Drowning Instinct

Page 23

 

  My eyes were probably as big around as saucers. ?What did you do??

  ?After my heart stopped? My other friend and I stayed on our boards and hauled ass, screaming our lungs out. ? At the expression on my face, his lips twisted in a grim smile. ?I don‘t have a death wish, but the reality is that a shark won‘t go for multiple targets. They‘re completely fixated. They‘re really remarkable engines of death. Besides, I had a knife. I always wore one just in case my kook cord got fouled. By the time we got there, the shark had Ken by one leg up to mid-thigh. ?

  Like that scene in the movie, where the shark has Quint. I shuddered.

  ?I think the only reason Ken didn‘t die was because that shark was still young. His mouth just wasn‘t quite big enough. Anyway, my other friend jabbed with Ken‘s board, and then I stabbed the shark right behind the dorsal fin and ripped. I guess if I‘d been in the water, I would‘ve gone for the eye, but . . . ? He ran a hand, wet from dishwater, through his hair. ?Anyway, the shark let go and then we tugged Ken out of the water and onto our boards. Blood was gushing from his leg. By that time the lifeguards were coming, but there was all that blood and you could see the color just draining out of Ken‘s face. So I grabbed my surf leash, slipped it onto his leg and cinched it down tight. That stopped the blood. The lifeguards finally got there, but there wasn‘t room in the Jet Skis for my friend and me. We watched them rooster-tailing it back to shore with Ken, and we‘re still in the water with all that blood. ?

  I gasped. ?Oh no. ?

  ?Oh yes. Maybe a minute later, I spotted these fins coming right for us, and I thought, oh boy, more sharks, we‘re gone. But that‘s when I realized they were bottlenoses. ?

  ?What did they do??

  ?The whole pod circled us and our boards, and then they followed us until we were in the shallows. Pods are always led by the dominant male, and I swear I saw one dolphin checking us out to make sure we made it. Once it saw we were safe, they left. And that,? he said, handing me the dripping omelet pan, ?is why I got interested in dolphins. ?

  ?Wow,? I said again. ?So why aren‘t you studying them now? Even if you were at Madison, you could‘ve found a way. ?

  ?Maybe. If I‘d been smart—as in brave. But I wasn‘t. I was pretty spooked after Japan. My dad was a chemical engineer and he wanted me in the family business. God, he threatened to cut me off I don‘t know how many times. He always said he was waiting for me to come to my senses and stop chasing dreams that could never pan out or earn me a living. . . . That kind of real destructive crap. To be honest, I think he was just as happy that the experience kind of . . . broke me, you know? A person can only stand so much pressure.

  So I did what he wanted. I came back home, changed my major to chemistry and then,? he said, dropping a rattling handful of wet cutlery onto the drain board, ?I got married. ?

  c

  By the time we made it back to Faring Park, the sun was nearly gone and the woods were black. Mine was the only car in the lot. As Mr. Anderson pulled up alongside, I unbuckled my seatbelt. ?Thanks for lunch and . . . for helping me. ? Then I blurted, ?I had a really good time. ?

  ?Me, too. ? In the failing light, I couldn‘t make out his expression, but he sounded sincere. ?So are we running tomorrow??

  My heart surged. ?Sure. ?

  ?Great. Nothing huge, though. We‘ll save huge for a couple days from now. How many tempo runs you done in the last month??

  ?None? I do mainly distance. ?

  ?That‘s not good. Endurance is great, but you ought to be doing tempo runs to improve your speed. How about we do that tomorrow? Say, forty-five minutes??

  Ah. The magic words: endurance, speed, tempo. I knew where he was going. Never too late to join the team, especially when your lead runner‘s having the crappiest season of her life. Well, why not? The season was two-thirds over; I needed the exercise; Danielle could suck it up. ?Okay. ?

  ?Excellent. I want to clock you at peak for a 5K. You do well with that, we‘ll go to an interval run day after. Of course, when school starts back up . . . ?

  ?I join the team for workouts. ?

  ?That‘s the idea. We‘ll move indoors when the really bad weather hits, but I run outside most days unless it‘s downright dangerous. If you want . . . ? He hesitated then continued, ?You could keep running with me. ?

  Was it my imagination, or did I hear a note of worry, that I might refuse? ?Okay. ?

  ?Good. ? He sounded the tiniest bit relieved. ?So, how about tomorrow morning?

  Early, like eight? I‘ll pick you up and we can have breakfast after. Promise, I won‘t cook.

  We‘ll go to a café I know. The pancakes are to die for. ?

  ?That would be great. ? I popped the door. The dome light flicked on, washing the interior of the Prius with light. Scooting out, I turned back to lift my pack from the footwell, except Mr. Anderson had bent and was already handing it up. Our gazes met. I don‘t know why, but we both went still. Neither of us looked away, and there was something there. I know he felt it because I saw some emotion chase across his face. My mouth had gone so dry, I had to slick my lips. ?Thanks again. Really. ?

