by Kim Purcell
Kissing my sadness away. Oh my god. “Maybe.”
“Let’s be naked together.”
I laughed. “Nice change of subject.”
“Just naked, that’s all.”
We hadn’t had sex. We’d only got to second base. Tops off. That’s it. No BJs, nothing. “You think you can just be naked with me?” I laughed. “No sex?”
“Definitely. I have control.”
You believed I was this happy nudist girl. Why wouldn’t I want to be naked with you? But I didn’t know if we could control ourselves, and I didn’t want to have sex, not yet. Maybe one day, I thought. “I don’t think so.”
“I want to worship your body, that’s all,” you said. “No touching allowed.” You gazed at me with your deep brown eyes, your dimple playing at your cheek. “Please?”
You already saw me naked, really. So what would it matter? You thought I was wild and brave and experienced. So I acted like I did this sort of thing all the time.
“You have to be naked first,” I said. “And then I’ll decide.”
A laugh. “Fair is fair.”
“You stand over there.” I pointed to the other side of the red shag carpet.
You took a few steps back. “Ready?”
I nodded.
It was hot. Not because you were a wild stripteaser, but because you were the opposite of that, shy, really. You pulled off your gray T-shirt first. Your chest rippled. Even though I’d seen it before, our rule of no touching made it sexier. Your gaze flicked up to me, then down.
You took off your socks. And folded them together. Which was funny. Even in this moment, you had to be Mr. Neat. The belt was next, slowly undoing it, and then sliding it through the belt buckles like a snake slithering through grass. You placed it carefully on the edge of my chair by my desk.
I swallowed—yes, I kept swallowing—I had a river flowing in my mouth, no joke, I was literally salivating.
You undid each button of your jeans, looked up at me, and let out a chuckle, like you were embarrassed. Your jeans slid down and you stepped out of them. You folded the jeans and placed them on the desk. You were wearing tight black boxers. I held my breath. They showed everything. Your trail of hair led from your belly button like an arrow. You slid them down your thighs. Stood there, lifted your chin. I tried not to stare, but I did stare. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t my first time seeing a penis, just my first time seeing yours. It was regular. Not to put it down. But I was curious.
“Boing!” I said to ease the tension.
You laughed and then slid your boxers down the rest of the way to your ankles and stepped out of them.
“Leave them on the floor,” I said.
You hesitated but left them there. “Your turn.”
It was too serious, too intimate, I don’t know, it freaked me out, and I almost changed my mind. You wouldn’t have made a big deal if I did. But then, I just thought, Why not? You saw everything already on the first day. I slid my pink top off, dropped it on the ground, and then my black skirt. I stood there in my bright pink bra and unmatching white cotton underwear. I reached around the back and took off my bra.
“Boing,” you said.
I laughed, then hesitated. You hadn’t seen everything at the river. Though my underwear might have been see-through. You gave me a little hopeful smirk and raised your eyebrows. And that’s what did it. That hopeful smirk. I slid down my underwear.
You gulped. “Wow,” you said, just like you do when you watch the sunset, all breathy and astonished. “I want to touch you, but I want to look at you, too.”
We stared at each other. Your gaze traveled down me. “This is weird,” I said finally. “And I’m dying here.”
You laughed. “I promised.”
“We can just lay with each other,” I suggested.
You frowned. “I’m going under the covers. You go on top.”
“Deal.”
So that’s what we did, and we kissed, too. Your hands rested on my back, didn’t slide down even—it was like a soft sticky kind of glue held them there. I was dying for your hands to move across my body, but they didn’t, not that time.
10:55 AM Sunday, the pool
I’m sitting on the cold metal bench in the female staff changing room, trying to decide whether to bring my phone on deck. I’m too goddamn afraid of dead babies. If I look at my phone for one second, that’ll be the moment a baby crawls across the deck and slides into the water. It’s my biggest fear. It was during lifeguard training, when that got planted in my head. The trainer was this old lifeguard with a potbelly and a bathing suit malfunction—it kept slipping partly down and then he’d pull it up. Anyway, he was on the pool deck in front of all of us trainees and he said in this dark voice, “You look away one moment, and boom, there’s a dead baby.” For the rest of our training, it was a joke—boom, dead baby—but it stuck with me, entered my imagination, my dreams.
