My lips part, but I don’t know what to say, and then Sienna jumps in. “As if Lexi’s invited.”
“I’m busy anyways,” I say, but my voice comes out more hollow and sad than I’d anticipated.
Cole’s eyes soften and he starts to open his mouth, but I’m saved from his words of pity by the teacher. “You? In the middle? Did you have a question on the grading system?”
My breath catches. “Oh. Uh, no, I think I figured it out. Sorry.”
Then I turn back to coloring in the waves, trying to think about the lake tonight and not Sienna’s party. I wouldn’t go, anyway, so why do I care? I have to go swimming.
Cole better not be at my lake. I can’t take another day of agony like this. I need the water like I need air.
When I get home that night, I sink onto the couch, letting out a long slow sigh of relief. I thought today would never end. It’s still several hours until dusk, but it feels good to be home, where I don’t have to hang on to the facade. I’ve spent two years training myself to pretend I don’t care they all hate me, and it’s never gotten easier. These precious hours between school and dusk are the only time I can relax. Once the sun disappears and the moon rises, pulls on the tides—pulls on me—I have to go.
“How was your first day, sweetie?” My grandma walks out of the kitchen, holding a steaming mug with both hands. Tea. Her only addiction.
I sit up. “Good. Tough classes, but I’ll be fine.”
“You always are. I’m very proud of you, you know.” Gram sits down on her recliner and clicks the remote, turning off the television. “Are your friends in any of your classes?”
She takes a slow sip of her tea, staring at me over the lemonyellow mug with her eyebrows raised. These last two years, she’s picked up on the fact that something’s changed, but somehow, I’ve kept my biggest secret, even from her.
She is my father’s mother, and she’s totally normal, at least as far as I can tell. She doesn’t even know how to swim; she used to tell me stories about my father and his sailboat and how she refused to set foot on it until she had a life vest tied firmly around her.
And then one day he sailed away. I always imagined my dad would come back, eventually. That he’d realize it was stupid to leave us. But he never did. Never will.
So, since my Gram isn’t big on swimming, that means either I’m a total freak of nature or I got it from my mom. And I’m pretty sure I know which one it is. But my mom’s dead. I’ll never know for certain.
“Uh, yeah. Sienna is in my English class. Nikki and I have chemistry together.” I avoid looking at her and get to my feet. “Did you take your insulin today?” I ask. “What was your reading?”
Gram sets the mug down beside her. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much. That’s my job.”
I stand in the entry to the kitchen. “I’m not
“You set that blasted alarm. How could I forget? I nearly jump out of my chair every time it rings.”
I smile, then. “Okay. Good. I’m going to fix you up some more syringes. Want spaghetti for dinner?”
Gram nods, picking up the remote and clicking the television back on. “Sounds good.”
I open the fridge and pull out my grandmother’s bottle of insulin, then go to the cupboard and take out the box of syringes, a pair of scissors, and a roll of medical tape. I take them to the little dining room table, where my backpack is sitting. I reach into the small zippered pocket and pull out a laminated chart about the size of the average road map.
I lay the chart—the periodic table of elements—out on the table. I spent half the last month preparing for the start of my advanced chem class. We’re not required to memorize the periodic table of the elements, but I’m trying to anyway. I’m sure it will help me later.
Knowledge. Books. School. I fill up my head with these things, and it keeps me from going crazy. After staring at the table for a few minutes, I look away, repeating the elements over and over, whispering them under my breath.
The fifteenth row.
Carefully, I snip pieces of tape. Seven of them. I label them Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . . until the whole week is listed out. Then I take the syringes and load them with 40 cc of insulin. My grandmother’s daily dose. I label each syringe and then get up.
I’ve already forgotten the rest. I walk to the old, almond-colored fridge, dropping the syringes into the empty box on the top shelf. I stare into the fridge, tapping my nails on the door. Then I reach in and grab some Parmesan cheese and green peppers, my mind turning to the simpler things in life, the things I can control.
I chop the peppers while I bring the water to a boil, listening as
My feet are on fire, now, but it’s still too early to swim. I don’t understand why, but swimming while it’s still light out is pointless and unsatisfying. I glance up at the clock.
Three hours to go.
The drive to the lake is excruciatingly long. It’s a dozen miles outside town, which would take fifteen minutes to drive if the road were paved. Unfortunately, it’s gravel, a rutted, puddle-filled old logging road. My Toyota groans as I climb upward in the darkness, ancient cedar trees soaring out around me, the very trees our town was named for. A light sprinkle has picked up, and my wipers intermittently swipe across the dirty windshield.
The radio in my car doesn’t work, so I make the drive every night in silence, my only soundtrack the sounds of my tires crunching on the old gravel surface or the squeaking of the worn-out shocks. When I first started coming here, I used to think it was eerie, driving so far in the silent darkness. But I’ve grown used to it.
I park under a big fir tree, my car engulfed in shadows. Tonight, the moon is blotted out by the clouds, and a fine mist drizzles down as I step outside my car. I pull on an old fleece jacket and zip it up to my chin, then set out down the trail.
Even without a flashlight, I have no problem navigating the familiar path. Leaves and sticks crunch beneath my worn-out hiking boots. My knees ache as I climb over the trunk of a fallen pine tree. A few more minutes and the pain will go away.
Under the canopy of the evergreen forest, the rain disappears. I unzip my jacket a little and take in a few deep breaths. Looking up through the limbs of the trees, I spot the few stars that aren’t hidden by clouds. The slightly sweet, decaying scent of a fallen nurse tree greets me.
Finally, I emerge into the small clearing that surrounds my lake. The instant I see the water, my desire grows. After a night without swimming, it’s nearly impossible to keep myself from racing straight to the edge and diving in.
The rain drizzles down, moistening my skin when I step out from under the limbs. I pause at the edge of the shore and look around, straining to hear any snap of twigs or rustle of leaves, but I hear only the sound of the forest. I pull my clothes off and hang them on the same limb as always, and then I walk to the edge of the water. A frog picks up its chorus, and I sigh as I ease into the icy lake. The cool liquid laps at my ankles, and already the pain is melting away.
Maybe Cole didn’t like the lake. Maybe he’ll never come back.
I wade deeper, then dive into the freezing water when it reaches my waist. Immediately, the muscles in my limbs unwind, my back relaxes. The glacial water is like a warm bubble bath for my body. Everything that happened today is carried away with each kick, each paddle.
I always begin my swim with a few long underwater laps. I can handle nearly ten minutes under the surface, back and forth, before I need more air.
If someone were to see me at exactly the right angle, or if the moonlight hits me just right, they might be able to make out the shimmer of my skin, an almost iridescent glow as I glide through the water. I’m not like Ariel in
It’s different during the day. I can still hold my breath for a long time, but my skin doesn’t get slick, and I don’t get the same relief.
I wish I knew why I crave the water, why I am what I am. But I don’t. And I’m not sure I ever will. The only person who could have told me has been gone for six years. At the time my mother died, all I knew was that she’d
