Abby
She never cut deep enough to finish the job, just enough to create a god-awful mess. Wringing a blood-soaked rag out in the bathroom sink for a second time that morning, I tried to suppress the waves of anger and disgust rippling through me. Though I knew I should have unlimited compassion for the woman who gave birth to me, it grew increasingly difficult to muster with each subsequent bid for attention.
This little stunt was attempt number five. The first time she did it, I was barely over six years old and she sent our beat-up Toyota hatchback careening down a slope of grass, hitting the Susquehanna River at around ninety miles per hour, with me strapped to a booster seat in the back.
That was the day I learned to swim.
In a way, I suppose it was something good, or at the very least something inevitable. Swimming was my life. Refuge from the storm that was Hurricane Maggie. And my one and only ticket out of my podunk town. I’d have been in the pool already that morning if Maggie hadn’t found herself alone the night before with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a dull, pink Lady Bic.
Not that I was surprised; this was nothing new. No, new would be a mother who woke me up in the morning instead of the other way around. Or maybe even a mother who bothered to get out of bed at all while daylight was still shining down upon us.
With a groan, I scrubbed the last of the blood from the black-and-white checkered tilethen returned to my bedroom for a change of clothes. Jean shorts and a tank top over a navy blue swimsuit to replace the wet, bloodied pajamas I tossed into the washer on my way to the front door.
Part of me—the part that wasn’t worn down from years of Maggie’s unique brand of crazy—wanted to check on her. Maybe crawl in bed beside her, wrap my arms around her, and stroke her hair the way she used to do with me when I was little and upset. But a trill of steady snoring leaked into the hallway as I passed her closed bedroom door. Maggie was fine. Maggie was always fine. It was the people around her who suffered.
Well, the people around her and our apartment. It was a shrunken little thing of a home—just two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a large open area that served as kitchen/living room/dining room—and every inch of it looked lived in. The paint cracked and peeled away in lazy white ribbons, the furniture was mismatched and mostly secondhand, and there was a leak beneath the kitchen sink that dripped incessantly, its staccato rhythm lulling me to sleep each night. Dust reproduced, making a home for itself in the corners along the woodwork, and a days-old coffee stain could be seen on the kitchen table. It was in desperate need of a vigorous scrubbing. Or a lit match and some kerosene.
Amidst the clutter and chaos laid my gym bag in its usual place beside the front door. I didn’t dare bring it in any further for fear that it would be swallowed up by the mess. That I might never see it again. Opening the bag, I stuffed my uniform inside before I left our cramped apartment, Maggie, and her most recent bout of depression behind. I had enough going on that week to turn my stomach to mush. I didn’t need to add Maggie’s drama to the list.
Outside, dawn was barely breaking through the murky October sky and the temperature was already on the rise. Heat pricked at my skin and with the back of my hand, I whisked away the small beads of sweat gathering at my hairline. We were smack dab in the middle of a Pennsylvania Indian summer. The local old men—the ones who played dominoes in front of the VFW and who’d been around long enough to see more seasons come and go than they cared to count—said it was an indicator of a harsh winter yet to come. For me it simply meant the river and swimming holes hadn’t frozen over yet and I could still sneak out for a late-night swim.
Waiting for me at the corner of the block was my usual swimming partner Garrett, his long, taut body leaning against the passenger side hood of his inky black pickup truck. My breath hitched in my throat and it took a moment or two before I remembered to breathe and walk like a normal human being. I’d known Garrett Scott for years and he still turned my insides to Jell-O whenever he was near. He was that guy. The one who gave the girls whiplash when he walked by. Maggie said he was all shoulders and legs, taller than my five-feet-three-inches by nearly a foot. ‘Course, it bothered me when Maggie looked at Garrett. He was half her age and she eyed him like she wanted to make a snack of him.
