Learning Not to Drown (15 page)

Everyone laughs. Are they laughing at me? Or are they laughing at Skeleton?

“Okay, fine. You want a skeleton. How's this,” Lala says, putting her apple martini down. “My mother's mother was a prostitute. In Vegas.” We all laugh. It can't be helped. “I don't think that's
such
a bad thing, but you know my family . . . so religious. Sex is right up there with murder. Alright, who's next?” Lala scans the room and zeroes in on Chase. “Your turn, big man.”

“So do you guys remember, like, five years ago, when my sister, Kim, took a year to study abroad?” He leans over to untie, then retie his bright white Nikes.

Skye gives him a shove. “Come on, already. Enough with the fake suspense.”

“She actually went to go live in some hippie commune because she wanted to ‘get back to nature.' ” He raises his fingers in air quotes. “But really it was because she met this guy who ‘lives off the land' and has ‘no carbon footprint.' Mom and Dad were horrified. She dropped the chance to go to Yale so she could learn to compost her own shit.”

The sip Skeleton was taking sprays out of his nose holes and mouth, along with his silent laugh.

“Noooo. You lie. Miss Aerospace Engineer with the ‘I Break for Technology' bumper sticker? Come on, Chase,” Omar says.

“I'm serious. After her boyfriend dumped her,” Chase continues, “my parents came to her rescue. As soon as
MIT would take her, she was back in school with no signs of ever wanting to give up her cell phone—or her toilet—again. Yeah, my parents like to think that secret is deep underground. But I think it's pretty funny. Omar's turn.”

“Okay. When I was, like, twelve, I was going through my mom's desk drawer looking for scissors, and I saw a few brochures for . . . a clothing-optional retreat.” Omar shrugs. “I don't know if they ever went, but, I mean, maybe.”

“Your dad?” Lala grabs Omar's face with both hands. “But all his body hair. And his belly.”

Everyone's laughter is really loud. Too loud.

“Shh, shh,” I tell them. “We have to be quiet. For my ears.”

“Someone is druuuunnnk.” Omar puts his margarita down and does a tumble across the room. “Ta-da!”

Tumbling. That's fun. I like to do somersaults. I bend over and put my head to the ground, looking between my legs. The room is strange upside down. And moving. Just a little bit. I try to tuck my neck and roll, but I end up crashing into the side of the end table.

“Hi, kids.” Wait. Who's that?

“Oh, shit. Ms. P.” Omar looks up.

Drea's mom is standing over me. She shakes her head and sighs. “Dump your drinks, guys, and grab yourselves some water. Drea, in the kitchen.”

I don't like the way the room is spinning. Skeleton is sitting on the chair. How is the chair moving?

Stop. Stop spinning. Stop, please, stop. My stomach. Oh, no. This is bad, bad, bad.

I spring up from the floor.

I hate puking. Stop, stop, stop. Drea's here now. She's got my hair. She's rubbing my back.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Do you still like me?”

“I love you, Miss Clare.”

Vomit again.

•  •  •

In the morning I'm snug on Drea's trundle bed. A huge bottle of water and aspirin are on the bedside table.

There's a note from Lala.
Baby doll, I'm covering your morning shift. Try to be there by 2:00. I don't want Lucille going crazy on you.

I look at the clock. It's noon already. I drink the water and take the aspirin. I lie down again. My head is pounding. I feel like shit.

Do a half walk, half crawl to the living room. Drea's mom is on the couch with Skeleton, an ice pack on his skull.

“Hi, Clare.” She pats the cushion next to her. “Have a seat.”

Please don't yell at me.

“First of all, I was hoping I'd never have to worry about things like locking up the liquor cabinet because I can't trust Drea and her friends.”

I feel like supershit. Ms. P is the best mom on this planet, and I've broken her trust.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Well, it's locked now.” She shrugs.

“Clare. I love you,” she continues. “I know sometimes you have to learn by doing.” She sighs. “But you
have to be more careful. We were lucky you were here, with friends. We were lucky that the worst thing that happened is you got sick and have a hangover. You are worth too much to do this to yourself.” She pauses, then adds, “I called your parents last night after we talked.”

