Underwater(17)

“I didn’t. It was only an idea I had. Something I wanted to try. When I showed up and you were wearing jeans, which is different for you, I was hopeful but still not sure. I was prepared for you to change your mind. But then you turned around to go back inside earlier, and I noticed you had a letter sticking out of your back pocket. And then I knew I was right. Without a doubt.”

I stand and stare at Brenda.

“Writing is a powerful thing, Morgan. I don’t know who that letter is for, but my guess is that writing it made you feel better. You should keep writing. Putting things down in words might help you to process them.”

She sounds really sure. She makes me believe it was a good idea.

After Brenda leaves I go to my room. I put the letter back in my top dresser drawer, saving it for another day.





chapter ten

Brenda was right. It feels good to write things down. I spend the rest of the afternoon on my bed, writing stuff in an old notebook. I write about things I want to remember. Short paragraphs that read like photographs.

I write about the first time I urged Ben underwater for half a second in a swimming pool when he was a year old. I write about the way his eyes bugged out when I pulled him back to the surface. He clung to me and I felt bad for scaring him. The summer after my freshman year, when I began teaching swim lessons at the community pool, I realized I went too fast. There are steps I should’ve taken to prepare him. Thankfully, by then, Ben swam like a fish. I was relieved I hadn’t made him afraid of the water.

I write about the way my mom and I used to drive around to garage sales when her belly was fat and full of Ben and my dad was in Afghanistan. Piece by piece, weekend by weekend, we found everything we needed for a new baby. My dad was excited for Ben to come, even though he wouldn’t be there for his birth. When we talked on the phone, he would tell me I was going to be the best big sister in the world.

“The key is to hold the baby so they can hear your heartbeat,” he told me. “That’s how I used to get you to sleep. And once you fell asleep, it was so peaceful and you were so sweet, I didn’t want to put you in your crib. So I’d hold you until I fell asleep, too.” He sighed. Wistful. “Sometimes all the way until morning.”

I write about what it feels like to tear down the lane of a swimming pool and how all the noise gets blocked out. I write about what it feels like to touch the wall at the end of a race and pop my head up to check my time on the scoreboard. I write about my mom cheering. I write about winning.

I write about people I used to know and how I used to be. When I was a friend of girls. And a girlfriend of boys.

And finally, I write a letter to Evan because I want to. I want to know him. My words are real. I have to say them. Because there are things about me he needs to understand if he’s going to know me. And they’re things I can’t imagine saying to his face. Not yet. Writing is safe. I tell him what happened and what I’m like now. I tell him I stay inside because I’m afraid. I tell him I’m working on it, but I don’t know if I’ll ever change. I tell him he’s the first person I’ve wanted to know in a very long time. I tell him things that are real and true, and I hope admitting them will make him come back, because the last eleven days of not seeing him have felt like a really long time.





chapter eleven

I decide to deliver my letter to Evan as soon as I’m done writing it. I’m eager to get it to him before I chicken out. I want to be someone Evan might like. Maybe it’s selfish to want that because liking me is a lot of work, but I think it’s brave, too. I open my front door. I peek out, craning my neck to see his front door. Even standing on my welcome mat, I’m too far to be able to reach his apartment. If I toss my letter over there, I might miss and risk it sailing through the slats of the balcony railing and into the pool. Evan has a welcome mat, too. It says ALOHA on it in rainbow colors. If only I could take a couple steps, I’d be able to stick my letter under it. Or I might even be able to secure it near the handle of the screen door. I visualize this. I breathe. I move my upper body forward, but my feet don’t follow. They can’t. Being out here alone is different from being out here with Brenda. Evan’s apartment is too far away. So I do the only thing I know how to do: I go back inside and lock my front door behind me.

*

That night, Ben rushes inside, practically plowing my mom down as she pulls her keys from the knob. He’s all flushed and panting, with his brown curls sticking to his sweaty head. He unzips his backpack and yanks out a red folder, shaking it in my face.

“Look! I’m in a play!”

He’s so excited, and it’s hard not to get caught up in it. I high-five him. “That’s so cool. What are you going to be?”

He wrinkles up his nose. “I’m a frog. But a really smart one. I know everything.”

“Sounds like the perfect role for you.”

My mom chuckles as she moves past us and into the kitchen, where she sets two bags of groceries on the counter.

“It’s gonna be in the auditorium,” Ben continues. “There’s a real stage there. They even have one of those spotlight machines. And everyone is invited. Even you. Will you come?”

I try to imagine myself sitting in a dark auditorium packed with people and not being able to keep my eye on all of them at once. The idea makes me feel so sick that I almost wonder if I need an emergency pill. I take a deep breath. I think of my list.