Read Learning Not to Drown Online

Authors: Anna Shinoda

Learning Not to Drown (7 page)

“Okay, okay.” He jumps in and shuts his door. “All buckled in?”

“Yes. Can we go now? Please?” After clicking his seat belt, he backs out of the driveway.

Finally.

Barely two blocks down he slams on the brakes, coming to a stop next to a raccoon roadkill. “Look at
that!” Dad fishes at my feet for something. Grabs his clipboard and scans it. “Not even called in yet.”

“Can you pick it up after you drop me off at work?” I plead.

He taps his pen on the clipboard.

“Well . . . I guess.” And mercifully he steps on the gas. “Do me a favor, Clare Bear,” he says, handing me the pen. “Write up the address and put ‘roadkill' in the second column.” His clipboard falls onto my lap. Gross. No telling how many times he has touched this after handling a dead animal. I hold the pen at the very tip.

“Speaking of dead animals,” he says, staring ahead, “yesterday I picked up a dead squirrel at the campgrounds past Lookout Ridge.”

“Big surprise,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “You pick up a hundred a day.”

“Not up in the campgrounds. No. Plus, this one was called in. Called in the middle of the night. The voice sounded a little familiar too.”

“Hmm,” I say, trying to sound indifferent. “Every voice sounds familiar to you. We live in a town with population nothing.” Dad's clipboard is still on my lap. The bet. I glance down.
Lookout Campground Squirrel pickup: 10:14 a.m.

“Yeah. I guess I know everyone around here. Especially your friends.” Get to the point, Dad. “When I picked it up, I was pretty surprised to see a lot of trash up there. Looks like someone had a pretty good party: beer cans, cigarette butts, tiny empty baggies. Wouldn't happen to be the same party you were at the other night?”

Silent. Frozen. I know what the deer in headlights thinks right before getting hit: Something bad is going to happen, and I can't do anything to stop it.

Dad brings the truck to a stop just outside the gated entrance to the lake. “Tell you what, Clare. As part of your punishment for sneaking out, you'll be picking up the trash at that campsite after work today. You do that, and we won't have to tell the ranger, or the sheriff, where your secret party spot is. Okay?”

I don't have time to argue. It wouldn't change anything anyway. I grab my bag. And slam his piece-of-shit-truck door as hard as I can.

While running for the lifeguard post, I imagine Dad's truck falling apart as the door slams, leaving him sitting on the seat, holding the steering wheel, attached to nothing. A confused frown across his face. Cartoon style.

I glance down at my watch. Breathe a sigh of relief. I'm perfectly on time.

“Clare. Late on the first day? It is eight thirty-five and you are supposed to be here at eight thirty sharp.” Lucille Jordan's plastic face tries to smile. Why does Mandy's mom have to be my boss? I'm surprised Lucille even allowed them to hire me. She swirls the cup in her hand and takes a small sip out of the straw before continuing. “I hope this isn't going to be a habit of yours.”

“Sorry. My watch says I'm on time. I'll set it five—no, ten—minutes back.”

“Why don't you do that,” she says, sarcasm lacing her voice.

I rush through my morning duties, concentrating
on checking the safety equipment instead of wallowing in how crappy my day has been already.

Before my butt hits the chair on the too-short lifeguard stand, a dozen kids jump into the water with elated screams.

The lake's kinda gross, but it's the only body of water in our dumpy town bigger than a bathtub. Fed by snow runoff and a natural spring, it was originally a huge mud hole that fed into a large stream. Then someone thought it was a good idea to define two sides of the lake with a concrete slab. They dug out the mud hole, and the stream shrunk to a brook as the lake filled. They planted grass. Great mountains of sand were brought in to create a beach on the shallow side. Tractors groomed the beach until it was smooth and flawless.

And then, what did they do?

They left the last side natural: the swamp. A place where the mud is so thick, it grabs your feet and pulls you in to your knees. Tall weeds tangle to the surface. Sharp reeds grow wild, sticking out of the muck that seeps into the woods, where rattlesnakes live and poison oak grows.

Half-man-made, half-natural. Half-safe.

Splashing and screams on the shallow side of the rope turn my head. Mandy's little brother, Chris, is jumping high into the air, using both hands to push a little girl's head underwater.

I feel the water going up her nose. The hands pushing on her head, moving with her as she tries to find a way back up. Hear his laughter.