“We talked?” I remember her coming home, me throwing up.

“Yes, we talked. I told your parents that you were very emotional. After all, Luke being home is a big deal for everyone in your family.”

“Are they going to kill me?” I ask. “Did you tell them I was drunk?”

“No, they aren't going to kill you. And I didn't tell them you were drunk. I wanted to check in with you when you were sober first, then decide if they need to know.”

“Ummm, I can't remember everything that happened last night,” I admit. This is so embarrassing.

“Well, you told me a lot about your feelings about Luke being in prison all these years. Things you are afraid of. Bad memories of things that you've seen him do.” She takes my hands in hers. “You told me a lot that I didn't know. I wish things could be different for you. I'm here. You can talk to me about anything, anytime.”

“Thanks.” What
exactly
did I tell her last night? “I'm sorry.”

Pound, pound, pound.
I never realized how loud her grandfather clock ticked.

“If you want to be responsible, and make me happy, you can clean the bathroom before you leave,” she says.

“Got it.” I'm
glad to have something to do to make up for being a huge ass last night.

“But first, Drea's in the kitchen putting together a greasy power breakfast for you. Go eat; you'll feel better,” she says.

I head to the kitchen.

“Toast for the woman who was super toasted last night.” Drea plops down a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me.

“I am so sorry. I feel like a complete idiot,” I tell her. “Not to mention, I don't remember the heart-to-heart I had with your mom.”

“Don't worry about it. Everyone was silly and drunk. You were funny. Except that puking. That was disgusting. But overall you were just funny.”

“I feel like shit,” I say, moving the food around on my plate and eventually taking a bite out of the thing that looks the safest: toast. It's warm and just the right amount of soft and hard. I take another bite and try the eggs. Not bad. Looks like my stomach might want to eat after all.

“You should; you drank enough last night. And don't worry. I stopped you from drunk-texting anyone. You're safe.”

Well, that's one good thing. After finishing as much as I can eat, I grab the bathroom cleaner and head to the war zone.

Disgusting. Apparently I have terrible aim when drunk.

Once the bathroom is clean, I shower, replaying
what I remember over and over. Wishing I could recall even a little bit of what I said to Ms. P.

I am never getting drunk again.

To my surprise Peter is in the living room when I get out. He's holding my work bag, complete with sunblock, sunglasses, hat, and bathing suit.

“Thanks for coming by, Peter,” Ms. P says. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he replies. Then jokes, “Clare, you owe me big. Let's go.”

Neither of us says a word until we're almost to the lake. Then Peter breaks the silence by saying, “I don't know what Ms. P said to our mom, but somehow you aren't grounded anymore.” I look over at him. “You still have to go to Tennessee, but you have a couple weeks of freedom first. She must have said something about Luke's last sentence. You know how Mom gets about that. She was probably so embarrassed, she would have agreed to anything.”

I nod, hoping that was it.

“Thanks for taking me to work,” I say. “Thanks for being a nice brother,” I want to say, but I just think it instead.

Gazing up at the sky and the pine treetops, I tried to guess how long I'd been floating for. Five minutes? Maybe even more. If there were a world record for floating, I bet I could get it.

Then the water heaved, crashing over me. I sputtered to the surface. Peter had jumped in, practically on top of me. “Clare, you won't ever pass the swim test if all you do is float.”

“Shut up, Peter. Leave me alone. I can swim.”

“Doggy-paddling doesn't count,” he replied. “You'll never get to swim in the deep end that way.”

“I said, ‘Leave me alone.' ” Drea tricked off the diving board and then swam toward the little island, to join Omar on his plastic silver raft.

I was stuck on the shallow side surrounded by water wings, mounds of sand claiming to be castles, babies in “waterproof ” diapers. Lucky me.

“I'm not here to make fun of you; I want to teach you.” He nodded toward the boogie board he was holding.

I dragged my toes along the bottom, sand and slime.

