Underwater(2)

“But like I said, it’s in the way.”

“How about if you move it?” Yes, brilliant. Good job, Morgan. Being quick on my feet is a skill I’m getting progressively better at as the months pass.

“You want me to move your car? You just called me a stranger five seconds ago. What if I steal it and sell it on Craigslist?”

“You won’t. Let me get the keys.”

I shut the door and grab the keys from the rack my mom hung in the kitchen after one too many mornings of frantically searching the apartment for lost keys. When I crack the door back open, my breath catches again, because he really is cuter than he should be.

Stop it, Morgan.

I hold the keys up to Evan, but when he reaches in to grab them, my body goes on high alert.

I flinch.

I flutter.

I drop the keys at my feet.

He bends over, calm and steady, eyes on mine the whole time, as he reaches past the threshold to grab them.

His fingertips graze my bare toes.

I jump back.

I breathe fast.

He stands up.

He straightens out.

“Hey, is the pool heated?” he asks. “Or am I gonna freeze my face off if I jump in?”

The pool. I try to ignore it. It taunts me. But I can practically feel the cool water sliding through my fingers and down my back as soon as Evan mentions swimming. I imagine him yanking off his shirt and jumping in. Then I try to unimagine it.

“It’s warm enough, but it’s too short to get a good workout. And too shallow to pull off a flip turn. Plus you have to scoop the leaves out yourself.”

“You sound like you know something about swimming. Are you on a team?”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“Because. Just bring the keys back whenever, okay? Or, if you sell it, bring me the cash.”

“I’ll get you a good deal.” He laughs. “I don’t back down too easy.”

I shut the door and hope my car will start. My mom takes it out once in a while to keep it running, but it’s old. She’s actually threatened to sell it. She says we could use the money. I’m pretty sure she’s bluffing. For her, selling my car would be the same as giving up. She’d rather hang on to hope.

*

My mom hopes I’ll go back to school when it’s time to be a senior.

I do online high school now. Going to my other school got to be too hard. I can’t control things out in the real world. Cars turn corners too fast. Doors slam. People appear out of nowhere. It’s unpredictable.

I don’t like unpredictable.

Home is predictable enough. Until just now when I realized we have new neighbors. And there’s a teenager like me next door. Well, not really like me, because I’m pretty sure Evan actually leaves the house. He looks like he surfs and watches bands play at crammed clubs with entrances in backstreet alleys that require secret passwords. He looks like he rides his skateboard in the empty parking lots of places in town that have gone out of business or zooms down steep hills for an adrenaline rush. So not really like me at all.

Because he has a life.

I go to school online and eat tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch every day.

I form an assembly line along the coffee-stained Formica of the kitchen counter just the way my dad taught me. Bread. Butter. Cheese. Piping hot griddle.

I like the sound of the sizzle of the butter as it hits the pan. It’s a reminder of how quickly things change. One second you’re whole, the next second you’ve melted.

I like to put extra cheese on my sandwich so it drips out over the sides. That way, I can scoop it up, twirl it around my fingertip, and suck it into my mouth. I also dunk the toasty bread into the soup, sopping up what’s left in the bottom of the bowl. I eat on the couch where the TV is in front of me and the closed curtains are behind me. I’m a shut-in. I’m unaware if it’s foggy, sunny, cold, or hot outside unless I’m specifically paying attention. Nothing changes inside my living room. I have a television lineup, online school, the same lunch, and scheduled ten a.m. and two p.m. check-in phone calls from my mom every weekday.

My psychologist visits twice a week.

Her name is Brenda.

She has a hard edge and soft eyes.

She has tattoos that snake up and down her arms until they get lost underneath the sleeves or the collar of whatever shirt she’s wearing.

She comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays after lunch.

At one p.m.

She’ll be here tomorrow.

We’ll sit on the couch and she’ll make me turn off the TV.

I hate that.

Sometimes Brenda forces me to say things that make me cry. But usually, talking to her calms me down. She also checks up on my medicine to be sure I have enough emergency pills. I need them sometimes. On bad days. Brenda can’t prescribe them for me because she’s not that kind of doctor. She’s a psychologist. My regular doctor gave me the prescription after he talked to Brenda.

Today feels different because Evan is next door.

I can hear the bang bang of him hammering nails into the wall. I can hear the thump thump of him bounding up the stairs. I can hear the slap slap of his screen door as he goes in and out, back and forth, up and down the stairs.

Evan is next door. He smells like the ocean.

This runs through my head for the rest of the day. It’s what I hear as I sop up soup and sift through soap operas.