I blow my whistle. Point at Chris: beckon him to me with a single finger. As he lets go a little red head pops out of the water, coughing and wheezing.

Chris wades to the side while I jump in to check on Redhead.

“Are you okay?” She lifts her arms. My hands lock under her armpits, and I pick her up, pull her out of the lake, and wrap her in my towel.

“Chris.” I use my stern voice. “It's the first day. The whole summer isn't going to be like this, is it?” Damn it. I sound like Lucille Jordan.

“What? I wasn't doing anything wrong!” Chris throws his arms into an overexaggerated shrug. “We were just playing.”

And
he
sounds like Peter.

“That's not playing, Chris. It's dangerous. She could drown. You get to sit with me for ten minutes.”

“Hey,” he protests, splashing his arms down angrily. “I'm supposed to get a warning first.”

“You got all the warnings you needed last year. Ten-minute time-out for the first offense; fifteen for the second. And you're going home on the third.”

“I'm telling my mom you didn't give me a warning,” Chris says. “Hey, Mom!” he yells. Lucille Jordan chats with her friends, lounging under a huge blue sun hat, looking like something out of an expensive alcohol ad.

“Not now, honey. Mommy's busy,” she shouts back.

“But Moooom.”

“I said, not now.”

Chris scowls at his mother. Defeated, he climbs out
of the water and sits on the edge of the lake, pulling his legs to his chest in perfect pout position.

“You sure you're okay?” I ask Redhead again.

“Yep.” She hands me my towel and jumps back into the water. Soon she's singing and splashing and playing.

“Man, this stinks,” Chris mumbles. I look at him. The real problem is that he's too old to be stuck in the shallow end. I remember exactly how that feels.

“Don't you want to be able to swim in the deep end this year?” I ask.

“Leave me alone.”

“It's a really simple test. You could pass after taking some lessons.”

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“What was that?” I use my stern voice again.

“Nothing.” Chris slumps forward and groans.

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Bet you didn't know that I couldn't even float until I was eleven years old.”

Chris turns his blond head and stares. “You lie.”

“It's true. And I didn't learn to swim until a year after that.”

“And you're a lifeguard now? Yeah, right.”

“Believe what you want.” I pause. It would probably be pretty fun seeing him learn. “I can teach you.”

“I don't need a stupid teacher.”

“Fine.” That's it for the talking. For the rest of the ten minutes, we stare at the lake.

•  •  •

Chris seems to be behaving after his time-out, so I go on autopilot. I'm taking in the sun and the splashes and the glimmering water. I've never been hypnotized, but I imagine it'd feel like this.

“Clllllaaare.” Drea's nose is almost touching mine. “Some kid's gonna drown on your watch. Where the hell were you at?”

“I was concentrating on the water.” I look down at my watch. Noon. Already?

“Whatever, crazy. Listen, the party last night was awesome. Mandy puked, like, eight times, and still stumbled around for at least forty-five minutes thinking she was all hot. Vomit breath and chunks in her hair. Ryan eventually convinced her it was time to go home. But . . . once he got her all tucked in, he was back at the party.”

“No Mandy?”

“Uh-huh.” Drea grabs my whistle and blows it hard, yelling, “Hey. No dunking, jerk.”

She spreads a towel and sits down next to my chair. Even though I'm grounded, at least I work at the summer hangout. That's going to save my sanity.

“Anyone else planning to show up today?” I ask, hoping she'll say Ryan. Without Mandy.

“Nah—not with all the drinking last night. But I think Chase, Skye, and Omar are going to come by tomorrow. And they're dying to know who won the bet. You get the squirrel pickup time?”

“Yep. Can you send a group text for me? Squirrel pickup time: ten fourteen a.m.”

“Okay,” Drea says. “Remind me—how much longer will I have to be your messenger?”

Peter appears. Sunglasses on and a soccer ball tucked under his toned arm.

“Twenty-nine more days,” I answer Drea. Ignoring my brother. “And, on top of it, thanks to a certain phone call made to my dad, I'll be cleaning up the party from two nights ago.”

“Bullshit!” Drea exclaims.

“I hope whoever wins gives me a tip for all the extra pain and misery I'm going through.”

Drea's phone chimes. She reads her text, then says, “Hit Chase up. He won the bet.”

