Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

  “Flip it over,” Jessa said.

  I was surprised to see her standing next to me, all casual like we were fifteen years old and this was just another club meet. I knew she was here at Championships, of course; college swimming is a small world, and she’s one of UT Austin’s rising stars. But we haven’t talked in years, and this was the first time I’d seen her in Indianapolis.

  I turned the duck over in my hand. The sight of Harry’s chicken scratch made my heart speed up, and what he’d written made me want to cry: Show them outside smoke.

  “Did you put this in here for him?” I asked her, astonished. She never liked Harry. It would’ve been hard to imagine her doing him a favor back when we were all teammates, and after so many years, when we don’t even know each other anymore, it seemed impossible.

  “No,” Jessa said, slipping into her parka. I didn’t believe her, but for some reason I was touched by the boldness of the lie. It was so Jessa.

  “Okay, but is he here?”

  Jessa shrugged. Then she smiled and said, “Have a good swim, Susannah.”

  “You, too,” I said, stunned, as she walked away. I hunted wildly in my bag for my phone, but then they called my race.

  As we filed out onto the pool deck, I searched my memory for any indication from Harry that he might be coming to the championships. He was never completely gone from my life, but while I was finishing high school we would go for stretches without talking or seeing each other, not for any particular reason, but in the way that people fall in and out of touch. Whenever I did see him, all the old feelings came rushing to the surface. Even though I knew it wasn’t our time, I never stopped missing him, and I never stopped loving him.

  Then a few months ago, he texted me because he had finished community college and was looking to transfer to a four-year school.

  I’m considering universities in California, he said, and I was wondering if you like yours.

  I refused to let myself imagine that he might be at the same school as me next year, but we’ve been talking and texting daily ever since. I know that the year after the Olympics was hard on him, as his depression persisted and he struggled to find a combination of medication and therapy that worked for him, but he’s been feeling much better over the last two years. I know he spent Christmas in London with Bruce and Paula, that he’s started painting and thinks he’s terrible at it but really loves it, that he worked at Wacky Waves with Tucker over the summer and that he and Bruce are restoring his grandfather’s old Mustang.

  We’ve talked for hours on the phone and texted nonstop this spring, but he never told me he was coming to Indianapolis to see me race. I would remember that. And if he is here, well...what does that mean?

  It’s no use looking for him—there are too many people, and it’s time to swim. But as I turn back to the block, as if by some sort of miracle, I glance over at the spot in the crowd where my family is sitting and there he is, standing next to Dad, waving his arms. A smile breaks over my face. Across the distance, our eyes meet, and I know what’s going to happen next.

  I know it when I step up to the block, when I mount it and grab the edge, one foot behind the other. I know it when I pull back like a slingshot, waiting impatiently for Take your mark and the frantic beep of the starting signal.

  I know it, and I know Harry does, too. That’s why he’s here.

  The crowd falls silent. There’s nothing like the moment a race begins. It’s the highest height of the roller coaster, the top of the drop, all potential energy and anticipation. That’s probably why I’ve always liked the start best. If you get it right, you could be halfway home.

  But even if you don’t, there’s always the chance you could be outside smoke. Just come out of nowhere and take their breath away.

  “Take your mark,” the announcer says.

  Then the signal sounds.

  Here we go.

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Red Dirt by Anna Jarzab.

  “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again...who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

  —THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My deepest and most heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped me bring this story to life: Joanna Volpe, Jordan Hammesley and all the wonderful New Leaf staff; Natashya Wilson, Bess Brasswell and everyone at Inkyard Press; and my dear friends Gayle Forman, Cambria Rowland, Nikki Pavoggi, Maggie Watts-Petersen, Mary Dubbs, Alex Bracken, Danielle Finnegan, Emily X.R. Pan, Eesha Pandit, Emilie Bandy, Nicole Rodney, T.S. Ferguson, Kendra Levin, Julie Strauss-Gabel, Jed Bennett, Bri Lockhart, Rachel Cone-Gorham, Lara Paquette and Dianna Rowland, each of whom read drafts of this book in its various forms (and under numerous titles) and/or offered me encouragement and advice along the way. Thank you also to everyone who helped me with the details—your contributions and insights have been invaluable. It’s been a long and sometimes bumpy ride, so if I’ve forgotten anyone here, please forgive the memory lapse and know that you have my unending gratitude.

  To all my teammates and coaches from my years with the Buffalo Grove Park District In-House Swim League, the Stevenson High School swimming and water polo teams and the Dublin High School swim team—my memories of our time training and competing together inspired and drove this story from its inception. I appreciate everything I learned from and with you, and I loved our time together in the water.

  It’s impossible to express how incredibly indebted I am to my family, who have always supported me—I am not worthy, but thanks for having my back anyway. And last, to Isaac: dream big, and know that your auntie loves and believes in you.

  RESOURCES

  This novel is a work of fiction, but there are many teens and adults who confront issues related to mental health in their real, everyday lives, including—but not limited to—depression, anxiety, self-harm and suicidal thoughts. If you or someone you know needs support, there are resources you can consult and people you can reach out to who will listen and help.

