The Impossible Knife of Memory(81)

“You noticed that, huh?”

The voices in locker room faded. Metal lockers slammed.

“Chelsea didn’t show up for Thanksgiving,” he said. “Mom cried all day. Dad went for a drive that lasted seven hours. How about you?”

“We didn’t have Thanksgiving.” Could he hear my heart pounding?

The locker room had grown so quiet that the only sounds were the buzzing of the overhead lights, and water lapping against the sides of the pool. Finn cupped a handful of water and splashed it over my toes.

“It’s warm,” I said.

“There’s a water aerobics class here in an hour; they get wicked upset if the water is below eighty. Ever had a bunch of scary old ladies wearing swimming caps with plastic flowers on them yell at you? Terrifying.” He splashed more water over my feet. “So. Why are you here, Miss Blue?”

I took a deep breath. “Remember that day at the quarry? When you went to the edge? I never paid off that bet. And,” I pointed my toes and drew a circle in the puddle I was standing in, “I don’t know how much longer we’re going to stay here. Everything’s changing and, well, I thought I’d tell you that I always pay up when I lose. And your damn phone is turned off or you blocked me or something, and so I decided to come over and tell you in person.”

“That you’re going to pay off the bet?” He seemed almost surprised.

“Yeah.”

The water lapped at the edge of the pool.

“What’s your bra size?”

“Excuse me?”

He stared at my boobs. “Thirty-six B? Or maybe C. They don’t make a B-plus, do they? I wonder why.”

Instead of waiting for an answer he pushed himself up and out of the pool (warm water running down his chest, his abs, dear God, those abs) and walked into the office. I reviewed the conversation, trying to figure out how it had gone off course so badly, but before I could, he emerged holding a girl’s bathing suit in each hand.

“No time like the present,” he said.





_*_ 85 _*_

I am so not a thirty-six C. Not a thirty-six B, either, but I decided it was better to have the suit too tight than to have it falling off me, so I put on the B, tugging at the bottom of it until my butt was more or less covered. As long as I didn’t stand up straight I’d be fine.

Finn stood next to the ladder in the shallow end. “Looks good on you.”

“Close your eyes,” I said.

“So you can run away?”

“Just close them.” I stepped down the ladder quickly. The water wasn’t as warm as I thought it would be. I bounced, arms crossed over my chest. “Okay, I’m in. Can I get out now?”

He chuckled, “No, you goof. You’re going to learn to swim. We’ll start with floating on your back.”

“I don’t float. I sink.”

“All right.” He moved behind me. “I’m going to put my hands on your shoulder blades. Lean into them. I promise I won’t drop you.”

He put his hands on my back. I hesitated (What am I doing here?), then let my weight fall toward him. He took a step backward and pulled me along quickly, much faster than I was ready for. My feet flew up and it felt like my head was going under the water. I jackknifed, trying to stand up and get my feet under me again. I grabbed the edge of the pool and held on for dear life while coughing so hard, I expected both of my lungs to come flying out of my mouth.

“Told you.” I coughed some more and adjusted the mother of all wedgies. “I’m hopeless.”

“You’re scared, not hopeless. There’s a big difference. Don’t move.”

He hopped out of the pool, took a kickboard off the pile by the office door, and turned on the radio. Soft saxophone music filled the air. He hit a couple of light switches and most of the lights went out. A piano played under the sax, with a gentle drum in the background, but as nice as it was, it didn’t change the fact that I was in a swimming pool and I did not like it.

“Half an hour,” he said. “That’s all I need.”

“You’ll get five minutes if you’re lucky,” I muttered.

He dove in without a splash and popped up right in front of me. “I heard that.”

He maneuvered the kickboard under my back and, taking my shoulders, began to pull me across the water, slower this time.

“How deep is the deep end?” I asked, trying desperately not to think about the fact that my feet touched nothing.

“Three meters,” he said.

“I don’t want to go there.”

“Kick your feet a little,” he said. “Flutter them and they won’t drag you down.”

He was right, though I didn’t admit it. Couldn’t because all my energy went into keeping my face above water and breathing. Finn babbled on and on and on, walking me back and forth, back and forth across the shallow end, my feet fluttering, until my arms softened and I let them float out a little from my body instead of holding them stiffly at my sides.

Finn put his hand under the back of my head and gently lifted it a little so that I could hear him. “You’re doing great,” he said. “Now close your eyes.”

“Why?” I asked, immediately suspicious.

“Close them and picture something, maybe the stars we saw the night of the football game. Or the marching band. I don’t know, whatever makes you happy.”