“Really? No jokes?” I asked. Peter was so unpredictable.
Was he going to be nice to me today? My eyes searched the shore, water, even trees for signs of Peter's friends.

“No jokes. Promise.”

“Aren't you on duty?” I glanced toward the lifeguard stand, surprised to see a new girl, copper-toned skin, a huge fake daisy holding her long blond hair back.

“My shift's over.” Peter waved at Daisy Hair, then turned back to me. “C'mon. Let me teach you. I've taught all your friends. None of them has drowned yet.”

Drea was pulling herself up onto the island. I really wanted to be out there with her.

“Okay.” I took the board.

“Kick from your hips. Point your toes. No, not like that. Think more like ballet or something. Better. Keep your knees straight.”

I felt like a baby kick, kick, kicking my way around the shallow end. Embarrassing.

“There you go!” Peter shouted after me. “Try a couple more laps—shore to the rope. You need a great kick to be a good swimmer.” Peter watched from the side as I did laps, pointing at me as he talked to Daisy Hair. So
that's
why he was being so nice to me.

“You're a quick learner,” he announced as I kicked my way to his side.

“What's next?” I handed him the boogie board.

“Arms.” Peter put his arms up in the air. “I want you to pretend we are picking apples— Don't roll your eyes. This really works. Pick an apple, put it in your pocket. Yep, like that, but floating on your stomach with your face in the water. Oh, yeah. Don't forget to breathe
every couple of apples.” He took my arms and showed me. Then as he and the golden girl made small talk, I practiced each stroke.

“Now put it together!” Peter jumped into the water and held me with one hand on my belly, one on my back. Then no hands.

I didn't care if Peter was teaching me just to impress her. The water was now lighter, easier to control.

“You're doing it!” Peter yelled.

Luke would be so proud of me. I wished he were here.

I swam back to Peter. He gave me a high five, and then we celebrated with an ice cream sandwich.

Sometimes Peter could be the best brother in the world.

“You weren't here this morning.” Chris is glaring at me, his arms crossed in indignation.

“I know. Lala covered my shift.” I grab two more aspirin from my purse, wash them down with nearly an entire bottle of water. My stomach twists. I hope I don't throw up again.

“Not for your shift. For, you know . . . before.” He leans close to my ear and whispers the last part of the sentence, “To teach me to swim.”

Of course Chris shows up the one morning I don't.

“I wasn't feeling well,” I growl. Literally, like an animal.

“You look hungover.” My mouth drops. Is it that obvious? I'm about to snap at him to go away and leave me alone, when he lowers his voice so only I can hear, “Don't think you can fool me. I know all about drunks.”

Chris knows all about drunks.

I want to be responsible, take my sunglasses off, look him in the eye, and tell him that he can talk to me about anything, that I can help because I know about addicts and what they do when they are out of control. But I don't,
because I am aware of how sour my sweat smells, the bad cotton taste in my mouth. I'm aware of my actions last night, how hypocritical it would be to say anything to him. So I stay quiet.

“And Mandy says you quit. So I guess that means you aren't teaching me to swim.” Chris pouts.

“I'm going to visit my grandma. She's old and she needs our family to help her.” The sun glinting off the lake is burning my eyes. I just want to go home and lie down in a very dark room for many hours.

“But what about me?” His whiny voice makes my head pound even more.

He's not my problem. He's not my responsibility. But still . . .

“I have two weeks. I'll be here. You promise to show?”

“Deal,” he says.

As he walks away, I wonder who the alcoholic is in his family. The Jordans have done a very good job keeping that skeleton in the closet.

•  •  •

When I return home that night, I'm braced for yelling, for Mom to scream at me about sharing family information. I sneak in the back door, safely making it to the bathroom without encountering my parents.

The cool shower feels so good; my dark room even better.

At family dinner, all together, Mom sets her lips into a deep frown, saying to me, “We will talk later this evening.” Then she drones on about Tennessee and flight options.

Before bed Mom treads into my room and drops my car keys and cell phone onto my desk.