Читать книгу My So-Called Ruined Life - Melanie Bishop - Страница 8
ОглавлениеKale and I are stretching on the lawn at Barton Springs. It’s 11a.m. and already a scorcher. Barton Springs is a long, natural limestone pool, spring-fed, and 68 degrees year-round. It’s a thousand feet from one end of the pool to the other, three football fields long, where serious swimmers do their laps. Everyone out there now, some of them elderly, has swim caps on. They move through the water like human fish. They appear to not mind the cold.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think to get a one-piece,” I say. I’m in the bathing suit I bought last summer, and it’s a bikini.
“Next time,” Kale says. She’s arching her back and grabbing her toes in some yoga move.
I do a few lunges and sit-ups. Stretching has never been my thing.
“You really swim a mile here? That’s impressive.” I’m looking at the far end of the pool, wondering just how far it is.
“I’m telling you,” says Kale, “learning to swim, the right way, will change the way you think about working out.”
“I pretty much don’t think about that at all.”
“Well, that’ll change, too. Once you get the hang of doing laps, you could go on forever. It’s the most relaxing thing. And typically, people don’t think of exercise as a form of relaxation.”
“Excellent point, Leafy Green.”
We go to the shallow section to get used to the temperature. Kale walks right in, dunks down, gets her head wet, and squeezes water from her hair. I’m having trouble going in past my ankles.
“It’s freezing,” I say.
“May I remind you this is Texas in July?” Kale says. “Freezing is a good thing.” She disappears for a while, like an eel.
I get up to my thighs, but it’s torture. All goose bumps.
A cute guy passes, trailed by a group of six kids—a lesson, obviously. I’ve seen him somewhere before, this guy.
Kale resurfaces next to me and squirts a fountain of water from her mouth into my face.
“Nice,” I say. I splash her good. “Very mature. Plays well with others.”
“So try a lap already!”
“Wait, check out that guy over there, the one teaching all the kids.”
“Sawyer Madison,” she announces. “He taught my lessons, too. He’s good. I recommend taking a class, at least one. You learn a huge amount about how to breathe, how to relax, how to let yourself sink until you find your place of buoyancy, just below the surface.”
“Where have I seen him before?”
“He goes to our school. Moved here last year.”
I shake my head. “Wasn’t at school. This is going to drive me crazy.”
Kale is demonstrating buoyancy by floating on her back.
She says, “Did you know women with fake boobs float better?”
“You’re not helping me figure out where I know this Sawyer guy from. I’ve totally seen him, like up close.”
“Are we a wee bit obsessed?” says Kale.
“No. He’s just familiar.”
“Well, you should sign up for a lesson.”
“Or a boob job, apparently,” I say. “Okay, so teach me something. Anything.”
Kale says, “Well, first you need to get all the way wet.”
I suck in a breath and dunk myself.
“SHIT!”
“Now,” says Kale, ignoring me, “swim with me over to that other side. Swim however you’ve been taught or however you’re most comfortable.”
I thrash about for ten strokes or so, unable to do the breathing thing without losing the rhythm and drinking the pool.
“Keep going,” Kale says. “It should get easier. Let yourself get into a flow.”
When I finally arrive at the other side, Kale is there waiting for me, watching.
“You beat me, of course,” I say. I’m gasping. “Damn, there has to be an easier way. That just about killed me. I told you I’m not a natural in the water.”
“The easiest way is to take a formal lesson. I could tell you what I think you’re doing wrong, but I’d be guessing. Sawyer would be better. He even does a class for adults who are phobic, or can’t stay afloat at all. You swim fine, you’re just not graceful about it.”
“Grace would definitely not be a word I’d use to describe what I just did.”
I tell her I’m not about to make a fool of myself by swimming in front of Sawyer. “He’s cute,” I add.
Kale says, “Tate has a crush!”
