The Art of Not Breathing(22)

“I know. Mick said he saw you sneaking around.”

Damn. I should have been more careful.

“I wasn’t sneaking. I’ve been going to the harbor since long before you turned up.”

“I know.”

“Good. Glad you know.”

“Fine.”

“So, what have you been up to, then?” I ask

“Why?”

“Just asking. You know, making conversation, like people do.”

“Not much. This and that.”

I sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

This isn’t going well. I don’t know why we’re acting like we’ve had some kind of fight.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, then why did you come up here?” I ask.

“Easy,” he says, putting his hand on my arm, smiling. His eyes soften, and I instantly dissolve. How can this person who is so difficult to talk to make me feel like liquid inside?

“I came to see if you were okay. After your suicide mission. I would have called, but I don’t have your number.”

“I don’t have a number,” I say. “I mean, I don’t have a mobile phone.”

“Phones are for losers,” Tay says, not missing a beat. He pulls his mobile from his pocket and lobs it toward the sea: a second later, it makes a small splash. I stare at him open-mouthed.

“Did you just throw away your phone?”

“Aye. Got no one to call. So, are you okay?

“Well, I’m fine, no thanks to you,” I reply, pretending I’m still annoyed, but also wondering if he just threw away an expensive phone—if he did it to impress me, or whether he always does crazy stuff like this.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d jump,” he says.

The smoke from his joint gets in my throat. We sit in silence for a bit, and I watch Dillon and Lara. She is practically on top of him, kissing his neck. And then I notice Ailsa staring at him with a fat bottom lip. Everyone fancies Dillon. There must be something about him. Something that I don’t have. There’s a break in the music, and I hear the faint shushing sound of the sea washing over the pebbles. The wind is giving me a headache, and I feel a bit sleepy. I yawn loudly.

“Cold-water shock,” Tay says.

“What?” I feel alert again.

“You have tiny temperature receptors in your face. When your face hits cold water, your heart rate slows down and your blood vessels shrink. Your body saves oxygen for your heart and brain and stops you inhaling. That’s what happened when you jumped.”

“Oh, great. You could have told me before I jumped,” I reply.

But his explanation sounds familiar. I think I read something about this once when I was doing some biology homework. The human body—the only interesting thing we learn about at school. I did a project about babies and how they can survive extreme conditions. Like being in cold water.

“The mammalian reflex?” I ask, impressed that the phrase has come back to me. “That’s what helps otters and dolphins stay under the water for so long.”

Tay grins at me as he unfolds himself and stretches his long legs out.

“Exactly,” he says. “It’s just that us humans aren’t so good at it.”

He scoots a bit closer, and then he looks at me intensely, making me nervous.

“Look, I really am sorry,” he says. “There’s something I should tell you.”

God. Here it comes. He’s about to tell me that he knows who I am and that he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I feel a huge weight of disappointment roll around in my stomach. I’m going to kill Danny, if I get the chance.

“Sure, fire away,” I instruct, resigned, ready to jump up and walk away.

He looks at the ground while he talks.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to jump,” he starts. “But—and I feel really bad about this—when you jumped, I was actually quite pleased. I thought, hey, this girl’s got balls.”

“Balls?” I repeat, not quite sure where this is going.

“Yeah, you know, courage.”

“I know what ‘balls’ means.”

“Okay. Well, that’s all I wanted to say.”

What? This guy has the weirdest conversation style. Part of me wonders if it’s down to the drugs. Or perhaps he just doesn’t like talking. I wouldn’t mind if he wanted to sit here in silence—it would stop me saying something stupid.

“I had laryngitis for a year,” I say, hoping he’ll interpret what I’m trying to say—that he doesn’t have to talk.

“Aye?” Tay’s ears twitch and he puts his hand on his throat and gently strokes it.

“I didn’t speak a word to anyone except my brother for nearly twelve months.”

Tay nods. He seems to understand.

“Any other medical problems I should know about?” he asks, smiling.

“No, you?” I ask straight back.

He laughs loudly. “Sometimes my shoulder dislocates all by itself. But other than that, I’m a normal, healthy seventeen-year-old boy.” He carries on laughing, and I frown at him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m laughing so much. Sometimes I laugh for no reason. It’s an affliction. Anyway, you never gave us your verdict the other day.”