The Art of Not Breathing(25)

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” I shout at him. “It makes them worse.” I keep fighting the tears and my nose tingles. While he picks up the broken plastic, I turn the lathe off before he can do any more damage, then turn my back on him.

By the end of lunchtime I have a new mast. It’s not as good as the first one, but I won’t let them get to me. I put the mast in my bag for safekeeping. I tell myself that one day I’ll have a real boat and I’ll be off exploring. I don’t yet know where I want to explore, but maybe there are some undiscovered islands in the North Sea. Maybe I’ll find another place like the Black Isle, with beaches, otters, and a boathouse. The difference will be that no one will know who I am.

Next week, in class, I’ll make new sails, and they will be bigger, better, and stronger, and they will carry me wherever I need to go.





7



DILLON HAS STARTED TO DO FITNESS CIRCUITS IN THE GARDEN. He runs around the perimeter, then hangs on the crooked branch of the apple tree to do pull-ups. His mouth stretches wide in a grimace, and the veins in his forehead pop out when he does this. He manages five, then falls to a heap amid the tangled roots and weeds. He lies there panting on his back before he hauls himself into pushup position and pumps up and down, grunting with every push.

I slowly walk toward him and stop at his head. It’s nearly dark, and the security light comes on, lighting up the sweat beads on his forehead. Dillon’s arms tremble as he heaves himself up. He yelps like a girl when he sees me.

“Jeez. You really should stop spying on people,” he says, collapsing again into the grass.

“I wasn’t spying. Mum wants to know if you want any dinner.”

Dillon shakes his head and presses his hands into his stomach.

“I had dinner at Lara’s,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows at him, and he raises his back.

“Speaking of you spying on me,” he says, changing the subject. “Why were you at the party last weekend? You shouldn’t be out that late.”

“Why is it okay for you to go to the party and not me?”

“Because I’m older,” he says. The way he says it reminds me of how I used to say that to Eddie, as an answer for why I could do things that he couldn’t, hoping he wouldn’t understand that being a few minutes older wouldn’t make a difference. I feel a pang of guilt. Perhaps it did make a difference, though. If Eddie had been born first, he might not have stopped breathing.

“Lara is younger than me, and you took her to the party.”

“That’s different. I was there to look after her.”

Dillon struggles to his feet and brushes the grass from his shorts. He looks scrawny and childlike. It’s chilly out here, and I don’t like being so close to the cemetery. Just as I’m looking at the gate that leads to it, it opens and my father wanders into the garden. He looks at us both through teary eyes, then wanders inside.

“Do you remember what Dad was holding in his hands the day we lost Eddie? Something blue. I think he must have got it when he disappeared from the beach.”

Dillon’s mouth twitches. “Els, don’t hang around with strange boys, okay?”

“We’re just friends,” I say.

“Promise me?”

I nod. I’m not going to tell him that in my pocket is a note from Tay that I found at the boathouse. It says, “Meet me at the harbor at six a.m. Thursday.” Tomorrow. There was a wetsuit with the note, but it looked too small, so I left it. I don’t need Dillon to answer my questions, because the answers are in the water.

My first-ever secret rendezvous with a boy. I make sure I find my waterproof mascara before I go to bed. I stay awake for most of the night, feeling the butterflies in my stomach. At about three in the morning I hear Dillon having a nightmare. I stand in his doorway watching him thrash about, like he’s trying to grab something above his head.

“You let him go,” he cries in his sleep.

The butterflies are going crazy, and so are the maggots in my throat. Dillon is screaming at me in his dream. I watch him until he stops, then crawl back to bed and wait for morning.





8



“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” TAY ASKS WHEN HE SEES ME IN DILLON’S WETSUIT.

We stand on the harbor wall at six a.m., getting soaked in the drizzle and morning fog. It gets light early in the mornings now, but even though it’s daylight, everything is dark gray. The Black Isle has no color today. The only sign that it’s the beginning of summer is the swarm of midgies around my head. They love the damp weather, and there’s no breeze to shoo them away.

As rain pours from my nose and eyelashes, Tay kneels in front of me and pulls at the worn fabric, trying to hitch it up my legs.

“It’s full of f*ckin’ holes, Elsie. Where did you get it from?”

“It’s my brother Dillon’s. He doesn’t use it anymore.”

“Ah.” He lets go of me and stands up. He looks toward the road and shivers.

“You okay?”

He continues to look over my shoulder.

“Does Dillon know you’re here? He looked the protective type.”

I’m not sure about that. Dillon is thin and gentle. I don’t think anyone would describe him as “protective.” Not in a physical way, anyway.