by Shari Arnold
Everyone on the rock hurries to discourage him.
“You’re drunk, Kenny!” some girl down on the ground yells up at him.
“I ain’t rescuing you neither,” someone else says.
Kenny shrugs it off and turns to watch the next kid hit the water. “I’m not that drunk,” he mumbles.
It continues like this for the next twenty minutes or so, until at least a dozen kids have jumped and half the party has gathered outside to watch the madness.
Meyer joins us a few minutes later. I’ve lost track of how many times he’s made it off the rock. He’s soaking wet but doesn’t appear to care.
“How about it, Livy? You going to give it a go?”
“Livy?” Sheila laughs. “She would never. Maybe before… but not now.” She squeezes my hand to show me she means no harm and I squeeze back.
“Maybe next time,” I say, not quite meeting Meyer’s eyes.
But his silence is deafening. He doesn’t move on, even though everyone keeps yelling at him to jump off again.
“Pain or suffering, Livy?” he says softly and I’ve no choice but to look at him.
“What?” I let go of Sheila and move closer to him. “It’s not my turn, it’s yours.”
“Not true,” he says, his eyes piercing mine. Now which is it?” He tilts his head toward the cliff where two girls are gearing up to jump, their hands clenched in solidarity.
“I’m not going in that water,” I say defiantly and his smirk is nothing if not challenging.
He crosses his arms against his chest. “So I win, then?”
“What are you guys talking about?” Shelia’s holding Grant’s hand. She doesn’t seem to care that he’s dripping all over her.
But Meyer and I ignore her.
“Well?” Meyer’s eyes refuse to leave mine. “Is the game over?” In other words, are we done here?
“No,” I say, feeling a bit desperate. Is that what it means? If I don’t jump, will Meyer win? And if Meyer wins, will he disappear from my life? Forever? “What you’re doing is dangerous. It’s too cold and too high and too scary!” I’m trembling now, my teeth chattering loudly.
“And yet we’re all okay.”
“Hell, yeah!” Grant says, and I roll my eyes.
“You didn’t know that before you jumped. It was a risk. A silly risk.” I can feel myself getting worked up. It was fun before, this game of pain and suffering, but I can’t gamble with my life like this, even if it means losing Meyer. I’ve seen what death does to people. I’ve lived through the aftershocks.
“Please don’t do this,” I whisper. Don’t make me choose.
“Livy?” Meyer is staring at me with confusion. “Why are you so upset? This is just for fun.”
“But that’s just it,” I say. “It’s not fun, it’s dangerous. And I don’t like dangerous. I don’t like risk! Not like you.” But I’m not really talking about the game anymore, and we both know it. This isn’t about jumping. Not to me. This is about taking frivolous risks and gambling with something I’m not willing to gamble. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, it’s also about the kiss. How it felt real. And right. But I guess to Meyer this is all just a game.
I glare at him and he glares back.
“Then pain it is.” He shrugs, and just like that I’m trapped. We’re both very much aware that sometimes the truth is a far greater risk than one silly jump into dark water.
“What is he talking about, Livy?” Sheila has moved away from Grant. She touches my arm to get my attention or maybe to show me that she’s here. She’s with me.
Meyer has to be cold; he’s making me cold just looking at him with his dripping hair and his wet-like-a-second-skin clothing. “The choice is yours. Pain or suffering. That is, unless you’re willing to admit defeat.”
“Defeat?” I glare at him and he looks pointedly down at the water. He must know that defeat is not an option for me.
“Oh, I get it!” Sheila bursts out. “You guys are like playing truth or dare, right?”
“Alright. What do you want to know?” I’m desperate to find an exit from this conversation. But the only way out is down.
Meyer just smiles.
“Go ahead. Ask your question, already,” I say in a huff. He already knows how I feel about him. Really, what’s the worst he could ask? But in true Meyer fashion he simply lifts an eyebrow, dragging out the silence until I can bear it no longer.
“What? You want to know my greatest fear?” I gesture to the water. “Haven’t you figured that one out yet? I throw my hands in the air with frustration only to discover my hands are visibly trembling. I grip them tightly, pulling them against my chest as though they could shield me from Meyer’s question, but judging by the look in his eyes I need more than a shield to escape what’s coming next.
Meyer continues to study me. He hasn’t made a sound.
“Just ask it, already,” I whisper. “Please. Cause if you think I’m going in that water—”
“Why do you do it?” he says finally. His voice sounds a bit ragged, like the words have been ripped from him. “Why do you spend so much time with those kids when you know they’re only going to leave you?”
Sheila’s laughing at something Grant is telling her and the repeated sound of splashing is loud, and all around us. But the look in Meyer’s eyes is crippling. This question isn’t just for me. I don’t quite understand it, but I feel it. He’s desperate to know the answer.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I say, but that lifted eyebrow of his mocks me. He knows I’m lying. Damn it, he knows.
“They need me,” I whisper. Once again my chest feels tight. With one little question Meyer has reached in and discovered the one area I keep closed off.
“Do they?”
I nod my head even though we both know it’s the wrong answer.
“Answer the question, Livy.” His arms are crossed in front of his chest. He isn’t going anywhere. “The truth this time.”