“I think it's pretty funny.” Peter tosses the ball into the air and starts juggling it from one knee to the other. “You know Dad's going to make you separate the trash from the recyclables. It's going to take you forever.”

“Thanks for rubbing it in, jerk.” I take my eyes off the lake to glare at him.

“Peter, you should get the brother-of-the-year award,” Drea says, then adds, “Oh. Wait. No, my mistake. The asshole-of-the-year award. That's the one.”

“So witty, Drea. You should be a comedian.”

Drea's phone chimes again, breaking up their banter.

I turn to Peter and say, “You're right. This is going to take forever. Can you be a really nice big brother and come help me clean up this afternoon? Pretty please?”

“No way.”

“Please? Come on, Peter. I need help.” Peter is
impossible to predict. Sometimes he can be decent, even nice. Why not today?

“I'm not an idiot.”

“Peter. Please?” One more shot. “Luke would. He'd help me in a second.”

“Luke,” Peter scoffs. “Luke's not here, and I'm not Luke.” He kicks the ball high into the air, catches it, and tucks it under his right arm.

“I wish he were. At least he knows how to be a good, supportive brother.”

“If Luke is your idea of a good, supportive brother, your brain is fucked.” Peter slips his sunglasses on. “See ya, Clare.” He walks away, dribbling the ball between his feet.

“Well, that was a dick thing to say,” Drea says.

“Typical Peter,” I reply. He was right about one thing. It is going to take me forever to clean the party mess up. “Any way I can convince my favorite friend in the whole wide world to come help?”

Drea sighs. Her brow knits up in a look of sympathy. For a second I'm afraid she'll say no.

“I'm sure I could think of a thousand reasons not to. But. Since I am your favorite friend in the whole wide world, I'll help. If we come across any used condoms, I'm not touching them, even if I'm wearing a toxic-waste cleanup suit. That's all you.”

Chapter 10:
Filtered
THEN: Age Eight

“Hey, buttface.” Peter was the first awake after me. I squirmed in my seat at the table as I crunched my Lucky Charms, wishing they'd put more marshmallows in the box.

“Quit calling me that.” I never had a better comeback.

“Whatever you say, assmunch.” Peter pulled back the curtain of the sliding glass door a little and peeked out. “WOOOOW!” he said, grabbing my chair and wiggling it. “Clare, you are NEVER going to believe it. It SNOWED last night.”

“Snowed? Really?” I jumped up to run to the door. Then stopped.

“You can't trick me, Peter,” I said. “It's summer. It can't snow in summer.”

Peter piously placed his hands together. “It must be a miracle! I just saw a real miracle.”

I raised an eyebrow and looked toward the door. In science we had learned that a snowstorm required temperatures of thirty-two degrees or lower. It was summer, but the house did feel chilly that morning. And at
church they talked about miracles all the time. Mom and Dad would be so proud to have children who'd seen a miracle. Besides, I
wante.
it to snow in summer. Snow meant sledding, snow caves, jumping off the porch and landing waist deep.

“This is so COOL.” Peter peered behind the curtain again, then looked at me. “Fine. If you don't believe me, look for yourself.”

Looking seemed okay. Cautiously approaching, I expected Peter to drop a huge spider in my hair, or maybe trip me. I pulled back the curtain and scanned the yard, expecting to see white, sparkling white, everywhere.

SMACK! Peter knocked my face into the glass door.

“HAHAHAHA. You are so stupid. I can't believe you fell for that. Snow in summer. A miracle. What a dumbass!”

Sobbing, I ran to my room. Wiped my nose to check for blood, then crumpled onto my bed. I was so stupid. Why did I always fall for Peter's tricks?

I thought about going to Mom, crawling under the covers with her and crying, telling her how awful Peter was. But Mom did not like to be woken up. And the day before, when Peter had tripped me, Mom had snapped at him to leave me alone and had double-snapped at me for being a tattletale.

If Luke had been there, Peter wouldn't have tricked me. Because Luke would've been awake with me, eating cereal and asking about my plans for the day. If Peter called me a name, Luke would give him one look, and
Peter would mutter “Sorry” and leave the room. But I hadn't seen Luke for months. Right before Christmas he'd just disappeared. I'd gotten a letter from him on Valentine's Day asking me to be his pen pal. Even though he'd written that he loved and missed me, he still hadn't come home. Not even for Easter or the Fourth of July.

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