“So why didn’t you get together?”
“We did, but then I started dating Carson Langley, mainly because he was writing my English essays.”
“What?”
“Hey, don’t judge.”
“You mean like you constantly judge everyone?”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Well, I might need you today.”
She continues washing her sneaker, which still looks dirty. Then she sighs and gives up.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s going on with your emo-dude boyfriend?”
I feel my cheeks redden. “We’re good.”
“He’s pretty sexy.”
“I know.” I give her another hands-off look.
We both giggle, and again, it’s like I’m looking at my life from above. Me, giggling with Gwendolyn in a pool of sunlight? Surely this is some kind of montage from a movie and not real life.
“I’d keep him around,” she says, winking.
“Trying to. What about you?”
“I finally dumped Carson. He’s too smart, if that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You know, a little on the nerdy side. He’s sweet, though.”
“He must have been devastated.”
“He’ll survive. Plus, I’m planning to go to college somewhere far away, like Portland, Oregon.”
“That sounds nice. I might take a gap year and try to make the Olympic team. If I get into a school, I think they’d understand.” The words are kinetic, tumbling out of my mouth on their own momentum, but they sound real as I say them.
“You could, Tegan. You totally could.”
“We should try it together.”
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for the Olympics. I’d like to do regionals, though.”
I text Coach under the table.
Yes on regionals. Yes on Olympic trials.
He texts back a wow face emoji and ten exclamation points.
I show it to Gwen.
“He’s intense.”
“In a good way,” I say.
Coach texts back again.
You will be living in that pool—got it?
I text back a thumbs-up.
“If you really want to compete in Tokyo, he’s the man who can take you there.”
“And you?”
“You’re faster, Tegan, everybody knows that.”
“If you trained enough, you could get faster.”
“But in the water, you’re, like, a ninja.”
I laugh, then take a sip of my drink and look at Gwen. I wonder how many people we meet in our lives start out as haters and become friends—if that’s what we are now—and how many stay haters. Is that why enemies happen? Because deep down they’re meant to be friends?
We walk down to the skate park and sit on the benches outside the gates. There’s a giant cement U-shaped curve, and some kids are warming up with small tricks.
“J-Rod’s not here,” Gwen says, putting her blond locks up in an elaborate, but messy, bun. “But he’ll come. He’s here every day.”
“Okay, so when he does get here, maybe you can convince him not to skate today?”
“Yeah, I’ll be like…‘My friend told me you’re going to die, so don’t skate, and look out for buses on the way home.’”
I push her shoulder a little.
“I don’t know, work your magic.”
“Are you saying my only talent is seducing degenerate boys?”
“You’re good at arranging your hair, too.”
Now she pushes my shoulder. Then a kid with tattoos and a dog chain around his neck pulls up on his bike with his skateboard sticking out of his backpack. Underneath the skateboard, in big exaggerated graffiti letters, it says: J-Rod.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Gwen says, like I’m not even there.
They stare at each other, in some kind of bubble. I clear my throat.
“What are you doing here? You stopped coming a while ago.”
“I came to find you, actually.”
J-Rod’s cheeks redden. Gwen adjusts her hair.
“Cool.”
As the three of us walk toward the skate park entrance, I start to text Edge again, but don’t want to seem desperate. Instead, I send a purple heart, a secret shout-out to my dad.
We get inside the park, where it’s only skaters, and sit against the chain-link fence. J-Rod is getting ready to drop in. I’m starting to get that feeling. The time is coming.
“Do something!” I stage-whisper to Gwen.
“Hey, J-Rod. Come here.”
He walks over. He’s carrying his helmet and scratching his head. Some of the other skaters are whispering behind his back. I’m sure it’s about Gwen and not me.
“Wait, let me see that,” Gwen says, grabbing his helmet. She runs her hand over a long crack. “Oh my God, you are not going to believe this. I once met Michael Fassbender in Paris and he had a motorcycle helmet with him. He told me that if the helmet is cracked, it doesn’t work, like, it doesn’t do its job. It was a random fact, but of course I remember it because Michael Fassbender said it to me in Paris… Anyway, look! I think it’s an omen. You shouldn’t skate today.”
“What? Because of some pussy actor you met?”
“No, because this helmet is useless! And Michael Fassbender is not a pussy.”
Another kid with spiked, bleached hair comes over and throws his own helmet at J-Rod, who catches it and looks at it.
“Not sure it’ll fit.”
“Try it,” I say.
He does, and it fits. I feel like I can breathe a little better now. Thank God Gwen knew about the crack-in-the-helmet theory. Still, she doesn’t look that worried. Next to her, I’m sweating and breathing fast. I must look like a scared animal. Because whatever is happening, it’s still coming.
My body tenses up as J-Rod drops into the curve and up the other side, doing a couple minor flips and turns. Each time I wince, thinking something’s going to happen, and hoping if it does, the helmet will save him.
He takes a break and comes over to us again, and says to Gwen, “Remember the G-Fly?”