A text slides across the screen, from Steph: Where are you?
Me: At the pool
Steph: Did you talk to the cops?
The cops? Definitely call-worthy. She answers and tells me a detective came by her house, asked her some questions.
“Did you tell him anything about me?” I say. “I mean, anything bad?”
“There is nothing bad, J.”
I love that she says that.
She goes on, “I told him how you saw Chris at the mall—I hope that was okay. And I told him you’re working at the pool today,” she says. “He might come by. He’s a big guy, tall, weird hair, but he has a sexy Irish accent. It’s yummy. Even if he is old, I wanted to lick his mouth as he was talking.”
I laugh. Only Steph. We say bye. I tuck my phone in my pocket and head up to the deck, where Michael is texting on his phone.
“Hey, babe.” He looks up. “Any news?”
“He’s still missing.”
He frowns. “Where did you say he went running?”
“Down by the river.” I sigh. “At least that’s what he said. He usually runs along Matheson Trail.”
“Matheson Trail?” he says, a little louder, like it means something.
“Yeah, why?”
“Who jumped him before?”
“It was a few guys from the Heights. One of them was on his travel team—Dave Johnson? You know him?”
He blinks. “Yeah, I know who he is.”
The roar of children sounds from within the change rooms, and I glance at the office window to see them pushing through the spinning gate. “They’re coming.”
“You okay to guard?” he asks. “I could help you find a replacement.”
“It’s just four hours,” I murmur. “It’ll keep my mind off of it.”
“You don’t need to be the tough girl all the time,” he says.
“You think I’m tough?”
“Shit yeah.”
“I’m not that tough.”
He squeezes my shoulder. It feels nice. I turn up the side of my mouth. He gulps hard, like he’s worried for me. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.
I head over to the strip of pool deck between the kiddie pool and the dive tank that we call the island. He walks over to the deep end. Another guard, Jody, comes out of the office and gets into position in the shallow end. She’s the blond one with the boobs—don’t pretend you don’t know who that is.
Kids swarm out of the change rooms onto the deck like a bunch of bees flying out of a beehive, except that bees fly straight and these kids are going all over the place, like drunk bees.
I pace up and down the island. My scan moves from the divers to the main pool, where I spot a young girl crawling along the wall to the deep end, all white-knuckled, like she’s Spider-Man. Swimmers don’t do this. They swim.
I stride toward her, signaling talk to Michael and Jody, making my hand into a puppet. “Hey, honey, can you swim?” I ask.
She blinks up at me with these long, beautiful eyelashes, her delicate face framed with wet scraggly brown hai
r. She’s wearing an old, shiny pink bathing suit that sags at the front, revealing her chest. I always think it’s sad when kids have see-through or really old suits that don’t cover them. I wish we had a bathing suit donation bin.
“My name is Talia. What’s your name?” A big grin. She’s missing her two front teeth. She’s stinking cute.
I smile back. “My name’s Jessie,” I say. “Can you swim, Talia?”
“Yes.” She lets go for a second, starts to sink, and then grabs back on.
“How old are you?”
She doesn’t say anything but crawls back along the wall toward the shallow end. A larger boy swims up, head above the water. He has the same big green eyes.
“You her brother?” I ask.
He nods.
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
No way is she eight. She’s maybe six. Eight is the age a kid is allowed to be in the pool without parents. But if her parents drop her off at the pool when she can’t swim, maybe home’s not safer.
“You have to stay with her.”
“No problem,” he says real fast, like he’s afraid of getting in trouble.
I return to my position on the island. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I want to check it, but I can’t. What if it’s you?