  ?No. ? He let go of my pack. ?Thank you. ?

  He waited until I had my car started and then he followed, not turning off at his house the way I expected but staying with me all the way to the main road, like he wanted to be sure I got out okay, or that nothing happened. We met no other cars on the road and I went slowly, mindful of deer which would start moving around once the sun went down and the temperature fell. By the time I saw the sign for the interstate, it was full dark and the deer were out, their eyes bright as green coins in my headlights. Mr. Anderson honked once and then I watched in my rearview as his Prius swung around and headed back for his house. I slowed, watching the twin red eyes of his taillights until they were out of sight.

  Then, I got mad at myself. Like, okay, obsess much? Even so, as dumb as I felt, I kept glancing into my rearview, half-hoping he might magically appear.

  He didn‘t.

  But I kept hoping anyway.

  d

  Okay, sidebar.

  Yes, I knew what was happening to me. I had no idea what was in Mr. Anderson‘s head, but I‘m not completely clueless, Bob. I‘d been fighting against the feeling since that moment I saw Mr. Anderson bathed in sunlight, a demigod in khaki pants and Ralph Lauren. I might be weird, but I‘m not stupid. I knew—and I let it happen.

  And why?

  Because.

  Just . . . because.

  Okay, fine. Because I felt bad. Okay, Bob? My mother was a self-involved drunk, my father was a psycho-asshole used to getting his way and Matt . . . Matt was gone.

  I was alone. I was sweet sixteen, the age when a mermaid finds her prince. I believed in magic and love at first sight and fate. I was every girl who ever lived. So now I had an adventure all my own, a deliciously agonizing secret.

  Want to know how girls think, Bobby-o? Well, here‘s the inside scoop. It‘s the torture of not knowing that fuels a romance and that kind of pain is sweet, so sweet. It‘s the longing, stupid. Unrequited love is the best of all. Look at Shakespeare. He tells you, right up front, that Romeo and Juliet are star-crossed lovers. (You really want to get down to it, Romeo‘s first lines are all about getting into Juliet‘s panties. The boy has his priorities. ) You know it‘s not going to work out, but you root for those crazy kids anyway. They kiss, a lot, and she‘s fourteen. They finally get each other into bed and then, by nightfall of the following day? They‘re history. No morning breath for them or kids in diapers or Romeo dragging home after a hard day dueling. They get a taste of heaven and when they die, what you think is that, for them, one night of bliss was worth it.

  Here‘s what Will and Jane and Charlotte and all those writers knew, what every person who‘s ever fallen in love gets, Bob: nothing‘s ever as good as the build up to that first kiss. Obsession is an engine all its own, a torment of t
he most pleasant kind. The rest is just . . . a real letdown.

  Come to think of it, obsession— anticipation—is the glint of a razor, the wink of a knife poised above unblemished skin. The moment when you‘ve reached that proverbial fork in the road: cut, or not. Bleed. Or not.

  So, yeah, Bob, I was letting myself obsess. I‘d even had flashes of thinking about Mr. Anderson that way. When he kneaded my calf and then slipped his arm around my waist to help me back to his car, his touch was electric, his fingers fiery. My heart thumped harder; this wonderful zing buzzed in my chest. I understood why his food tasted so wonderful, why sharing the preparation was so intimate. Why I watched his hands as he washed the dishes, thinking how those hands might feel on me.

  You getting off, Bobby? Think it‘s going to get all graphic? Like I‘m going to make it fun for you? Hah. Keep dreaming. But thoughts like that? Yeah, I had them and they felt good. Mr. Anderson was a nice person; he had a great house; everyone liked him . . . and he wanted to spend time with me. Me. Yes, I knew this was partly some campaign to make sure I joined the team. Danielle said Mr. Anderson picked up strays, and I qualified. For all I knew, he had kids over to his house all the time.

  But what if I wasn‘t just a stray? The way he‘d rescued me from Dr. Kirby; that moment when our eyes met . . . What if the emotion I saw in his face wasn‘t simply a reflection of my own?

  What if. . . what if. . . what if. . . round and around and around. Push me, pull you.

  I didn‘t care. I liked how I felt because longing made me normal.

  Even if I felt kind of pathetic at the same time.

  29: a

  Hello, honey. Your father and I have decided to stay up here until the end of the week. We’re having such a relaxing time and it’s been forever since I went kayaking and hiking. . . .

  There‘d been seven calls, three from Mom but she‘d left only one message. Her voice was so bubbly, I almost didn‘t believe it was her.

  Anyway, you don’t have school, so you don’t really need us there, right? If you want to reach us, you can call my cell, or Dad’s. . . .

  Someone in the background now: my father, sounding as petulant and whiny as a little kid. Mom‘s voice suddenly muffled as she put her hand over the phone, but her laugh was flirty and buoyant as a girl‘s: Aren’t you tired out yet?