“Of course,” Gwen says, apparently forgetting why we’re even here.
“Maybe we should bail,” I say. “Go get milkshakes?”
“Yeah, if we were like, ten,” J-Rod says. “Okay, Gwen, this is for you.”
As he drops in again, all the other skaters stop to watch him. He seems to be going way faster than before. When he gets to the end of the curve on the other side, he glides into the air, twisting back. But the skateboard flies in the other direction, so his body is suspended in a slow-motion dance. Then he starts waving his limbs frantically. I look away before hearing the terrible thud of his body hitting the cement. There’s a collective gasp that reminds me of the Dupont Circle platform and the end of Tom Elliot’s life. Please don’t let this one die, too.
A bunch of kids run to crowd around Jeremiah. He’s writhing and whining in the crook of the curve.
I hear someone yell, “Call 911!”
The tattoo guy tries to move him, and I say, “Stop! You’re not supposed to move him!”
Gwen is pacing, and she’s making a weird noise, like she’s wheezing.
“You should have done something! You knew this would happen!” she snaps at me, hysterical.
“I tried!”
The sound of the ambulance startles us. The crowd around J-Rod disperses as the EMTs burst onto the scene. They are talking in first responder jargon, but I hear one of them say, “Blunt trauma to the head.” They get Jeremiah on a stretcher, and he looks unconscious. We run after them and insist on riding in the ambulance, telling the guys I’m his sister and Gwe
n’s his cousin. I’m not sure they buy it, but the handsome EMT gives Gwen a look, which thankfully she doesn’t notice, and lets us on. It’s like on TV, except way scarier. One EMT is asking him questions, like who’s the president, and the other is hooking up fluids. J-Rod is not responding. His eyes are almost completely rolled into his head, like he’s some kind of zombie.
“Ask him again!” Gwen says.
The EMT tells her she must be quiet. The next few seconds go by in a blur as they fidget with various instruments, and then there’s a loud screech and crash. I feel the ambulance jerk as it gets sideswiped by another vehicle. The sound pierces my ears. Gwen and I are screaming as we spin around and around, until something stops us short, and I end up on top of J-Rod, his spooky eyes inches from mine.
The back door has flown open, and I can see grass.
“Are you okay?” I ask Gwen.
“It’s my arm, but I’m fine.” She’s crying softly, holding it.
Both the EMTs were slammed against the wall of the ambulance and are barely conscious. I dial 911, realizing how screwed up it is that I’m dialing 911 from an ambulance. They put me on hold.
I look through the window. The driver is conscious, but there’s blood on his forehead, and he seems to be talking gibberish. Through the back door, beyond the patch of grass, is a parking lot. I can see the George Washington University Hospital emergency entrance. It’s about two blocks away. Some kind of primal energy kicks into gear, and I know what we have to do.
“Gwen, let’s go.” I hang up my phone. “It will be faster. We have to take him!”
His IV has been ripped out of his arm, but he’s still strapped onto the gurney. The ambulance is on its side, so we manage to push J-Rod and the gurney upright onto the grass and into the parking lot. We start rolling him down the sidewalk toward the hospital entrance. All these wide-eyed people jump out of our way and let us pass. When we get to the automatic doors, there’s a man standing inside. Pale face, twisted smile. It’s the ghost man. “Get out of my way!” I yell. I don’t have time to be scared of him.
We get J-Rod checked in, and he’s hurried away before we know what’s happening. The EMTs stagger in one by one right behind us with the assistance of people from the crowd that gathered. Nurses come to check our vitals, and then tell us to wait in the lobby for further instructions. We sit on a bench, and someone hands us a bag of pretzels.
“How’s your arm?” I ask Gwen.
“Better. They gave me Advil. I can’t believe we almost died in an ambulance. And the fact that you don’t have a scratch on you is surreal.”
“Nothing can be explained at this point.”
Gwen takes a slow bite of pretzel, shaking her head. We’re both in shock.
“I don’t think I can hang around you,” Gwen says. “You’re a liability.”
“Well, you helped me today. You helped J-Rod.”
“I hope so.”
Gwen sighs, swallows, and shakes her head. She looks really scared, and it’s so out of character for her. Or is it?
Eventually, an Indian doctor comes out and gives us a gentle smile.
“You girls are very brave,” he says.
“She is,” Gwen says.
“You are, too,” I say.
“We need to keep Jeremiah for a while. We should know more in an hour or so.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“Hard to tell at this point.”
Gwen starts crying, and I feel hot tears burn my own eyes, too. Why am I getting this information if I can’t do anything about it?
“Hang in there. We will keep you posted,” the doctor says. “And we’ve contacted his parents.”
We sit there, crying softly, and I think about all the names, all the choices, all the near misses and quick saves. How are they all connected? The disinfectant smell in the hospital starts getting into my head, and my stomach growls.
“Look, Gwen, I’m gonna go home for a bit. I don’t feel very well.”
“Okay.”
“Will you text me?”
She nods, wiping at her eyes.
