Girl Underwater Read Online Free PDF Page B

puts his hands over mine. He doesn’t take the bow away from me; he doesn’t concede failure. He works
with
me, like a teammate on a relay, one relying on the other to win the race. If one gives up, or false starts, the whole effort is lost.
    â€œFire!” the boy in the baseball jersey squeals.
    Fire.
A delicate orange flame, fragile as a dream. I coax it to life with deep, desperate breaths, feeding the flame with the oxygen in my lungs.
    It catches. Thrives. The possibility of seeing daylight becomes reality.
    Daylight.
Search planes.
Hope.
    â€œNice work,” Colin says, even though he generated the friction necessary to get the fire going. His arms are sheer muscle, strong and lean and perfectly coordinated. He worked that bow with the same talent he swims the butterfly.
    â€œThanks,” I say. As the boys drift to sleep around the fire, the silence turns awkward. “You think they’ll be okay for tonight?”
    Colin nods. “They’ll be okay.”
    â€œAnd her?” I glance at the pregnant woman, whose long brown hair has dried into tight curls. I don’t look at her for very long.
    He doesn’t answer.
    For a while, neither of us speaks. I have the sudden impulse to make conversation,
any
conversation. An hour ago, I was listening to sampler techno music to avoid unnecessary chatter with this guy. How things have changed.
    â€œSo,” I say, “you were going home to Boston for the holiday?”
    â€œDorchester, actually. That’s where I’m from.”
    It’s the first time he’s ever specified his hometown, which feels intensely personal for some reason. Or maybe he saw me staring at his book, and he knows his secret is out.
    â€œAnyway, I didn’t get there last year because the flight’s so expensive, but this year . . .” He looks up. “I dunno. This year isn’t last year, I guess.”
    His vagueness doesn’t surprise me. Colin blew off a major meet two weeks ago, putting our entire season in jeopardy. I decide to let this go.
    â€œI’m sorry that you have to miss Thanksgiving,” I say.
    He smiles softly. “You, too.”
    â€œIs it just you and your immediate family? Or do you have a big dinner?”
    â€œ
Big
dinner,” he says. “Aunts, uncles, cousins. The black sheep kind of outnumber the other ones, but it’s still a good time.”
    I can’t help but smile. “Sounds fun.”
    â€œIt is fun. I miss them.”
    â€œIt must be hard going to school across the country.”
    He holds my gaze for a long moment. “I’m sure it is for everyone.”
    â€œYeah.” I think about my dad standing at baggage claim, waiting in a huge, tired throng of people. He works insane hours, but he’s never missed an opportunity to pick me up at the airport. In a family as busy and dispersed as mine, the car ride home is often our only time to talk.
    â€œHow about you?” he asks. “Brookline, right?” The fact that he has to ask reinforces how little we’ve actually spoken despite spending so much time together.
    â€œBorn and raised,” I say.
    â€œIt’s nice there.”
    Nice
meaning ritzy. And it is, in a lot of ways: old, stately homes, manicured lawns. A few blocks from the Harvard hospitals, a short train ride to downtown Boston. Aside from the hardened folk who park on the street overnight (which is strictly prohibited), Brookline doesn’t have a whole lot of urban crime.
    As for Dorchester, I’ve only been there for pit stops on our way back from the Cape. My impression is that it’s a proud neighborhood with a lot of history. The bars are mostly Irish, dark, and crowded. People speak with thick accents, and they’re damn proud of it. I know Colin would laugh if he heard my quick-and-dirty summation, but every Boston neighborhood has a certain reputation. Brookline has one, too—rich, snobby, and boring.