How to Breathe Underwater

by Julie Orringer

  “Just forget it, Sage.”

  “Listen to me,” he says. “I’m an asshole. I admit it.”

  “You didn’t use to be,” I say. “Not such a major asshole, anyway.”

  Cars sweep by, honking for the kids waiting inside. When the door of the Y opens, the sound of the kids’ voices grows sharper. Somewhere farther inside is the pool with its tiled depths.

  “You make me wish I died instead of her,” I say.

  He stands there staring at me as if I’ve hit him. A fine dry snow has begun to fall, speckling his jacket with flakes. He drops his cigarette and grinds it into the asphalt with his heel. “I followed you the other night,” he says. “When you went to the pond.”

  “You followed me?”

  “You went sneaking out of the house. I didn’t know what you were going to do.”

  I hate the thought of him watching as I threw my fish into that pond. It seemed a stupid enough thing to do when I thought I was unobserved. “Don’t follow me around, Sage,” I say. “If I want you to go somewhere with me, I’ll ask you.”

  “No, you won’t,” he says. “Why would you?” He takes out another cigarette, then puts it back in the pack. Finally he speaks again, so quiet I have to lean close to hear him. “I can’t believe I turned out to be such a shitty person,” he says. “I wasn’t even nice to her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was a terrible boyfriend. I got mad at her for no reason during band practice. I didn’t listen to her enough. I forgot her birthday. I made fun of her car.”

  “You weren’t a terrible boyfriend,” I say. “Isabel loved you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do,” I say. “I could see it.”

  Just then the girl from last week walks by, swinging a gym bag over her shoulder. She lifts a hand and waves as if she’s never seen me coughing out water on the side of the pool. I wave back.

  “We’re going to be late,” Sage says.

  I follow him into the Y, and we split off toward our separate locker rooms.

  Among the rows of yellow lockers I unpack my suit and towel, my new mask. As I change clothes, the girl in red comes over and picks up my swim fins.

  “SeaQuests,” she says in her Romanian accent. “Very professional.”

  “My mom got them for me.”

  “They match you,” she says, holding them up against my bathing suit.

  “You can try them later if you want,” I say, and she looks pleased.

  When I see the pool again, the place where I went down last time, nausea slams me. I try to take some slow breaths. Out on the bleachers some kids are talking about different kinds of equipment, single tanks versus double, but Sage is sitting off to one side, scratching his ankle. The blond swim-team-looking instructor whose name I have forgotten is hauling complete scuba sets and wetsuits out of a storeroom. No one’s bothering to help her. The red-suit girl and I go down there and start hauling out tanks, and by the time we’re finished my nausea has gone away.

  “All right,” the instructor says, dusting off her hands. “Who wants to dive?”

  People yell and clap. Even Sage looks interested.

  She says we’re going to do a five-minute ten-foot dive, and tells everyone to get into wetsuits. The suits are the one-piece back-zip kind; the Romanian girl and I zip each other in. The instructor gives us each a weight belt and a scuba set and shows us how to fasten the tanks to the buoyancy control device. We learn how to attach the regulator to the tank, how to turn on the air, and how to test the regulator by pushing the purge button. We learn that we’re supposed to use the hang-ten sign to say cool to each other, because the thumbs-up sign means to go to the surface. We lift the gear onto each other’s backs and secure all the buckles. Then we stagger toward the deep end and take practice breaths just standing on the side of the pool. The air from the tank is metallic and very dry. The last thing we do before going in is to put on fins and masks. My new flippers look sleek and aqua blue against the white tiles of the floor.

  Finally it is time again for all of us to get into the water. Sage moves close to me as we line up to splash in, him shivering, me trying not to look over the edge into the mouth of the water.

  “Quit thinking about last time,” he says. “It’s going to be different.”

  “We’ll see,” I say.

  “Practice measuring your breaths, like she told us.”

