Hard and plastic. I can’t move. But I’m finally lifted. Gently. Slowly. The shock of movement makes me shiver. Everything shakes. My stomach. My hands. My chest. My teeth.
I’m strapped to a board, hard and flat. But stable. The snaps of buckles echo. Straps across my shoulders. Down my chest. Around my legs. I know it’s for my own good. To keep me safe. But it feels like being stuck again, and part of me wants to fight against it.
Then a soft blanket. Clean. Comfort.
I’m lifted. Carefully. Slowly.
“Watch her arm.” A woman now, her voice clear. Firm. In charge.
I twist. Trapped again.
On this board.
In these clamps.
But the world around me is real. It isn’t dust and dirt and teetering table legs. It isn’t the too-dark darkness. It isn’t Charlie silenced. It is whole and wide-open and feels like it could go on forever. It’s so much bigger than me.
I’m a smudge against the sky.
The one with the big hands still talks in my ear. Tells me I’m safe now.
“Charlie,” I try to say. But my mouth is too dry.
I try to point. To tell them where he is. I don’t want to leave my friend behind. Because they’re taking me somewhere else. We jostle our way across, up and over and through. I swing to the side when someone slips against the crackle of rubble under their feet. They steady me quickly. Make me flat again.
The air smells different. Not like salt and ocean. It’s charred. Burnt.
The big hand squeezes mine once more.
“Stay with me,” the voice says. “Stay.”
GAME CHANGER
Sometimes you’re losing. Sometimes you think things are over, but they’re not. Because sometimes there are comebacks.
You just have to hold on.
Like water polo finals and the fourth quarter of a tied game. The c
lock ticked down to one minute and twelve seconds underneath stadium lights and winter fog. The other team looked tired. Heavy arms and heavier legs dragged like fishing nets through the water.
I felt the heaviness, too, but I felt the want to win more.
I wrestled with a girl in front of the goal. Kicked. Scratched. Twisted. Around and around we went while the water kicked up. She pulled me under. The referee saw it and ejected her.
A new shot clock set.
We had a chance to win the game.
We had a chance to survive.
Coach called a time-out.
We swam to the wall.
Coach kneeled on the deck with his clipboard.
He drew lines and arrows and circles to map out the play.
We watched him draw and talk while we dragged Gatorade into our mouths from a sports bottle being passed around.
Coach was calm.
Coach was confident.
I knew where I was supposed to go.
Thea knew when to pass.
The others knew to push in.
Mila would guard the goal.
We took position.
The whistle blew.
In a blur we went.
I had to concentrate. No time to think. Just react.
The ball was in my hand and I pushed back with an elbow out. I felt others moving in closer to me. I was going to have two girls on me soon.
I watched the net.
The goalie eggbeatered until she rose out of the water. She pivoted from the waist up, her arms spread wide like airplane wings.
She leaned left, so I shot right.
The ball went in, swishing against the net, and lodging itself into the corner.
The stands went wild. Parents shook pom-poms. The boys’ water polo team jumped up and down, pumping their fists in the air and stomping their feet against the metal bleachers until the sound echoed through the stadium.
Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
The goalie sank underwater in frustration. Bubbles bubbled. She came back up and slapped the surface of the water. It bounced off her hand and into the air.
Aftershocks Page 10