uncovered.
Every year when school lets out for summer, to reward those of us who have been what the Sisters deem “good,” a four-day trip to a nearby mountain camp is organized. I’ve always loved the trip for the same reason I love the cave that sits hidden in the opposite direction. It’s an escape-a rare opportunity to spend four days swimming in the huge lake nestled in the mountains, or a chance to hike, to sleep beneath the stars, to smell the fresh air away from the musty corridors of Santa Teresa. It is, in essence, a chance to act our age. I’ve even caught some of the Sisters laughing and smiling when they think nobody’s looking.
In the lake, there’s a floating dock. I’m a horrible swimmer, and for many summers I just sat and watched from shore while the others laughed and played and did flips off the dock into the water. It took a couple summers of practicing alone in the shallow water, but the summer of my thirteenth year, I finally learned an imperfect and slow doggy paddle that kept my head above water. It got me to the dock, and that was enough for me.
At the dock, the game is to try to push each other off it. Groups team up until they’re the only ones left, and then it’s every girl for herself. As the biggest and strongest at Santa Teresa, I used to think it’d be an effortless victory for La Gorda, but it rarely is; she’s often outsmarted by the smaller, more wily girls, and I don’t think anyone has won as many times as a girl named Bonita.
I didn’t want to play
“Play the game or go back to shore,” Bonita says, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
I climb back up and rush straight towards her. I shove her as hard as I can, and she falls backwards and crashes into the lake.
I don’t hear La Gorda behind me, and suddenly two strong hands shove me hard from behind. My feet slip on the wet wood, and the side of my head and shoulder smack against the edge of the dock, clouding my vision with stars. I’m knocked unconscious for a second, and when my eyes open I’m underwater. I see nothing but darkness and instinctively kick upward, flailing my arms to reach the surface. But my head smacks against the bottom of the dock, and I realize there are only a few inches of space between the water and the wooden boards of the dock. I try to tilt my head backwards to put my nose and mouth above the surface, but water instantly laps into my nostrils. I panic, my lungs already burning. I scramble to the left but there’s nowhere to go; I’m trapped by the dock’s plastic barrels. Water fills my lungs while the absurdity of death by drowning pops into my head. I think of the others, how their ankles are about to be seared. Will they believe that Number Three has been killed, or will they somehow know it’s me? Will it burn differently than if I’d died at the hands of the Mogadorians instead of my own stupidity? My eyes slowly close and I begin to sink. Just as I feel the last stream of bubbles escape my lips, my eyes snap open, and an odd sort of calm sweeps in. My lungs are no longer burning.
I’m breathing.
The water tickles my lungs, but at the same time satisfies every desperate need I have to breathe, and that’s when I know I’ve discovered my second Legacy: the ability to breathe underwater. I’ve found it only because I was pushed to the brink of death.
I don’t want to be found just yet by the girls diving into the water looking for me, so I let myself drift down to the deep bottom, the world slowly fading to black until my feet finally sink into the cold mud. I can see through the brown, murky water once my eyes adjust. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Finally the girls swim away from the dock. I assume the lunch bell’s been rung. I wait until I’m absolutely sure they’ve all left, then I walk slowly along on the lake’s bottom towards shore, my feet sinking into the mud as I inch forward. After a while the icy water begins to warm and brighten and the mud segues to rocks and then to sand, and finally my head emerges. I listen to the girls, La Gorda and Bonita included, scream and splash towards me in relief. I take inventory of myself on shore, noticing a gash on my shoulder is bleeding, leaving a trail of blood down my arm in the shape of a subtle
The Sisters make me sit the rest of the afternoon at a picnic table under a tree, but I didn’t mind. I had another Legacy.
In the bathroom, Ella catches me watching the toothpaste run down her arm in the mirror. She looks embarrassed, and as she tries to replicate the way I brush my teeth, even more frothy toothpaste pours from her mouth.
“You’re like a bubble factory,” I say with a smile, grabbing a towel to clean her up.
We leave the bathroom as the others are arriving, dress quickly in the room and walk out of it as the others are coming in, keeping just ahead of the group, as I prefer to do. We grab our lunches from the cafeteria and head out into the cold morning. I eat my apple on the walk to school. Ella does the same. I’m about ten minutes early today, which will give me a little time to get on the internet to see if there’s anything new about John Smith. The thought of him makes me smile.
“Why are you smiling? Do you like school?” Ella asks. I look over at her. The half-eaten apple looks big in her small hand.
“It’s a nice morning, I guess,” I say. “And I have good company today.”
We walk through town as street vendors set up shop. The snow hasn’t melted and is piled along both sides of Calle Principal, but the road itself is clear. Up ahead on the right Hector Ricardo’s front door opens, and out comes his mother in a wheelchair, being pushed by Hector. She’s had Parkinson’s disease for a very long time. She’s been in a wheelchair for the last five years, and she’s been unable to speak for the last three. He positions her in a sliver of sunlight and applies her wheel brakes. While the sun seems to bring her some comfort, Hector slinks away and sits in the shade, dropping his head.
“Good morning, Hector,” I call out. He lifts his head and squints one eye open. He waves with a shaky hand.
“Marina, as of the sea,” he croaks. “The only limits of tomorrow are the doubts we have today.”
I stop and smile. Ella stops, too.
“That’s one of your better ones.”
“Don’t doubt Hector; he has a few nuggets left,” he says.
“Are you doing okay?”
“Strength, confidence, humility, love. Hector Ricardo’s four tenets of a happy life,” he says, which makes no sense whatsoever considering the question I asked, but it makes me feel good anyway. He turns his gaze on Ella. “And who’s this little angel?”
Ella grabs my hand and hides behind me.
“Her name is Ella,” I say, looking down at her. “This is Hector. He’s my friend.”
“Hector is one of the good guys,” he says, though Ella remains behind me.
He waves at us as we walk the rest of the way to school.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I ask her.
“I have Senora Lopez’s class,” she says, smiling.
“Ahh, you’re a lucky girl. I had her, too. She’s one of the good ones in this town, like Hector,” I say.
I’m devastated; all three of the school computers are occupied, a trio of younger girls from town are desperately trying to finish a science assignment, their fingers flying across the keyboards. I coast through the day, keeping to myself as one thing runs through my mind. John Smith, on the run in America, somehow staying ahead of the law, and I’m stuck here, in Santa Teresa, an old, moldy town where nothing happens. I’d always thought I’d leave when I turned eighteen. But now that John Smith is out there, being hunted, I know I have to leave as soon as I can, to join him. The only question now is how to find him.
My last class is Spanish history. The teacher drones on about General Francisco Franco and the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s. I tune her out and instead write in my notebook about John, what I know based on the most recent article I read.