“You’re late,” he remarked as I approached, running a hand through his short sandy blonde hair and moving to open the passenger side door for me. Garrett had a voice like lava, molten rock that moved over you and melted you where you stood. I should’ve been a puddle on the ground, but somehow I managed to keep it together and climb through the open door, fastening my seatbelt while Garrett made his way to the driver’s side to slide behind the wheel.
“Maggie,” I replied as he started the engine. Garrett didn’t know Maggie. Not really. Not like I knew Maggie. But he knew me well enough to know if I was late and Maggie was the cause, it was best to stare straight ahead and not ask questions.
Inside the truck, the scent of leather and pine greeted me, as if Garrett had just cleaned and detailed it. Can’t say it would have surprised me. Garrett loved his truck, from the dent in the fender to the shotgun rack mounted in the back window. “She’s old, but she’s mine,” he’d told me the day he bought it and drove over to show me. He’d used every last dime he’d earned working on the McKenna ranch the last three summers. His hands still bore scars and bruises and calluses—evidence of his hard work.
Mauled as they were, I adored Garrett’s hands. They fascinated me, the way they could be so rough when I touched them, yet so gentle when they touched me. It was like an illusion. Magic. Some trick he’d mastered.
I turned my body away from Garrett and his miraculous hands and stared out the window at our town as it rolled by. Because of the weather, Garrett had the windows down and as we traveled along Main Street the moisture in the air settled on the exposed areas of my chest and arms. There would be rain later. I could always tell. I had this ability to sense the water like a bloodhound can track a scent. It was instinctual, something almost electric that I could feel coursing beneath my skin. The water was the only place I ever felt whole, as if it somehow filled all the dark and hollow places inside of me. It consumed me. Let me forget for a while about Maggie, her drinking, and everything else I hated about this town.
There wasn’t much to Little Bend. Just one main artery with a single traffic light, a handful of shops to the right and the Susquehanna River to the left, all of which was surrounded by red and orange tree-dotted mountains. We had a Dunkin Donuts—a new addition that was only about a year old—a small theater, a bowling alley, and a Chinese food restaurant. It was the kind of small, quiet place where parents wanted to raise their kids. The kind of small, quiet place most kids dreamed of someday leaving. The kind of place that could suffocate you in its wide-open space.
We arrived at the high school that catered to the three hundred or so students from Little Bend and the neighboring boroughs twenty silent minutes later. It wasn’t like us—the awkward pauses, the quiet contemplation. But a lot had transpired between us in the last few days. Things had happened that we couldn’t turn back from. Or ignore for much longer. No matter how badly I may have wanted to. There was so much to say yet, it seemed, nothing to say at all, as if an unspoken agreement had passed between us.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and hoisted my bag from the floor as Garrett pulled into a space in the lot beside the brand new gymnasium and the athletic fields. As usual, the area was devoid of any sign of life. It was only six o’clock in the morning—the cheerleaders and football players wouldn’t arrive for practice for another half an hour.
The high school was probably the most interesting thing our little town had to offer. The buildings were mostly new or recently renovated—all red brick, shiny glass, and s
teel. The fields were manicured and state-of-the-art, with enough room in the bleachers to seat Little Bend’s entire population and then some. I’d often wondered if the town spent so much money on the high school because they knew that for most of us the four years spent there would be as good as it ever got.
For the majority of Little Bend’s residents life would begin and end within its borders. They’d never see any more of the world or experience a life filled with anything greater than homecoming games and prom. I was determined not to succumb to the same fate as my predecessors. To make it out of this town if it killed me. After all, staying would be far worse than death.
Doors opened and closed then Garrett rounded the truck to remove his gym bag from the bed and sling it over his shoulder. “We’ll have to skip our run,” he told me. “Since somebody can’t be bothered to show up on time.” He bumped me gently with his hip as I passed by. “But I’ll race you to the pool.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught the mischievous glimmer in his blue eyes and a hint of a sly smile playing upon his face. He knew I had no chance of winning—his legs were practically as long as I was tall. “You’re on,” I replied, planting one foot behind the other and preparing while he counted down from three. I was never one to give up without a fight.