  I practice measuring my breaths, and it calms me a little. We watch our classmates line up and fall backward into the pool. I see them down there beneath the surface, not coming up for a breath, and all of a sudden a great excitement fills me. Although I know it is stupid, I feel as if we’re going to find ourselves in the ocean when we splash down, surrounded by coral reefs and fish, seeing things we’d never even imagined. When I crouch for my roll entry, Sage crouches beside me. Together we fall back and splash down. At first I forget to breathe. We’re underwater, after all. But when my lungs start getting tight I suck in a breath. The air is cold and surprising in my lungs, and suddenly I’m scuba diving, shooting out bubbles of used breath into the pool, and Sage is finning beside me.

  When I think of Isabel this time it’s not as a mermaid but as the living girlfriend of my brother, wearing blue jeans, playing bass in the garage, telling me to try singing. She would have liked to see us diving, Sage and me, going down into the richest blue of the bottom. We tread water, watching each other through our masks. I cannot see his eyes through the glass, but I can see, reflected small and blue, a girl wearing swim fins and a metal tank, self-contained and breathing underwater.

  Note to Sixth-Grade Self

  On Wednesdays wear a skirt. A skirt is better for dancing. After school, remember not to take the bus. Go to McDonald’s instead. Order the fries. Don’t even bother trying to sit with Patricia and Cara. Instead, try to sit with Sasha and Toni Sue. If they won’t let you, try to sit with Andrea Shaw. And if Andrea Shaw gets up and throws away the rest of her fries rather than sit with you, sit alone and do not look at anyone. Particularly not the boys. If you do not look at them, they may not notice you sitting alone. And if they don’t notice you sitting alone, there is still a chance that one of them will ask you to dance.

  At three-thirty stand outside with the others and take the number seven bus uptown. Get off when they all get off. Be sure to do this. Do not stare out the window and lose yourself. You will end up riding out to the edge of town past the rusted gas-storage tanks, and you will never find the right bus home. Pay attention. Do not let the strap of your training bra slip out the armhole of your short-sleeved shirt. Do not leave your bag on the bus. As you cross the street, take a look at the public high school. The kids there will be eating long sticks of Roman candy and leaning on the chain-link fence. Do they look as if they care who dances with whom, or what steps you’ll learn this week? News flash: They do not. Try to understand that there’s a world larger than the one you inhabit. If you understand that, you will be far ahead of Patricia and Cara.

  For now, though, you live in this world, so go ahead and follow the others across the street to Miggie’s Academy of Dance. There is a low fence outside. Do not climb on it in your skirt. Huddle near the door with the other girls. See if anyone will let you listen. Do not call attention to yourself. Listen as Patricia, with her fascinating stutter, describes what she and Cara bought at the mall. Notice how the other girls lean forward as she works through her troublesome consonants: G-G-GUESS Jeans and an Esp-p-prit sweater. They will talk about the TV shows they watch, who killed whom, who is sleeping with whom; they will compare starlets’ hairstyles. None of this talk is of any importance. For God’s sake, don’t bother watching those TV shows. Keep reading your books.

  At four o’clock, go inside with the others. Line up against the wall with the girls. Watch how the boys line up against their wall, popular ones in the middle, awkward ones at the sides. Watch how the girls jockey to stand across from the boys they like. Watc
h Brittney Wells fumble with the zipper of her nylon LeSportsac. Don’t let her get next to you with that thing. Try to stand across from someone good. Do not let yourself get pushed all the way out to the sides, across from Zachary Booth or Ben Dusseldorf. Watch how Patricia and Cara stand, their hips shot to one side, their arms crossed over their chests. Try shooting your hip a little to one side. Rest your weight on one foot. Draw a circle on the wooden floor with one toe. Do not bite your fingernails. Do not give a loud sniff. Think of the word nonchalant. Imagine the eleventh-graders, the way they look when they smoke on the bus. Let your eyes close halfway.

  When Miss Miggie comes out, do not look at her enormous breasts. Breasts like those will never grow on your scarecrow body. Do not waste your time wanting them. Instead, watch how she moves in her low-cut green dress: chin high, back straight, hips asway. Listen to the way she talks: Fawx Trawt, Chaw-chaw, Wawtz. Love how she talks, but do not pick it up. When you move north in three years, you cannot afford to say y’all. Listen as Miss Miggie describes what y’all will learn that day. Watch how her hand traces the dance steps in the air. Now that the boys are occupied, staring at her breasts, you can look openly at Eric Cassio. Admire his hair and eyes, but quickly. Like all boys he will feel you looking.

