The Art of Not Breathing(42)

She says whatever as though it might mean something sordid. I try not to think of her and Dillon. Until a few weeks ago, I had been wondering about doing whatever with Tay over the summer. I feel hot just thinking about it. And then I think of Danny and feel even hotter. Frankie jumps in and saves me.

“Elsie and I are making plans to go rockpooling. Aren’t we, Elsie?”

The appalled look on Lara’s face makes me smile, and suddenly rockpooling is exactly what I want to do. If anything because it might cool me down.

“Yes, we were,” I say, mimicking her hair flick, which doesn’t really work because my hair is too curly and too heavy. “Why don’t you come?”

Now Frankie’s face falls, but he can’t have everything his own way. Either Lara comes with us or I don’t go at all. I don’t want Frankie getting the wrong idea. Lara isn’t too bad, really, just a bit skinny. And Frankie, well, I owe him, I guess. We make plans for the next day because I want to get it over with, and then, finally, school is out.





7



I WAKE UP FEELING FREE. NO SCHOOL. NO AILSA. THIS IS THE start of two months of nothing but diving. Before I get out of bed, I hold my breath for three minutes and ten seconds. Soon, very soon, I will make it to four minutes. I’m nearly ready for the drop-off. I shuffle along the corridor to Dillon’s bedroom and stick my head around his door. His room smells of vomit and aerosol. Dillon stirs. His feet stick out the end of his bed, twitching.

“Dil, are you awake?”

He groans, and I wander over to the window where Eddie’s bed used to be. The cemetery is in full view, and some of the shiny headstones glint in the sun, winking at me as though they want me to go down. I turn away.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead.”

“Go away,” Dillon growls. “I’m asleep.” He kicks the duvet into the air and moves his feet back inside the bed.

“But it’s the holidays.”

“Exactly,” he mumbles.

“I’m going rockpooling later with Lara and Frankie. Do you want to come?”

Dillon lifts his head above the duvet and stares at me. He looks even worse than he did yesterday, with cracked lips and gray skin. I feel myself recoil slightly. He could be an extra in a zombie movie.

“It’ll be fun,” I say. “We’re going to look for crabs.”

“That sounds exciting. Why are you going with her?”

Because she asked; so I can pretend to be normal; because it’s a decoy from what I’m really getting up to this holiday.

“Because there’s nothing else to do, and for some reason your girlfriend wants to be my friend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Dillon stretches and sits up in his bed. His greasy hair is stuck to his forehead.

“Well, she seems to think she is. I mean, she says she doesn’t care about you anymore, but I don’t believe her.”

He laughs lazily, as though he’s too tired to do it properly. “That girl’s got issues.”

“Well, if you’re breaking up with her, then I’m not doing your dirty work for you.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he replies. “Right—get out of my room so I can get dressed.”

He flings a dirty sock in my direction.

As I leave, something green lodged behind the wardrobe catches my eye. An old cuddly toy of mine—Jasper the frog. I pull him loose and shake him in the hallway, and the dust hovers for a moment in the landing before tumbling down the staircase.





In the kitchen after breakfast, I show Mum the finished sailboat. It’s so hot today that the heat has even made its way inside our house, warming all the surfaces. I hold the boat in the palm of my hand while she inspects it, running her fingers along the smooth wood. She blows a piece of hair off her face and wipes sweat from her forehead.

“You really made this?” The awe in her voice makes me feel proud.

The sails curve out as though the wind is pushing against them, and a tiny model of me is gazing out over the steering wheel. I show her how the sails have string so they can be cast up and down, and she continues to coo over it.

“It’s even waterproof,” I tell her.

“You should test it out, Elsie. See if it floats!”

Her cheeks are flushed. She leans across the sink to open the windows and tries to waft air inside.

“I have an idea,” I say, placing the boat on the sideboard. “The wading pool.”

She sucks in a breath and I think she’s going to cry, but then she smiles.

“That’s a great idea,” she says softly. The smile stays on her face, but I notice the tiny tremble in her jaw.

The three of us drag the wading pool into the garden. It hasn’t been used for years, and Dillon is convinced it’s got a hole in it. He gets his bicycle repair kit and puts his head to the rubber, listening for air. Mum unravels the hose and starts filling the pool as Dillon and I take turns blowing air into the valves. It takes ages because Dillon keeps stopping to check for punctures. At least that’s what he says. I keep a close eye on him, hoping that I don’t have to call an ambulance at any point. I don’t know how much longer I can keep his illness a secret.

Eventually, the pool is full of water and not leaking. Somehow it already has grass and dead leaves floating in it. The bottom is creased from its years of scrunched-up storage, but it still looks inviting in this heat.