Page 100 of Bombshells
It’s not all that surprising that I dream about the lifeguarding exam after I fall asleep. In the dream, Sylvie is there, but I’m in charge, and I have to demonstrate every skill before the kids do it.
“But don’t worry,” Sylvie says. “We’ll just keep it casual.”
She’s smiling at me as I get into the pool to swim the laps and perform the rescues. Because this is a dream, there’s also a Coney Island-style hot-dog-eating contest going on at the same time, over at the side of the pool. If you’re really into Freud, make of that what you will.
Eventually, it’s time for the very last skill, the dreaded weight.
“Here it is,” Sylvie says. Then she throws a giant cinder block into the deep end. “You have two minutes.”
I’m supposed to swim down and fetch it. But I don’t want to.
“Go on,” my father prompts. “You pussy. Just get the damn thing. Everyone is waiting.”
So I do it. I dive under water, and kick down into the blackness. I can’t see anything, but I find it anyway, and I pick up the block. It’s lighter than it should be.
I push off the bottom and propel myself to the surface, bearing the weight toward the edge of the pool. I need both hands to hold the weight, so I swallow a mouthful of water as I kick toward the side. I choke and cough as I kick toward relief.
But my father is waiting there for me, and every time I get close, he reaches out with a long arm and pushes me backwards, away from the safety of the edge.
I start yelling. “Dad! I need to put this down. It’s heavy.”
“Too late,” Dad says. “You blew it. He’s already dead.”
I look down at the weight in my arms. And I find I’m holding my brother Rudy’s lifeless body. His lips are blue and his skin is pale.
Waking up with a gasp, I sit up in bed so fast that I almost sprain something. I’m sweating, and my heart is pounding.
Holy shit. “Thanks, brain,” I wheeze. “Thanks for that healthy serving of what-the-fuck.”
I flop back onto the pillows and groan.
It’s the only time in the last few weeks when I’ve been glad Sylvie wasn’t here with me.
Thirty-Three
Two Minutes
ANTON
I was right to assume that the Red Cross guy would run the test. Randy Fineberger is here with his clipboard. And even though I’ve worn my swimsuit, nobody expects me to get wet today.
Maybe it’s the humidity in here, but I start to sweat as Fineberger starts the clock. If these kids don’t pass, I’m going to feel like an asshole.
So far the test is going fine. Everyone swims the lengths they’re asked to. And then every kid performs a rescue on another kid, using first the hook and then the flotation device.
I’m feeling optimistic as they push on into the next task—the two-minute water-treading. Without arms, of course.
Last week Sylvie explained that you can roll onto your back for this, and that’s what most of the kids do. Although Cedric stays vertical, kicking his legs. And he’s getting tired.
“Find a way to slow your breathing,” I coach from the pool deck, feeling like a poser. I’m so anxious for these kids that I’d probably sink like a stone if I were in there with them.
Cedric sort of rolls onto his back, like a cartoon manatee. I see him take a slow, measured breath and bear down into the eternity that is one hundred twenty seconds.
I don’t know what’s happened to me. I signed up for this job to see Sylvie in a bathing suit. I don’t like pools, and I didn’t care all that much if these kids passed this test.
And here I am losing my ever-loving mind, sweating over the last twenty seconds of the task. Damn, I really wish Sylvie was here. She’s the one who got me into this. She should see how it plays out.
There’s only a few seconds left when Benjamin accidentally sucks back a mouthful of water, and then makes a choking sound, followed by a harsh cough. Ugh. I can feel my own lungs burning in sympathy.