  The first dance will always be a cha-cha. On the record they will sing in Spanish, a woman trilling in the background. It will start a thrill in your chest that will make you want to move. Watch Miss Miggie demonstrate the steps. Practice the steps in your little rectangle of floor. Watch how Patricia and Cara do the steps, their eyes steady in front of them, their arms poised as if they were already holding their partners. Now concentrate on dancing. Avoid Sasha and Toni Sue with their clumsy soccer-field legs. Ignore Brittney and that purse. When Miss Miggie looks at you, concentrate hard. Remember practicing with your father. Do not throw in an extra dance step that you are not supposed to know yet. Do not swish your skirt on purpose. Do not look at the boys.

  Long before it is time to pick partners, you will feel the tightness in your stomach. Do not let it break your concentration. You have too many things to learn. Remember, if you want to have the most gold stars at the end of the eight weeks, you are going to have to work hard. Imagine dancing in a spotlight at the end-of-class ball, with the best boy dancer from all the seven private schools. On the Achievement Record, next to your name, there are already five stars. Patricia and Cara also have five stars. Everyone else has two or three. Think of the stars in their plastic box. You can almost taste the adhesive on their backs. Two more stars can be yours today, if you do not let yourself get nervous.

  When it is time for the boys to pick, do not bite your hangnails. Do not pull at your skirt. Watch how Patricia and Cara lean together and whisper and laugh, as if they don’t care whether or not they get picked. Watch how Miss Miggie brings her arms together, like a parting of the Red Sea in reverse, to start the picking. The boys will push off with their shoulder blades and make their way across the floor. Do not make eye contact! If you make eye contact you will drown. Do not, whatever you do, look at Eric Cassio. You do not care which one of those other girls he picks. You know it will not be you.

  When the picking is over, hold your chin up and wait for Miss Miggie to notice you standing alone. She will take Zachary Booth by the shoulder and steer him over to you. When he is standing in front of you, look down at his white knee socks. Stand silent as he asks, with his lisp, if he can have thith danth. Ignore the snorts and whispers of your classmates. Do not think about Zachary Booth’s hand warts. Let him take your right hand and put his left hand stiffly at your waist. Be glad you are dancing with a boy at all, and not with Brittney Wells, as you did last week.

  When Miss Miggie starts the music, raise your chin and look Zachary Booth in the eye. Make sure he knows that even though he is the boy, you will be the one to lead. As much as he hates to dance with you, he will be grateful for that. It will be up to you alone to make sure you don’t both look like fools. Squeeze his hand when it is time to start. Whisper the steps under your breath. When he falters, keep right on going. Let him fall back in step with you. Out of the corner of your eye, watch Miss Miggie drifting through the room as she claps the rhythm, her red mouth forming the words one two. When she looks your way, remember your father’s advice: head high, shoulders back. Smile at Zachary Booth. Ignore the grimace he makes in return. If you dance well you may be picked to demonstrate.

  And you know which boy will be picked. You know who is picked to demonstrate nearly every time, who Miss Miggie always wants to pick, even when she has to pick one of the others just to mix things up. Eric Cassio is not just great in your opinion. Already the world understands how excellent he is. The music swells toward its final cha-cha-cha and Miss Miggie’s eyes scan the room. Her red lips come together like a bow. She raises her rack of breasts proudly and lifts her finger to point. The finger flies through the air toward Eric Cassio, and Miss Miggie calls his name. He scowls and looks down, pretending to be embarrassed, but there is a smile at the corner of his mouth. Patricia bites a fingernail. Understand that she is nervous. This gives you power. Do not flinch when Zachary Booth pinches your arm; do not let the burning in your eyes become tears. He does not concern you. The only thing that concerns you is who Miss Miggie will point to next. It could be anyone. It could be you. Her finger flies through the air. Is it you? Oh, God, it is.