“I don’t! I’ve just seen him somewhere…”
Kale has had the same boyfriend since 9th grade—Simon—and they are a totally solid couple. She doesn’t have to think about how she acts or how she looks. And maybe because of this, she acts great—always herself, never self-conscious, never trying to impress anyone. And she looks great, because, well, Leafy Green is gorgeous. She couldn’t look bad if she wanted to.
I convince her to get in her mile of swimming without me. I’ll practice. As she glides off she says, “Experiment with your buoyancy.”
“Roger that,” I say.
I watch her for a bit to see if I can learn by imitation. She looks perfectly synchronized—arms beating out a rhythm, feet gently propelling, head up on the left, now the right. When I try to do what she’s doing, my whole body twists to get the breath. I need a more swivel-y neck. And then it happens. Every time I have any thought about my head or neck, I hear it. My brain conjures up the sound it must’ve made. Blunt object to her skull, not once, but sixteen times. The first one would’ve sounded very different from the last one. These thoughts take over. They torture me. I get out, get some money, and head to the concession for a lemonade. I drink it all at once, like it’s medicine. And then I go back to our big old sheet spread out on the hillside, our four flip-flops holding down the corners. I plop down and close my eyes. If I can fall asleep, the sound of bludgeoning will go away. Sixteen times. One for each year I’ve been alive.
Next thing I know, swim teacher guy is standing over me.
“Tate,” he’s saying. I don’t know how many times he’s said it.
“Yes?” I prop up on one elbow, adjusting my bathing suit top.
“Kale said I should come talk to you?” He ends it in a question, like he’s followed her orders, but he’s uncertain what to say next.
“Oh did she? Leafy Green said that?”
“She said you have questions about lessons?”
“Not really. She was going to teach me to swim better, so I could do laps like she does, but our first lesson proved me to be a spaz of the highest order.”
“But you can stay afloat?” he says. The sun blinds me when I look up at him.
“Sorry,” he says. He moves to the left and his body blocks the sun.
“Yes, technically, I swim. I mean, I won’t drown. But there’s nothing fluid or efficient about it.”
“Lessons would help,” he says. “Everyone can learn what Kale learned. She wasn’t that good either at first.”
“She’s good now,” I say.
“She got the hang of it.” Teacher boy looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know how to say this…” he continues. “Can I sit down?”
“Sure.” I sit up, to meet him halfway. I was horizontal, he was vertical; now we’re both sitting on the sheet, face to face.
“I guess I’m just sorry for all you must be going through.”
Here it comes. I nod. This is always awkward. I want to receive sympathy graciously, but I also don’t want pity. I can’t exactly say, “Oh, no biggie,” because it’s huge and everyone knows it.
“Thanks,” is all I say.
“And I’m sure you feel confident about this already, but I think your dad’s going to be acquitted.”
“Oh, he’s definitely innocent,” I say.
“I agree,” says Swimmer Boy. “Pretty much everyone thinks so, except the prosecution of course. But then that’s their job.”
“That’s where I’ve seen you before! At the trial! It was driving me crazy—you looked so familiar.”
“I can explain that,” he says. “Journalism project.”
I take in Sawyer Madison, with this new knowledge of him. “I only went to court twice,” I say, “but you were there both times. You took notes.”
“Right. The newspaper advisor at school thought it would be good practice for me, since I want to be an editor of a college paper. He suggested I attend the trial this summer and report on it. He thought it would be stupid not to, as a journalist living in this town when this thing happens. He thinks if I cover it well, I could even publish something.”
“Cool.”
“I guess I wanted to say…” Swimmer Boy looks to the left, looks to the right, looks anywhere but right at me.
“You’re sorry,” I say.
“I already said that,” he says. He smiles. “I wanted to say I admire you.”
No one has said this to me before.
“You seem to be handling this tragedy in your life very gracefully.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s why I swim so badly. All my grace is used up.” (When in doubt, make a dumb joke.)
Sawyer lets out a little laugh.
“Really, though, what else can I do? There’s not a thing I can do to change any of it.”
