The Art of Not Breathing(9)

My stock needs replenishing. I unwrap the last Mars bar and eat it as slowly as possible, trying to remember the details of the flashing images I saw at the Point, wondering if they contain any new information about what happened the day Eddie disappeared.





It’s not that I don’t know what happened—I remember the whole day—it’s just that there are a few black spots in my memory. I can’t remember what Eddie and I were talking about right before he disappeared—our last conversation together, his last conversation ever. And the moments after I realized he was gone are hazy. During the Laryngitis Year, I tried to work it all out—I even drew maps of the Point and tried to place everyone, but I ended up more confused. I don’t know why my brain wants to remember now, but I think it must be something to do with Eddie being around so much.

I make a list of the facts.



THINGS I KNOW ABOUT THAT DAY:



Dillon was swimming with the dolphins.



Eddie and I were wading close to shore.



One minute Eddie was there, and then he was gone.



Dad was on the beach, but I couldn’t see him.



Mum was at home baking. She arrived later after the police called her.



I collapsed and Dad came to get me.



All my memories are tinged with a blue haze.





I remember the morning. We opened our birthday presents after breakfast. Eddie got a remote control helicopter, which he crashed within a couple of minutes, and I got a new football, a real leather one. It was a bit drizzly and windy outside, so we dribbled it around the living room until Eddie smashed a glass on the coffee table and Mum got really cross. Eddie had a tantrum because he didn’t want to wear the blue T-shirt. Blue wasn’t his favorite color anymore, but his red T-shirt had a big rip in it. And then Mum told Dad to take us to Rosemarkie beach to get us all out of her hair.

Rosemarkie is the village next to Fortrose—it’s beautiful and old and has the best beach and the best ice cream on the Black Isle. But Eddie really wanted to go to Chanonry Point to see the dolphins. Dillon was on Eddie’s side because he liked swimming around the Point—the strong currents were good practice apparently, and he had a swimming competition coming up that he was determined to win. Dillon was already the Black Isle 1-km open-water champion—he wanted to be the Highlands champion too.

We were just leaving when the phone rang. Dad answered it, and it was my friend Emily’s mum saying Emily was too sick to come to our party later. I got in the car in a sulk and no longer cared about the ice cream. It was too cold anyway.





After a little while of sitting and remembering, I wonder if anyone at home has noticed that I’m not there. Sometimes I feel invisible, like a wisp of air that tickles the back of someone’s neck before they close the window to block the draft.

I’m about to head home when the panel door creaks open. I hold my breath and move back into the corner. It better not be my dad.

“Hello?” a voice calls from outside.

The voice is young.

“Someone in here?”

Then a face appears. A boy with floppy brown hair and a bit of stubble. He has a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“Ah, I knew there was someone in here.” He climbs through the panel and walks toward me. My pulse races as I start to gather my things.

“Don’t leave on my account,” he says, and sits beside me, stretching his long legs out along the concrete floor. The bottoms of his black jeans are scuffed, and when I see the sunglasses in his hand, I realize he’s the boy in the hoodie from the boat.

“Who are you?” I ask, hoping the quiver in my voice isn’t too obvious.

He lights up, and it’s not just a cigarette. The space between us fills with a fog, and the fumes get in the back of my throat, sickly and sweet.

“Tavey McKenzie,” he says as he exhales. “Call me Tay. You like to smoke?” He holds the joint out to me, smiling. His arm presses against mine, and my raincoat rustles. I wish I’d taken it off earlier—I’m suddenly really hot and now I can’t seem to move.

I’ve never smoked a joint before, but the other S4s smoke behind the school field all the time. They are much nicer to me in the afternoon, patting me on the shoulder, smiling, and sometimes even offering me a cigarette. I never take one, though. I don’t want to owe anyone.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, and reach out my hand. I think about how I’m going to get out of here.

He doesn’t look like the boys at my school. They have styled and gelled hair; this boy’s hair is messy and long and hangs down over his ears. They have smooth round faces; this boy has a rectangular face with dark stubble. I wouldn’t describe him as good-looking, but he does have nice brown eyes and really long eyelashes that I can’t help but stare at. He reminds me of a boy I saw on a documentary about youth prisons a few months ago. Even though the boy in the prison had been in a fight that ended badly (really badly), I remember feeling sorry for him because I knew he’d been misunderstood. I recognized the furrowed brow of the prison boy—the same furrow I see every morning in the mirror. Tay has this look too, like the world just doesn’t get him.

I suck on the joint and get a faint taste of strawberries. Strawberry lip balm. I wonder if he’s just been kissing his girlfriend. My throat tightens and I try not to choke. Discreetly, I shuffle away from him so we’re no longer touching but watch him out of the corner of my eye. I want to show him I’m not afraid, and that I meet people like him all the time.