  CRISIS TEXT LINE

  www.CrisisTextLine.org

  Text HOME to 741741

  The Crisis Text Line provides free 24/7 support for those in crisis from a trained Crisis Counselor via text.

  TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS

  www.TWLOHA.com

  To Write Love on Her Arms is “dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide.”

  NATIONAL ALLIANCE ON MENTAL ILLNESS

  www.NAMI.org

  The National Alliance on Mental Illness “provides advocacy, education, support and public awareness” about mental health.

  NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION LIFELINE

  www.SuicidePreventionLifeline.org

  1-800-273-TALK (8255)

  “The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides free and confidential emotional support to people in suicidal crisis or emotional distress 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”

  Red Dirt

  by Anna Jarzab

  Chapter One

  DECCA SLAMS HER little fists into the small of my back.

  “Wake up!” she says. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, Sammy!”

  I squint at her through bleary eyes and paw the sheets, searching for my phone. Not sure what I did with it. Tail end of last night is kind of a blur.

  “What time is it?”

  The sun’s crooked fingers reach through the aluminum blinds, splaying across the threadbare carpet and piles of dirty clothes. My head pounds.

  Decca looks up, craning her neck like the
answer’s on the ceiling. “Don’t know. Get up!”

  I rub my face and my fingers come away black with smears of mascara. I still got on my graduation dress, all wrinkled and bunched ’round my hips.

  Sweat beads on my hairline. The air’s hot, so heavy it’s like I’m breathing through a damp rag. Summer don’t come soft in Oklahoma. It barges through the front door like a long-lost relation and settles in for six months with its feet propped on the coffee table.

  My eyes drift ’round the tiny, messy room, snagging on the red cap and matching polyester gown in the corner. I graduated yesterday, by the skin of my teeth, then drank to forget I got no plans for what’s next. Now I’m sober, I feel it, the difference in me. Reality gut-punches me hard. It’s like driving down a dark highway and realizing you done run out of road.

  I groan. My stomach feels like a spitball, all wadded up and gummy, and I’m feeling shaky. All I want is to go back to sleep, but Decca ain’t gonna let me. She’s hungry.

  “Make your bed,” I say.

  I head for the bathroom, where I chase two aspirin with water from the tap and take a look at myself in the mirror. It ain’t good. There’s a hickey just above the curve of my shoulder, but I can’t say for certain who gave it to me. Tall, with dark wavy hair. Tan. Not from around here. That’s all I can remember.

  I make a face at my reflection.

  The door opens and Decca pops her head in. “Almost done?”

  “Hey! I could’ve been naked. Or peeing. Or worse.”

  She shudders. “Gross.”

  “You wanna come in, you knock. You never know what somebody’s doing, and there’s a lot of shit you don’t wanna see. Literally.”

  “Shit,” she says, waiting for my reaction with eyes wide as Frisbees. Decca gets a thrill from swearing, ’cause she knows she ain’t supposed to. Don’t got the energy to tell her off, not this morning.

  I try shutting the door, but Decca leans against it with her full weight.

  “Stop that. What’s Dad doing? He up yet?”

  Decca shakes her head. “Sleeping.”

  “Go bother Denny, then.”

  “He ain’t here.” Decca points at my neck. “What’s that?”

  I brush my hair over the hickey. “What do you mean Denver ain’t here? Where is he?”

  “Fishing with Holler, I guess,” she says. “His pole’s gone.”

  “Figures. Fix yourself some cereal, then, and give me five seconds of peace.”

  “Cereal’s gone, too.” Decca frowns.

  “Bet there’s another box ’round here somewhere.” I kick the door closed, locking it. Decca bangs on it from the other side. “Quiet, beast! I’ll be out in a second.”

  I wash up quick. The water drools out of the showerhead and it’s lukewarm, but it helps. When I get to the kitchen, Decca’s standing on a chair, trying to climb on the counter. There’s a box of some generic Lucky Charms rip-off sitting on top of the icebox and she’s fixing to reach for it.

  “What the Sam Hill are you doing?” I swoop Decca into my arms and nudge the chair back under the table with my foot. “You want something, then ask, you monster. One day you’re gonna fall and crack your fool skull open, and you better not come crying to me. Jesus Christ.”

  “Auntie Pat says don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” Decca wags her finger at me. “Better watch out, Sammy, or you’ll burn in hell.”

  “Oh yeah?” I growl, tickling her belly. Decca wiggles and screeches with laughter. When she’s had enough, she grabs my hand and bites down hard. I yelp—that monster’s got teeth.

  Dad picks this exact second to walk in. He glares at me.

  “Pipe down,” he mutters, crossing the kitchen in three steps and seizing the coffeepot. He tips it over, shakes it a few times, shoots me a pointed look. “No coffee?”

  I set Decca down in her booster chair.

  “Was just about to make some.” I take the pot from him and rummage through the drawers for a filter. “Bring you a cup when it’s ready.”

  Dad grumbles about ungrateful children, but he rumples Decca’s hair, then kisses me on the cheek, scratching my skin with his sandpaper stubble.

