Page 32 of Bombshells
“Time us?” Cedric asks. “On that fancy watch?”
“Yeah, on my fancy watch.” It cost a mint, but it’s a waterproof diving watch, which is why I wore it today.
I don’t usually wear the thing, although it’s literally the only gift my father has given me since he left when I was seven. His bank sent a check every month, but he missed all my birthdays until I turned eighteen. And then he gave me a Rolex Submariner that cost ten grand. He’s a piece of work.
“Who wants to start?” I ask. “Let’s do this tournament style, in pairs.”
Nobody raises his hand.
“Fine—we’ll practice first,” I say, pivoting. “Floating is basically like treating the water as your sofa. Lie back and let your feet drift upward.”
To demonstrate, I lie back and show them how it’s done. My ears fill, which means I can’t hear what’s going on for a moment. I hate that feeling. I hope they don’t all get out of the pool and leave me here.
But I take a few slow breaths and let myself relax, to show them how it’s done. Maybe I hate the water, but I know I can’t drown in the shallow end of a pool.
When I come up again, they’re all staring at me. “That’s it?” someone asks. “Why doesn’t your ass just sink all the way down?”
“Good question. I didn’t pay enough attention in physics class to answer that one.”
They all laugh, and I spot Sylvie looking over to see why. When our gazes meet, she smiles.
“But people float. You just have to relax and trust that you’re not, like, secretly an alien with a different body mass.”
They erupt again. I’m a hit as a comedian, but nobody is floating yet. “Okay! Everybody on his back. Leave some space between you—no kicking each other. Relax and try it.”
Miraculously, everybody floats. Everyone except Cedric. He tries, but fear is preventing him from getting his feet off the ground. “It ain’t working, boss,” he complains. “I’m too heavy.”
“You’re not,” I insist. “You’re not still enough, is all. Here—let’s do this step wise.” I grab a lifesaving rescue buoy off the edge of the pool. It’s like a rectangular, floating cushion. “Put your neck on this. It will keep your face above the water. Just concentrate on letting your legs float up to join the rest of you.”
Shockingly, this works. After a few more thrashing attempts, Cedric is floating. Assisted, but still floating, arms outstretched.
“Ten minutes!” Sylvie calls to me.
“Got it, boss!” I call. “All right, boys. Two more skills, okay? First I want you to try treading water for two minutes. We’ll move into slightly deeper water for this.”
There’s some quiet cursing. “With our arms?” someone asks.
“Yup. Let’s move.” I wade out until I’m out deeper than they are, then pull my wrist out of the water and check my watch. “Ready—go. Keep your head up, kick underwater, and scull your arms.”
They thrash around. Two minutes feels long, suddenly. Why do people do this for fun? I like water better when it’s frozen under my skates.
“I’m tired already,” someone gasps.
“Slow down your breathing,” I remind him. “Arms move laterally—not up and down.”
The griping stops as seven teens focus on staying afloat. But a couple of them are panting. “Is it time yet?” someone demands.
“Nope. Distract yourself,” I insist. “Ask me a question. Anything.”
“How much can you bench?” asks Cedric. He’s actually doing it—treading water with those giant arms. I guess he doesn’t mind this part, because his head is out of the water.
“I dunno. Three fifteen? Hockey players care more about squats, though. You need strong thighs and a big ass to stop players from getting past you.”
They snicker at my use of ass.
“How much money do you earn?” someone asks.
“A lot more than I probably should,” I say as a dodge. I count heads again. Still seven. I’m rocking this job.