“What’s the question?” Sheila pipes up. “What’d I miss?”
Meyer is waiting for me to answer.
Everyone around me has gone silent. Even the music that was pouring from the house has stopped, like they’re changing the music or something. The kids are no longer jumping — all eyes are on us.
I curse under my breath and Sheila chokes back a laugh. I hate that this has become such a scene.
“I should have jumped,” I mutter under my breath, and then Meyer is right up next to me, pulling me, dragging me closer until it’s not just him that’s soaking wet, but me as well.
“Why do you do it? Why do you spend so much time there?”
“I just want…”
“What, Livy? What do you want?”
I open my mouth to answer him, but I can’t. What can I possibly say? The truth isn’t an option. It’s too embarrassing or humiliating. Mostly it’s too personal. There’s no way I’m willing to blurt out, “I just don’t want to feel alone anymore!” Even though it’s the horrifying truth. I want to feel something again. Something good. Something real. I want to know that when she died I didn’t die with her.
“Livy?” Meyer whispers my name. “Just tell me.” Trust me.
He’s so close. His hands are pulling me, moving me so that everything around us is just background.
“I want…” I say and his gaze drops to my mouth. My eyes well up, my chest expands. I’m so close to losing it — at a party of all places — I really should have just jumped in the damn water.
“Geronimo!” Kenny yells, racing past us. His arms are wide, his steps determined as he runs toward the edge of the rock. Everyone jumps out of his way, including me and Meyer. But not Sheila. She’s caught up in his momentum. Her feet swept out underneath her.
Sheila’s head knocks against the rock and then her body spirals down into the dark water.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Meyer is the first to react. He dives off the side and I hear h
im splashing around in the water, trying to locate her.
“Sheila!” I scream, tearing at my clothes. I manage to get my coat off and then I’m jumping off the rock at the same moment as Grant. I don’t think about the cold or the risks, I only think of Sheila. But as my jeans and shirt begin to absorb the water I realize I should have also removed my shoes. They weigh me down, and kicking becomes difficult. But I fight through it anyway. I have to.
“Sheila!” I keep screaming, diving under the water again and again. But I don’t know where she is, or where she went in, or how deep she could be now. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Meyer emerge but Grant is a short distance away and his arms are empty. So empty. And that emptiness terrifies me.
The water is quickly filling with buoyant teenagers, all of us searching for a girl who may or may not still be drunk. Or conscious. My head is pounding. Each splash crashing against my body feels like it’s dragging me down. With every second that passes I imagine she’s slipping deeper and deeper, down into the water, where none of us will ever reach her.
“Sheila, please,” I cry.
Grant is freaking out, his voice high and shaky, as he continues his search. The more he freaks out the less hope I have.
It’s happening. This can’t be happening.
“Call 911!” someone yells but I know it’s too late. It’s been too long. I imagine her drowning in the dark water. My arms stop moving, my legs stop kicking — I’m sinking. And I don’t care.
I’m not sure I can survive this. The words bounce around inside my mind and I know they’re selfish words, desperate words, but that’s what I am: selfish and desperate.
“She can’t die,” I whisper against the water. “She can’t die,” I say again, except this time I swallow them down with lake water as my mouth dips below the surface.
No. Not Sheila.
I close my eyes. Please, I beg. Please. Not again.
“I’ve got her!” Meyer yells. His head is bobbing about ten feet away from mine and in his arms is a very limp Sheila.
I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead, all I know is I have to get to her. I swim toward them slicing through the water with a strength I didn’t have mere seconds ago, and then watch helplessly as someone pulls Sheila up and out of water. My breath fogs the dark night and then blows back toward me each time the wind moves along the water.
“She’s breathing,” Meyer says, climbing up next to them, and my body starts to shake. I don’t feel cold, I don’t feel anything, but I can’t stop shivering.
I hear sirens in the distance and then the trees are lit with flashing lights. I keep swimming. I’m afraid to get out of the water, afraid of what I’ll find.
“Livy? Where’s Livy?” Meyer calls out and I should answer, but I don’t.
“She was right next to me,” Grant tells him but he doesn’t look up from Sheila’s prone figure on the ground.
“Livy!” Meyer is on his feet, his eyes scanning the darkness and then they come to rest on me. For a moment neither of us moves and then I’m pulling myself up onto the shore and he’s right there helping me.
“She’s okay, Livy. She’s going to be okay,” he says. But I won’t look at him.
“Livy?” he says, rubbing his hands up and down my trembling arms. “Did you hear me?”
“You need to go,” I tell him, and his hands stop. “You need to get away from me. And leave me alone.” When he doesn’t move I say, “Now, Meyer.”
“Didn’t you hear me? Sheila is going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.” I start pushing at him, desperate to get some distance between the boy who thinks everything is a game, and me, the girl who is anchored by death.
“Livy—”
“I’m serious, Meyer. I need you to leave me alone. I need you to listen to me and go.”
I push at him once more and this time he lets me. His hands drop from my arms and fall to his sides and for a moment he looks lost. But can you be lost when you never truly let yourself be a part of anything at all? He doesn’t know Sheila. He barely knows me. How can you feel detached and empty inside when you’ve never opened yourself up to anyone?