I glance over at Michael. His lips are pursed. Is he doing duck lips? It’s kind of funny.
“Bump.” It’s Jody.
I rotate down the deck, toward Michael. At the diving board, I have a second to slide out my phone and check. It’s Josh: Call me.
What the hell does that mean?
I slide my phone back in my pocket. Michael jumps off the guard chair and wraps a warm arm around my shoulder. “You should be a spy.”
“Learned from the best.” I sigh.
He gives me a sharp look. “What?”
“People keep texting me. I’m worried.” I curl up the edge of my mouth in a half grin. “Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to work today.”
“I’m going to make some calls and try to find someone to take your shift.”
“Thanks.” I smile at him, grateful, and he heads down the deck.
The deep end is nearly empty. Just some older kids diving down for a plastic rocket.
A movement in the stands catches my eye. A blue uniform. A cop is sitting down. Watching me. Why is a cop watching me?
I scan the middle of the pool, where the deep end meets the shallow end—it’s the cross-over zone for scanning.
And then I see them.
Talia and her brother are kicking on a mat into the deep end, where she can’t stand. What the hell? Didn’t I tell her brother to stay in the shallow end with her? She can’t swim.
I jump off the guard chair and signal to Valerie and Jody that I’m talking to them, so that they’ll cover my zone.
Michael steps out of the office and waves, like he has something to tell me. It can wait. I turn to Talia and her brother.
“Hey, kids,” I call, in my nice voice, so I don’t scare them. “Turn the mat around.”
Talia’s eyes widen, and she tries to turn the mat, kicking her feet real hard, with overly bent knees, twisting her body. But then, she slides down the mat, and grasps for the edge, but it’s too slippery. She slides into the water.
Oh shit.
Her fingers are inches away from the mat. If her brother pushes it toward her, she can grab back on. Her arms are paddling a little—she’s a weak swimmer, not a non-swimmer, and she could do it, but then, her legs sink, pulling her farther away. Her head swings back, chin tilted up—it’s an automatic reflex, how the head does that—and she panics, flailing.
Her little head goes under.
Her brother lets out a yelp and flings himself off the mat, which goes shooting in the other direction. He grabs her like he can save her. She climbs him like a ladder.
A drowning person, even a skinny little kid like this girl, gets a surge of strength when they’re panicking. A kid can easily drown an adult, and now, Talia is drowning her brother.
I start running.
His face comes up. Gasps for air. They’re fighting to breathe, grappling with each other under the water.
My feet grip at the rough cement as I sprint toward them and realize I don’t have my float. It’s back at the guard chair. I’ll have to do the rescue without it.
I dive off the side and fly through the air. My fingers touch the water first. And then there’s a splash and I’m under the water, kicking hard. Something in my shorts pocket is banging into my leg—my phone. Shit.
I hear the sound of a muffled whistle blowing. It’s my backup. I reach the surface. Michael is running across the deck. I race toward the drowning kids, doing head-up freestyle.
I duck under, grab the boy from behind, gripping around his waist so he can’t grab me. And then I lift him with a powerful eggbeater kick. Talia is hanging on to him, so she’s up too. They have their heads above water, but I’m still under. I do the hardest kick I can, but they’re too heavy. I can’t get my head up.
The surface of the pool glimmers. The mat is gone. My throat burns. Hurry, Michael. He’s a slow swimmer.
If I let go, the kids will start drowning again, so I tug the kids toward the wall, and count, like I do in the river, letting the bubbles drift slowly out of my mouth.
My lungs are screaming. The wall is ten feet away. I might have to let them go. And then, the weight is lifted. Michael has grabbed Talia. My head is up, gasping. Air is beautiful.
Talia’s brother is still choking, his skinny chest heaving against my arm. I help him to the side. He pulls himself up on the edge, coughing violently.
When Michael gets Talia on the side, he jumps out, I go under, use my shoulder to push her up as he pulls her onto the deck. Talia is coughing bent over, a long drool hanging from her mouth. I reach forward, wipe it off with my bare hand, and then, disgusted, reach down and dip my hand in the pool.
