The Art of Not Breathing(32)

“Come on, El,” he says into my neck. “Let’s go to the boathouse and warm up.”

I love how he just called me El—I feel so much older.

On the way back to Fortrose, I try to ask Tay for diving tips, but he ignores my questions and tells me about all the different rocks that can be found on the Black Isle.

“Did you see all the different-colored layers?” he says, pointing to the shoreline. “There’s sandstone, black shale, limestone. Sandstone is what the Pictish people used to carve their sculptures. If you look carefully on the beach, you can sometimes find bits of their artwork. You can find fossils, too.”

“Why are there so many layers?” I ask, feigning interest.

Tay kicks a pebble. “The passing of time, I guess. Earthquakes causing the land to shift. Do you ever think about all the people who’ve walked along this beach before you?”

“Not really,” I say. “Isn’t that a bit morbid?”

“No. It’s history. It’s amazing what you can find on the beach if you look hard enough.”

“And under the water?”

“Yes, but most of the interesting stuff ends up on the beach.”

He bends down to pick up a small flat black rock. “See? It’s a fossil.”

“Why don’t you like talking about diving?” I ask him. “Especially when you’re so good at it.”

Immediately I feel annoyed at myself for giving him a compliment, but at the same time I want to know.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Tay says. “I don’t need to talk about it. It’s just something I do, like breathing.”

I grin. “You mean it’s like not breathing.”

He smiles slowly at me, like he’s just realizing something.

“You’re right. And I’m glad I get to not breathe with you.”





Later, I lie on my bed with my palms facing out. I slowly breathe in over five seconds and hold, then breathe out over ten seconds. After five goes, I feel dizzy and sleepy but it passes. I take a big breath in and count to a hundred and twenty. It was easy. I do it again; I count to a hundred and forty. I do it again; I count to one fifty. I do it again; I count to one forty. I do it again; I count to one thirty-nine. I lose count. I wonder how many seconds it would take to get to forty-three meters.





13



THE BOATHOUSE IS MY SECOND HOME. I MEET TAY MOST DAYS after school to dive or just hang out. Now that summer is well on its way, it stays light late into the evening, and it’s hard to remember to go home. Sometimes we see Danny, and I wave to show he can’t get to me. He never waves back, and Tay moves me along and tells me to ignore him. Sometimes we pop in to see Mick, but he’s usually too busy to talk to us. He still makes the best hot chocolate, though, and there’s always a good selection of diving magazines to thumb through.

Every time we go into the water, I push myself to go a little bit deeper, and the thrill of it fills me with adrenaline and makes me want to go deeper still. Ten meters, then twelve, then fourteen, then sixteen, and finally eighteen. Sometimes Tay comes down with me; other times he hovers near the surface and then comes down to pull me up when he thinks I’m down too long. If he can’t meet me, he leaves me little notes about diving. They’re amazing, full of tips on how to increase my lung capacity, drawings (of me!) demonstrating how to do dolphin kicks and frog kicks, how to reserve my energy. What to do in an emergency—release my weights and kick for the surface. A list of things to remember: 1. Be confident. 2. Never dive alone. 3. Let your mind control your body. There aren’t any tips on how to go deeper, though. I don’t understand why Tay isn’t interested in that. Especially as Mick told me that Tay can go the deepest out of anyone. At school I create my own bubble to hide in. I barely listen in my classes. I hide Tay’s notes inside my textbooks and read them instead. I haven’t done any studying for my exams, but I don’t even care.





I’m smiling at a picture Tay has drawn of me in the lotus position with a speech bubble coming out of my mouth saying, “Tay is the best teacher,” when I feel something hit my ear. Then an elastic band flies past me and falls by my feet. I do my best to ignore it, but when the bell goes, I am surrounded.

“What you got there?” Ailsa grabs the drawing and shows everyone, then tears it into tiny pieces.

“None of your business,” I say.

Ailsa grabs my hair, and one of her sidekicks stamps on my foot.

“I know you put the rotten fruit in my bag,” she hisses. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with it.”

When she pulls her hand away, she takes a clump of my hair with it. It hurts so much, I want to cry, but I do not cry at school. It’s Lara who comes to my rescue.

“Leave her alone,” she says. “Find someone else to bother.”

Ailsa stares at Lara, open-mouthed, and then pushes her to the side.

“Well, you would stick up for your pathetic little boyfriend’s sister, wouldn’t you?” And she marches off with her sidekicks in tow.

Lara doesn’t move. I don’t want to, but I force myself to say thank you to her because it’s polite. Then I realize she only did it because she wants to talk to me about Dillon.