Or a little bit of cheating.
On one, I sprinted off, giving myself a small head start. It didn’t matter though, as Garrett pulled out ahead in no time. Up ahead, he paused, waiting for me at the entrance to the building that housed the pool. He unlocked the double doors, holding one open while I rushed through. I shrugged my gym bag off my shoulder—it hit the floor with a thud, skidding to a halt against the blue tiled wall—and pulled my shirt off over my head. I could hear Garrett’s feet slapping against the tile behind me as he took to running once more and sped to catch up.
Pulling off my shoes and peeling off my shorts slowed me down considerably, so I rounded the corner that led to the pool with Garrett nipping at my heels. I was inches from winning for the first time when I felt his arm wrap around my waist from behind. My legs dangling above the floor, he carried me the remaining distance to the pool and tossed me into the water. I landed as gracefully as I could manage, trying to ignore the shock of the frigid liquid against my overheated skin, and kicked my way up, surfacing just as Garrett dived in.
“I won,” I exclaimed as soon as he came up for air. His face was mere inches from mine, with the same goofy smile I’d seen every day for the last five years plastered upon it. A sort of sideways smile, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether he was amused or not.
“How do you figure?” he asked, his voice deep and gravely, his cheeks tinged with red. He was as breathless as I was.
“I hit the water first.”
“Only because I threw you.”
I splashed water in his direction, spraying his face. “Still counts,” I argued.
Garrett laughed, a loud, full sound that made me smile for the first time in days. “That’s really how you want your victories?” he asked when his laughter had subsided. “Cheap and shallow?”
“What can I say?” I replied, my smile broadening. “I like my victories the way you like your girlfriends.”
His arm appeared around my waist again, pulling me against his hard body while his other hand pressed down on the top of my head, forcing me beneath the water. I squealed and sputtered as my mouth met the surface, barely managing to grab a lungful of air before I went under.
I wriggled from his grasp underwater, wrapped my arms around his legs, and pulled him down with me. In the water we were practically weightless and I could push Garrett around as if I wasn’t half his size. It was one of the few places I felt his equal.
Releasing him, I swam over his body toward the edge of the pool and came up for air. I grabbed the ledge, placed my feet against the tiled wall, and waited for Garrett to take his position in the lane beside me. When he did, he flashed me a bit of teeth and started a countdown from three again. On go, we kicked off the wall, taking to the air simultaneously and hitting the water almost without a sound.
For the next hour, we practiced our strokes in silence. Side by side, pushing the other to swim better, faster. It was our routine. Something we’d done since the first year Garrett moved to Little Bend. I didn’t stop until the familiar clacking of high-heels against tile brought me to a halt mid-pool. I brushed my long, dark almost-black hair from my face, cursing the fact that I hadn’t time to pull it back before Garrett tossed me into the water, and waited for her to appear.
Garrett stopped beside me. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already.”
“Time’s up. I hear your girlfriend coming.”
Sure enough, seconds later she appeared along the edge of the pool that led to the cheerleaders’ locker room. Zoe Winchester. Head cheerleader, student body president, and probably most irritating of all—Garrett’s girlfriend. To say Zoe hated me would be the understatement of the century. She detested me. Made no attempt to hide it. And while I tried to be nice for Garrett’s sake, I was one phony smile or backhanded compliment away from removing her shiny white veneers with a pair of rusty pliers.
Garrett turned his head toward Zoe then back to me. “How do you do that?” he asked.
“We all have our skills.” Truth was I’d honed my auditory ability a long time ago. Came in handy when you spent nights afraid of what might find its way into your bedroom.
“Yeah, but that one’s just plain creepy.”
I forced a smile, dived back underwater, and finished my lap while Garrett swam across the lanes to meet Zoe. The metal rungs of the ladder were cool against my palms as I pulled my body from the water and watched them in my periphery. When Zoe knelt down and planted a light kiss upon his lips, I was in more danger of losing my breakfast than I’d been when cleaning up the mess Maggie’d left in the bathroom.