  Do not look at Patricia and Cara as they extend their tongues at you. Ignore Zachary Booth’s explicit hand gesture. Forget you weigh sixty-nine pounds; stop wanting breasts so badly. So what if you wear glasses? So what if your skirt is not Calvin Klein? For this one moment you have no hangnails, no bony knees, and there is a secret between you and Eric Cassio. When the others clear the floor, look him square in the eye and share that secret. The secret is, you know he likes to dance. It goes back to the day when you were punished together for being tardy, when you had to transplant all the hybrid peas from the small white plastic pots to the big terracotta ones. Your hands touched, down in the bag of potting soil. When you got cold he gave you his green sweater. Later, as you were cleaning up—the water was running, no one could hear him—he told you he liked to dance. Remember these things. The fact that he ignored you at lunch that day, at recess, and every day afterward—even the fact that he is now Patricia’s boyfriend—does not matter. He likes to dance. Look into his eyes, and he will remember he told you.

  Let his arm come around you, tanned and slim. Take his hand; it is free of warts. The dance requires that you maintain eye contact with him almost constantly. Do not be afraid to meet his blue eyes. Smile. Remember what your father has taught you: Cuban motion. It is in the hips. A white boat rocking on waves. The half-hour demonstration with your mother, her hair upswept, was not for nothing. Here you are. Miss Miggie lowers the arm onto the record, and the maracas shake into action.

  When you dance with Eric Cassio, communicate through your hands. A press here, a sharp squeeze there, and you’ll know what he wants you to do, and he’ll know what you want him to do. As you change directions, catch Patricia’s eye for one moment. Give your hips the Cuban motion. Make her watch. When you twirl, twirl sharp. Listen to Miss Miggie clapping in rhythm. Let all the misery fall out of your chest. Smile at Eric. He will smile back, just with the corner of his mouth. He is remembering transplanting the peas. He does not smile at Patricia that way; that is a smile for you.

  Do the special pretzel thing with your arms, that thing Miss Miggie has only shown you once; pull it off without a hitch. End with your back arched and your leg outstretched. Listen to the silence that comes over the room like fog. Remember the way they look at you. No one will applaud. Five seconds later, they will hate you more than ever.

  The next day, watch out. You will pay for that moment with Eric. Wear pants, for God’s sake. Take no chances. In gym you will play field hockey; remember that this is not one of your better games. You are on the red team, Patricia and Cara are on the blue. You are left wing
forward. When you get the ball, pass it as quickly as you can. What will happen is inevitable, but it will be worse if you make them mad. It will happen at the end of the game, when you are tired and ready for gym to be over. As you race down the side of the field toward the ball, halfback Cara’s stick will come out and trip you. You will fall and sprain your wrist. Your glasses will fly off and be broken in two at the nosepiece. You will cut your chin on a rock.

  Lie still for a moment in the trampled clover. Try not to cry. The game will continue around you as if you do not exist. Only the gym teacher, leathery-skinned Miss Schiller, will notice that anything is wrong. She will pick you up by the arm and limp you over to the bench. Do not expect anyone to ask if you are okay. If they cared whether or not you were okay, this would never have happened. Let this be a lesson to you about them. When Patricia scores a goal they cluster around her, cheering, and click their sticks in the air.

  At home, seek medical assistance. Do not let anything heal improperly. You will need that body later. As your mother binds your wrist in an Ace bandage, you will tell her you tripped on a rock. She will look at you askance. Through instinct, she will begin to understand the magnitude of your problem. When she is finished bandaging you, she will let you go to your room and be alone with your books. Read the final chapters of A Little Princess. Make an epic picture of a scene from a girls’ boarding school in London on three sheets of paper. Push your brother around the living room in a laundry basket. That night, in the bath, replay in your head the final moment of your dance with Eric Cassio. Ignore the fact that he would not look at you that day. Relish the sting of bathwater on your cuts. Tell yourself that the moment with Eric was worth it. Twenty years later, you will still think so.