“Well,” he says, “I saw you a few weeks ago, in court, and I heard those women sitting behind you—I was in their row, and I heard what they said. I thought you handled that really well.”
“Which comment was that?”
“They said you’d never have a normal life.”
“Yeah. That’s a warm and fuzzy comment for sure.”
“And what’s normal anyway?” says Swimmer Boy.
“Good point.” I see Kale walking toward us, surveying her handiwork.
“Anyway, if you decide you want lessons, I’d like to do it no charge.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Keep what in mind?” says Kale. She’s knocking her head on the side to get water out of her ears.
“Lessons,” I say. “You sent Mr. Instructor my way.”
“He has a name,” says Kale. “Sawyer. And he’s a good teacher.” Kale lies down and puts a shirt over her face. “Wake me up before I get too burned.”
“That’s a cool name, by the way,” I say. “After Tom Sawyer?”
“No. After my dad.”
“He’s Sawyer also?”
“No,” says Swimmer Boy. “Carpenter. Sawyer equals one who saws.”
“Seriously? I love that! Did you hear that, Kale? Kale and I are word freaks. That is just so cool.” Okay, I tell myself, pipe down. Don’t go overboard.
“Does having that name mean your parents want you to go into carpentry?”
Sawyer gets up.
“I want to be a reporter,” he says. “They know that.”
“Right.”
He says, “Well, I’ve got another group coming in ten minutes. Let me know if you want free lessons.”
“Would I be with a group of little kids like that?”
“No. There are adult groups, but we could do private.”
The way he says the word makes me think of other things I would like to do with this swimmer boy in private. I remind myself quickly of Goal #6.
“Thanks,” I say. “Very generous of you, one-who-saws.”
He smiles.
“See ya,” he says. “Bye, Kale.”
“Later,” she says, without moving the T-shirt from over her face.
“Ta-ta,” I say as he walks away. He shoots back a quick wave.
“You did not just say that.” She comes out from under her sunshield.
“Oh my God,” I say, and we burst into laughter. “He must think I’m such a dork!”
This is a private joke between me and Kale. We throw out as many funny versions as we can of greetings when we first see each other, and of goodbyes when we part ways. We don’t generally do this in front of other people. The whole thing started when our third grade teacher—Mrs. O’Connor—taught us letter writing—business letters, personal letters, postcards. For some reason, we found the word salutation a riot. This is the part of the letter where you say Dear so and so, but in our text book, it gave alternatives, like Greetings! Or Top of the mornin’ to you! That one cracked us up. We collected these like other kids collect scout badges or baseball cards. Ta-ta! Toodles! Regards to the family! All the best!
“That is so a sign, dude,” Kale says, lying back down and going under cover.
“Sign of what?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Violates one of the goals on your wall.”
“Tell me or I will have to pummel you senseless.”
Kale lifts the cover off her eyes for a sec, to give me a certain skeptical look she has.
“What?” I say.
“That last comment. It’s sort of not funny, given events in your recent past.”
“True,” I say. “Ugh. Totally poor taste. Sorry.” And for a minute I’ve got that kicked in the gut feeling again. Kale has seen me when I slide into this funk.
“You okay?” she says.
“Yes. But tell me, what is ‘ta-ta’ a sign of?”
“Just that you accidentally felt comfortable enough with one-who-saws to use our private language. It’s like intuitively you know he’s worthy, like of being in our inner circle. Her Royal Highness Bower would call this foreshadowing.” Bower is our English teacher. Bower resembles the Queen of England.
“Shit,” I say. “As usual, you are probably right. Was it obvious I liked him?”
“To me. Not to him,” Kale says. “You forget how clueless guys are.”
“Shit,” I say again.
“Ca-ca,” says Kale. Now she is onto terms for fecal matter. We found a list of these once in a psychology textbook in my dad’s office.
“Boom-boom,” I say.
“Double boom-boom,” says Kale.
“Boom-boom is already double. That, Bower would so kindly inform you, is redundant.”