  He disappears into the other room and I release the breath I’m holding. Like all men who done time, Dad can be hard to predict, though he swears those days are behind him. I mostly believe him. Only sometimes does he give us cause to remember he’s got a secret spring of danger in him. But then we all do, don’t we, deep down?

  I pour the last of the cereal in a bowl and set it in front of Decca.

  “Eat all of it, not just the sugary parts, or I ain’t never buying it again.”

  “Even if there’s a coupon?” Decca asks.

  “Even if there’s a coupon.”

  I root around for my own breakfast, but all I find are near-empty cupboards.

  Decca hunches over her bowl, slurping her milk like a cat. I smooth back the cowlick that curls up near her temple. Her downy hair is damp with sweat, skin baby-soft and rosy. Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever loved a person much as I love her.

  She looks up at me and says, “You need more deer corn, Sammy. Else the deer’ll starve.”

  There’s a small herd that comes almost right up to the house most nights, looking to feed off our leftovers. We throw watermelon rinds and apple cores into the woods for them, but I also keep a stock of dry corn kernels just in case. Denver says don’t go ’round making pets of wild animals, but I can’t stand the thought of them going without.

  I check the spot under the sink where I keep the deer corn and, sure enough, bag’s empty.

  Decca stuffs a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. “Told you,” she says, mouth full.

  “I’ll get more,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. Did I tell you one of them is pregnant?”

  Decca swivels so fast her chair nearly topples over. “Really?”

  “Cool, huh? Pretty soon we’re gonna have a baby deer. They call them ‘fawns.’”

  “Can I pet it?”

  “No. But you can look at it.”

  Decca shrugs and goes back to her breakfast, picking through the cardboard oat bits in search of soggy candy.

  She’s a menace, but I love having her here. We only get her once a month for an overnight, plus a few unsupervised daytime visits. Don’t seem like much when you put it on paper, but Dad fought long and hard for those rights, so it’s a boon in comparison to the nothing we had before.

  I glance at the clock on the microwave. In no time at all, Decca will be back in Rainne’s clutches, and after that, who knows? Few months ago, Decca’s mama got it in her head she wants to move to eastern Arkansas with her new husband, Duke. There’s a family court hearing on Wednesday, where a judge’ll rule if Rainne can take Decca out of state. I got no idea which way it’ll go. If we lose, they’ll be gone by end of summer. Sickens me to think of it.

  Rainne and Dad never should’ve gotten married. She was too immature to be with someone like him, who had a rap sheet, two kids and fifteen years on her when they got hitched. Didn’t surprise a one of us when she left him. Lots of folks say Dad should be grateful she did him the favor.

  Odd to imagine them together, now it’s over, but women like Rainne always flocked to Dad. He was born wild, to hear people tell it, and prison only made him more desirable, gave him this dark, mysterious glow that draws them in like mosquitoes to a porch light. He should’ve known better than to get mixed up with one of them. Now we’re all paying the price.

  I’m in the front room sweeping empty beer bottles and two packs’ worth of cigarette butts into a trash bag when there’s a knock on the door so loud it makes me jump. The trailer smells like coffee and stale smoke. I press my fingers to my forehead, trying to massage the hurt out. Dad’s dozed off again, sleeping like the dead a few feet away.

  I set the
trash aside and head for the door. Decca’s frozen midchew at the kitchen table. It can only be one person at this hour.

  “Hel-lo!” Rainne shouts, pounding so hard the storm door rattles like a cage. “Anyone in there? I don’t got all day here. Sammy!”

  I sigh. “Finish up real quick, Decca. Your mama’s here. Leave the bowl and go get your things.”

  My ex-stepmother ain’t a patient woman. I made Decca pack yesterday before bed, knowing Rainne don’t like having to pace the porch in the thick white heat while Decca gathers her toys.

  I open the door, but leave the screen locked. No way I’m letting her in. Second she lays eyes on Dad, she’ll start in with digs about the drinking, or the smoking, or the mess. Next thing you know they’re screaming at each other and itching to take a swing.

  “Rainne,” I say. “Didn’t expect you till later.”

  “Well, I’m here now. That a hickey on your neck?”

  Rainne lowers her sunglasses and squints at me. I fight the urge to cover the bruise with my hand.

  “This?” I shrug. “Got it noodling down at Terrapin Creek. Had my head underwater and this whopper of a catfish just came out of nowhere and gave me a big ol’ kiss.”

  I make a loud smacking noise and shoot her a grin. If I let her get to me this early in the morning, it’ll ruin my day.

  “Grow up, Sammy.” Rainne muffles a yawn with the back of her hand. I drop the smile. “Where’s my kid?”

  “Hold your horses, she’s coming,” I say. “When can I see her again?”

  “I don’t know. Depends what happens Wednesday.”

  “Give me a break, Rainne. You don’t gotta bring her here. I can watch her while you’re at work.”

  “That’s what day care’s for,” she says. “Where’s Bobby Ray at, anyway? Y’all beg for these visits and then he ain’t even around?”