In Meyer’s world we’re the lost ones, not him. Never him.
Not until now.
“Just go,” I tell him, and when he doesn’t move I yell it. “GO!”
Sheila is perfectly still on the ground. I should get to her. I should push against her chest until she spits out water like the drowning victims always do in the movies. But I can’t get my feet to move. I’m stuck. Frozen to the ground about ten feet away from her. I watch the EMT do what I should be doing. His hands press against her chest and then he breathes into her mouth. I watch him do it over and over again. Each time he takes a breath, I take one with him.
I don’t want to watch her die.
“Please, Sheila,” I beg. “Please.”
“Livy.” Meyer’s hands reach for me, but they don’t touch. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” I tell him. “How could you? You’re too caught up in your adventures to ever take anything serious. And this is serious, Meyer.” I point to Sheila. “That’s serious,” I whisper. “You did that.”
Sheila starts to cough and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. I stare at her, wondering if I’ve imagined it, but when Grant wraps his arms around her I know she’s alive.
“I told you she’d be okay,” Meyer says, but he doesn’t sound concerned, only defensive.
“You did this,” I tell him. “You nearly took her away from me tonight and because of that I can’t play your games anymore. I can’t be with you.” I don’t care how I feel about him. I can’t care. He nearly took away my best friend. This is better anyhow. Now I don’t have to prepare myself for the day he leaves me.
Meyer reaches out again, but I pull away. I can’t bear his touch.
“Grow up,” I whisper, and it’s as if I’ve slapped him. His eyes widen and he stumbles back a few steps.
I don’t stick around to see what comes next. I just walk away. I won’t look at him and I don’t look back. I leave him to do what he will. Without me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I don’t think about Meyer the entire way to the hospital, nor do I think about him while I’m walking the halls, waiting for Sheila’s mom to come and tell me that everything is fine, that Sheila is going to be fine. The moment she hit the water I stopped caring about fun and adventure. And Meyer. Because there is nothing more serious than death, nothing quite like the possibility of losing something you need to survive. And Sheila is that something for me. I go days without seeing my father. I go for days without really talking to my mother. But I need Sheila to survive. I may not have realized this before, but I need her.
The waiting room chairs are not comfortable. Even if they were plush and reclined all the way back so that I could pretend to be sleeping instead of watching the hallway for the possibility of news, I still wouldn’t be able to sit still. Pacing is how I spend the minutes. If I stop pacing I’ll just see Sheila fall from the rock over and over again. I’ll keep thinking about how she could be dying at this very moment just two doors down the hall.
Grant, however, doesn’t seem to mind the hospital chairs. As soon as he arrived he fell into the first chair he could find, the one facing away from the large TV, and he continues to hold his head in his hands as if the weight of it — of everything — is too much for him to bear.
It’s so quiet in here. Even with the TV turned up. The things we’re not saying to each other, the morbid thoughts that assault our minds, are so loud they make everything else in the room feel hushed. The rest of the world is on mute while I wait for news. I can’t talk to anyone — not even my mother — until I know whether or not I still have a best friend.
About an hour later Sheila’s mom drags herself into the waiting room. She’s wearing dark pajamas — the ones she was wearing when she got the phone call earlier tonight —
and she looks like she’s aged ten years since the last time I saw her, which was just a couple of weeks ago.
“She’s going to be fine,” she tells us before bursting into tears.
I want to comfort her, wrap my arms around her and celebrate the news, but it’s difficult to believe someone who can’t stop crying. I know what denial looks like. The average mature adult will behave more like a toddler when the news is bad, their tantrums loud and ugly. And it’s heartbreaking, this transformation. To watch someone you care about grab a passing nurse and begin screaming in her face, begging her to fix his child.
It’s far worse when the adult is your very own father.
“Livy?” Sheila’s mother reaches out to me, a smile breaking across her tear-streaked face.
I know she wants me to come to her, share in the joy that is this miracle, but I can’t just yet. I stand back and wait for her hands to start beating against Grant’s back. I wait for the screaming to begin. But instead she’s comforting her daughter’s boyfriend. She’s holding him tight and telling him everything’s going to be okay, and I’ve been waiting so long for those words, I don’t believe them now that they’ve arrived.
“Is she—” I choke out.
“She’s okay, Livy. The doctor says she has quite the concussion but she’s going to be just fine.”
Grant makes a noise that is a cross between a sob and a laugh. “Can I see her?”
“Yes,” she says, and then he’s off, his wet shoes squeaking loudly down the hallway. I’m glad for that noise. It’s a good noise, a noise that means that Sheila’s mom is right. Everything is going to be okay, because no one hurries to see a dead body.
“The doctor doesn’t want a lot of visitors,” Sheila’s mom tells me. “Would you mind waiting for Grant to come out before you go in?”
“Of course,” I say, but I’m lying. I’ve never resented Grant in all the time he’s been a part of Sheila’s life. Until now. I’d give anything to switch places with him.
“Thank you, Livy,” she says, wiping away tears. “You’re such a good friend.”