“Alas,” says Kale. “So put me in grammar prison.”
Everyone mocks our English teacher, but Kale and I secretly revere her. Bower is old, older than you would think for someone still teaching high school. She’s short and has a small build, white hair, and glasses. Kids call her “Old Lady Bower” and because she doesn’t wear a wedding ring, they make jokes about how she’s the seventy-year-old virgin. But they should shut up, because no one knows 1) how old she is; or 2) anything about her life outside of school. She could easily be divorced or widowed. Or maybe a lesbian. She could’ve had plenty of sex in her life whether she was married or not, gay or straight. The thing is, she doesn’t have to explain herself to any of us and that’s one thing that makes her formidable. She’s wicked smart about literature and doesn’t have to answer to any dumb teenager.
“When I go home, I need to recommit to my goals,” I say.
We’re quiet after that, lying on our backs, side by side on her mom’s old sheet. The sun is high and feels good beating down on me. I imagine the heat and the sweat as cleansing. By lying here, I’m purifying. And then, as always when I’m left with my own thoughts, I think of my mother and I wonder if, wherever she is, she can see me down here. Like Google Earth, just zoom right in on me from her celestial place. Does she know what I think? That I have a crush on this swimmer boy? That I’m sorry in a thousand different ways?
Kale is putting on her shirt, standing up to step into her shorts. “I’m hungry,” she says. “Come on, we can go to the restaurant and I’ll share my free meal with you.”
She gets one free meal per shift at the vegetarian Mexican place on Duval—Mother’s Café. She’s the counter person and the smoothie maker and the one who does fruit salads and carrot juice. She has been helping the owner/manager develop vegan items for the menu. That’s how Kale is. The youngest employee there and she’s making changes to the menu.
“Yum,” I say. “Can we do the vegan nachos? Or the spinach enchiladas?”
“Whatever you want, but we have to hurry because we have to bike across town, order, eat, and then I have to go home and shower and change.”
As we make the long trek back to where our bikes are locked in the parking lot, I scan the pool for Swimmer Boy-Who-Saws. The place is in full swing now—moms and kids and no school and long lazy days. It is nearly impossible to find someone—Barton Springs is huge. But I make a wish to see him one more time before I leave, and then there he is—shallow section, far away—green swim trunks and a half-dozen kids in a semi-circle around him.
“Look,” I say to Kale.
“What?”
“One-who-saws.” I point.
“There are a hundred people where you’re pointing, Tate.”
“Green shorts, bare chest, encircled by children.”
“Got it,” she says. “He’s cute.”
“And sweet,” I add, “with that gaggle of kids always following him.”
“Ducklings.”
“Exactly. Or goslings.”
“Goslings it is,” says Kale. “Goslings is a far superior word.” She grabs my arm and pulls. “We have to hurry.”
“So he has another name,” I say. “Mother Goose.”
“And one-who-saws,” she says. She’s unlocking our bikes, which are hooked together.
“And one-who-swims, AKA Swimmer Boy.”
She untangles her bike from the rack and gives me the look: we’re in a hurry. I get serious, grab my steed, and jump on.
The ride from south Austin to Hyde Park takes a good half hour, but we are fast. The exercise feels great, the steady pumping of the pedals, the hot humid wind in my hair, the satisfaction of propelling myself forward with my own power.
Kale sets the pace. Her dark curls trail out behind her like streamers from her helmet.
As we pass downtown, the capitol building, and head up through the university, I’m reminded that my poor sweet father is sitting in that courtroom, probably right now, with his lawyer and the lawyer’s assistants, and they are doing their best to defend him against a crime he is psychologically incapable of committing. At some point, they’ll call me as a witness. The lawyer (one who laws?) says it could be many months or even as long as a year. I am the kind of witness the defense saves for when they really need me. I try to send my dad a good vibe as I cruise past. My thoughts turn to Swimmer Boy, Sawyer, what a nice name, and then to nachos, and back and forth, equally delicious.