The first time I ever laid eyes on Garrett Scott was at a swim meet the summer I turned twelve. I remember the smell of the chlorine, the sound of the swimmers splashing through the water and the din of the crowd on the metal bleachers surrounding the eight-lane pool. My Uncle Jim and his girlfriend Becca were sitting there, waving proudly and wildly, waiting patiently for me to make a fool of myself. At least that’s what I had assumed would happen. I’d never competed before. If not for Coach Scott taking a shine to me at the public pool earlier that summer, I’d’ve never known the difference between a butterfly and a breaststroke.
Garrett had never been to the public pool before that day. Not once. Yet, there he was, ready to take to the water with the rest of us. I’d found myself mesmerized by the way he moved, practiced and perfect. And when he’d emerged victorious and dripping, my stomach had done a somersault.
I saw the way Zoe and the other girls looked at him then. The way they adjusted themselves in their swimsuits to look more appealing. The upward tilt of their chins. The hand on their hips. The Barbie toe. Garrett, in perfect unassuming Garrett-fashion, was completely oblivious to the effect he had on the opposite sex. He’d stood stretching, one arm bent over his head with his opposite hand grasping his elbow, waiting for his next turn in the pool.
“He’s amazing,” I had whispered to Coach Scott later while Garrett toweled off.
Coach Scott had followed my gaze to his son. “Garrett? No. He’s average at best. What you have, Abby—that’s real talent. Natural. Raw. That can be shaped into something great.”
He’d stalked off to watch the next race, passing his son without so much as a congratulatory nod in his direction. If his father’s indifference had bothered Garrett, he hadn’t shown it. But I’d seen something in Garrett—a calm, almost laid-back confidence—that Coach Scott apparently did not. And I knew, unequivocally, that he was far too good for me.
Now I watched his hand glide across Zoe’s forearm and thought of how he would never dream of pulling her into the water the way he would do with me. She’d totally freak out about him messi
ng up her makeup or her long, curly Taylor Swift hair. Instead, he pressed his palms against the ledge and hoisted himself from the pool, taking great care to avoid splashing her.
I shook my head and scanned the area for my gym bag. I needed a change of clothes and a towel. No way in hell I was gonna let Zoe Winchester observe my lackluster body in a swimsuit.
Zoe had given up swimming after that first summer when Coach Scott had made it clear she’d never be good enough to make the high school team. Because of that, she was still built like a girl—thin and soft with perfect, perky C-cups—while I was built like an athlete. Lack of body fat (aka breasts) made me popular in the pool, but not so much at school dances.
After a few minutes of futile searching, I remembered I’d dropped my bag in the hallway when I’d tried to beat Garrett to the pool. I was headed that way when a group of football players filed in led by Nolan Carter. That was the biggest problem with the pool: it was housed in the same building as the coaches’ offices and the field locker rooms, so every morning during football season I had to deal with Nolan Carter and his cronies.
“Looking for this?” Nolan asked me. There was a teasing lilt in his voice, a hard edge to his jaw and he dangled my black and turquoise gym bag on one finger in the air ahead of him. The urge to wipe the smug smile from his face and kick him in the knee surged through me. Popular or not, everything about Nolan Carter repulsed me—from his flat, round face to his oversized, sausage fingers. I wondered briefly if anyone had ever told him he looked like a Pug. Just less attractive.
I wrapped an arm around my stomach—an automatic protective gesture I’d picked up somewhere along the way—and reached out with the other to retrieve my bag. Nolan pulled it up and out of my reach with a snap of his wrist. The asshole. “Not so fast,” he sang. “What do I get in return?”
The bag swung over my head like a pendulum but I didn’t look up at it. I kept my eyes locked on Nolan, refusing to turn away. “My gratitude,” I replied. The words were bitter on my tongue, like licking an ashtray or the underside of a mule. The last thing on Earth I wanted to give Nolan was a thank you. A knee to the groin maybe. But a thank you? Not so much.
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