My supervisor, Valerie, and Jody are now both on deck, covering the pool, so Michael and I walk with the kids toward the office, along the length of the stands. My hand rests on Talia’s wet, bony back. Her brother lumbers along beside us.
I look toward the stands. The cop’s still there.
“Please don’t call my dad,” her brother begs. He looks terrified. I think he’d rather be drowning. “I’m going to get in so much trouble.”
Michael raises his eyebrows at me, like he’s actually considering it. Michael’s dad was really harsh, used to beat him with a broom, call him a sissy. You’d be surprised what we tell each other when we’re bored out of our minds, guarding a quiet pool.
“We have to,” I tell Michael.
“Can’t you call my uncle? He’ll come get us, I know he will.”
“Sorry, one of your parents has to come. It’s too dangerous.” I decide to tell him more in case the parents are total losers. “I need you to watch your sister tonight, okay? If she breathed water into her lungs, she won’t get enough oxygen. This could make her fall asleep, and then the water could cover so much of her lungs, she could suffocate and die.”
He stares at me, wide-eyed, and Talia whimpers. Michael gives me a look, like mellow out. Maybe I said die a little too forcefully.
“Just watch her, okay?” I pull a thick red guard-towel from the stack by the office and wrap it around Talia’s tiny shoulders. “In case she looks drowsy.”
Michael tilts his head toward the stands. “Cop wants to talk to you.”
“Whoa, what’d you do?” Talia’s brother says.
“Nothing,” I say.
You can’t blame the kid for thinking I’m guilty. Cops don’t normally come to someone’s work. I’d think the same thing if I were him.
11:43 AM Sunday, the stands
Before I head to the stands, I move up beside Valerie, who’s still guarding, and tell her you’re missing and I have to talk to the cop in the stands.
“What?” She looks at me like I robbed a bank. “Oh my gosh, I’
m so sorry. After you talk to him, take the rest of the day off. We can find a replacement. For goodness sake.”
The way she says for goodness sake repeats itself in my brain as I walk toward the cop. For goodness sake, what’s wrong with you? I don’t know why I care. She’s the one who works at the pool when she’s forty and has three kids.
I stare down at my orange toenail polish. My bare feet press into the spotty blue cement deck. This is embarrassing. I spent my whole childhood hanging out here, and I never once saw a lifeguard talking to a cop.
At the stands, I force a smile onto my face and push on the gate. The cop takes large, gangly steps down the stands toward me. He’s over six feet, for sure, almost as tall as you. His uniform looks small on him—the pants are too short. He has uneven blue eyes and large, bushy black eyebrows that hover over his face, like black caterpillars.
“Nice rescue.” He smiles. “I’m Detective McFerson.”
Oh! He’s the detective, not just a cop. He reaches out to shake my hand, which makes me feel better. If I were in trouble, he wouldn’t shake my hand, right? I know you’re wondering why I’d be in trouble. It’s an old habit.
“That was impressive,” he says, tilting his head toward the pool.
“I reacted too slowly.”
“Looked fast to me.” He gives me a quick smile. “I have to ask you a few questions, Jessie. You want to come in to the station or do it here?”
“Here’s fine.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter, but the last thing I want to do is get into a police car and sit in the back like a criminal. For goodness sake.
Not too many people are up in the stands, only a group of moms farther down. The back row is empty and that’s where I lead him.
He sits beside me, his knees bent up awkwardly in his short cop pants. He has old gray socks that fall down his legs and it’s kind of sweet, but I wonder why he’s wearing a police uniform. Aren’t detectives supposed to wear suits and ties?
“Tell me about Chris,” he says.
“We’re on a break, just for a week.” I have to clear that up right from the start. “We aren’t broken up. We’re getting back together.”
“Can you tell me about his personality, what he’s like? Is he happy or—”