Outside, everyone is going about their days, seemingly oblivious to the drama unfolding so near them. When I get home, I go straight to my room. I stare again at the picture I drew in fourth grade on my wall. I run my fingers over it slowly.
“I’m trying,” I say.
I collapse on my bed. I must have fallen asleep for a couple of hours, because when I wake, the sun is going down, and my room is washed in a muted orange glow. I realize my phone is dead, so I plug it in. A few minutes later, it starts dinging like crazy. There are seven texts from Gwen.
3:29 p.m.
Concussion, still not responding.
3:38 p.m.
Had to give statement to police guy
3:49 p.m.
His father’s here and is kind of cute, just sayin
3:51 p.m.
They let me into his room—J-Rod woke up for a minute and said he always loved me—it was weird but also unbelievable
4:58 p.m.
He’s conscious!!!!
4:59 p.m.
It was the helmet that saved him. Omg.
5:01 p.m.
I want to like, run down the halls and sing opera
5:11 p.m.
Where r u?
I text her back.
Fell asleep. That is great news. Don’t hit on his father.
She texts back within seconds.
Can we talk about what happened today? Holy shit—they’re taking him home now. His father has smiled at me twice.
Glad he is well enough to go home. Stop flirting.
G2G. Talk tomorrow.
Then, there’s a knock on my door. It’s Larry. He comes in and closes it gently, like we’re still in on some big secret, and asks, “Are you good?”
Despite everything, I get flooded with a hopeful feeling. Like maybe things with Larry will be okay. He’s trying. But he still needs to get out of my room.
“Yes. See you later?” I hint.
He turns to leave. “Of course, of course.”
I sigh, lie down on my bed, and put on a podcast, but I can’t concentrate on anything. I want to talk to Edge. I decide to text him.
thinking of you right now
I look at my screen for the little bubble that indicates he’s typing back. The bubble starts, and I sit up, my heart thumping. But then it disappears.
17.
stay afloat
I meet Gwen at the same coffee shop we went to before going to the skate park. The rain outside the bay windows is loud, and we have to talk over the noise. The once sun-warmed chairs now have a damp, dusty smell.
Gwen sips her latte and blows a wisp of hair out of her eye.
I look at her, trying to see her as a friend. After what we went through yesterday, I feel like we are now.
She grabs her arm and winces a little.
“How is that doing” I ask.
“It flares up, and the Advil barely helps.”
“You didn’t say anything about me when they questioned you, right?”
“What, that you’re a psychic? No, I don’t think that would’ve gone over very well.”
“Did you see the news?”
“Yeah, the guy who was driving the van that hit us was a priest. He wasn’t drunk. He was texting.”
“I know, crazy. Were the EMTs all right?”
“Yeah, they asked about you. I told them you didn’t have a scratch. They couldn’t believe it.”
“I got lucky.”
“So, is it still happening? Your premonitions?”
“Not since J-Rod. But they could happen again at any moment.”
She takes another sip, shaking her head. I eat the top part of my muffin. It’s a
comfortable silence.
“I also wanted to say again that I’m sorry for the way I treated you and your friend Jenna. I really am. I was being ridiculous. Ignorant. Jealous. All of the above.”
I look at her, and her face seems open and genuine.
“Apology accepted.”
A little later, the rain dies down, and a hush descends.
“I’m going to check on J-Rod. Text me later?” Gwen asks.
“Sure.”
I watch Gwen as she hoists her bag over her shoulder, her hair swinging as she walks out. I was always jealous of her hair. The thing I can’t believe is that she was jealous of me. One thing is for certain: No matter how much you think you know someone, you don’t. Not completely, anyway.
* * *
Sharon is reading the newspaper at the front gate of the pool. She doesn’t look up when I get there.
“Something important going on in the world?”
She says, “Oh, hi. Well, I went on a date, and it was terrible.”
“Oh no!”
“He flossed his teeth at the table.”
“Oh my God. That’s gross.”
“It gets worse. He told me that he doesn’t like living things around him.”
“What?” We both start laughing a little. “What does that even mean?”
“Like, he doesn’t have plants in his house, or pets, because it keeps him up at night knowing things are crawling around.”
“Wow.”
“I left before the entrée. But today I got matched with someone who looks totally normal.” She shows me a picture on her phone of a handsome guy with a Mad Men–style haircut, wearing what looks like a cashmere sweater.
“A doctor, he claims,” Sharon says.
“Impressive.”
“Yeah, we’ve been chatting. I’m going to try again. I’m reading the health and technology section so I’ll have something to say.”
“Sharon, dating is not like homework. Be yourself.”
I grab her phone and check out her profile pic. She’s smiling, and her eyes are genuine, but also hiding something. Her user name is Freestyler. Her byline says: Former swimmer. Single mom.
“You might not want to lead with single mom.”
“It’s true, though,” she says.
I scroll back to the other guy. His eyes are kind of the same. Hiding something. His user name is Regularguy! and his byline says Doctor. Just lookin’.
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