I’m teaching my last private lesson to this cute little kid named Tony. I’m like a scientist in my laboratory, looking at his little body, trying to figure out how to help him move forward. He’s over-bending his knees and flexing his ankles. He holds on to the wall and I grab his feet. They twitch in my hands like little mice.
“Point your toes,” I tell him. “Rub your legs like they’re two sticks and you’re making a fire.” He giggles and kicks all bent-kneed.
He plays baseball, like you. Lots of ballplayers have a tough time swimming because their ankles are too tight. You need loose ankles for swimming. You told me the kick was the tough part for you and breathing to the side. Lots of people have lousy kicks and that messes up their body position, which makes it harder to breathe to the side. I think about how I should get you in the water to show you how the leg motion moves from the hip to the knees to the ankle, like a whip, the way the best pitchers throw a ball, only with the legs. I could definitely give you some tips.
And then it’s like a siren going off in my brain: YOU ARE MISSING.
Is it possible that you’re dead and I’m teaching a swimming lesson? This whole time, while I was teaching, I kind of forgot about you. That’s something about my brain. I have this fabulous ability to block out shitty things.
But maybe you’re back. Maybe you’ve called. Maybe it’s all good.
I’m still holding Tony’s twitchy little feet. The clock says I have two more minutes. Whatever. I let go of his feet and tell him he’s done. We don’t play popcorn like normal and he whines about it, but I leave him with his mom and run down to the change room to grab my phone out of my locker.
No messages from you. Lots from other people, asking if I know anything.
I text you a desperate, and slightly angry message: Look at your damn phone. If you’ve turned it off, turn it back on. CALL ME. Yes, I do know what a ridiculous message this is.
Then, something weird happens; it’s like you’re answering me. I see a flash of you in our spot. You’re standing on the grass, your bare chest glistening, your face peaceful and your eyes closed, like you’re enjoying the warmth of the sun. Why would your chest be bare? Maybe you’re sending me a brain message to meet you at our spot. Maybe we can read each other’s minds. I told you that if there was one power I wish I could have, it would be the ability to read minds.
I text Steph: Going to the river
Steph: Noooooo
Me: Don’t worry
Steph: I’m at work. It’s slow. Maybe I can leave…
Me: I’ll be fine. Going right now
Steph: That’s stupid. Don’t go
Me: Whatever
Steph: Seriously
Me: I’ll text you when I get there
Steph: You are so stubborn
I grab my bag and run out of the change room. Michael is at the top of the stairs, about to start his guarding shift.
“What’s up, beautiful?” He smiles and reaches his arms out for a hug.
I fall into him, breathe in the smell of his sweat mixed with his day-old cologne, from his date after work last night with some new guy he wanted to impress. He doesn’t teach swim lessons, so he smells like a normal person instead of a swimming pool. You say you like my smell, but half the time, I smell like a school bathroom after the janitor has come through. You appreciate every goddamn awful thing about me. It chokes me up, just thinking about it.
Michael jerks back and stares into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Chris is missing.” When I say those words, it feels like someone has taken a needle and stuck it through the soft, fleshy part of my throat.
I tell him everything I know.
“You think he was upset after he saw us?” he says. “Maybe he took off.”
My lip quivers, I can feel it, wiggling like a worm on my face. “It’s not like him to take off without telling anyone. I think some guys might have jumped him down there.”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to jump him.”
“They already did. A few weeks ago,” I say. “He didn’t fight back. He doesn’t believe in violence. He says it just causes more violence.”
“Really?” He says it like he’s surprised, like he’s reevaluating you. And then: “I got jumped once.”
“You never told me that.”
“Yeah, well.” He lifts one shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That sucks.”
“Whatever.” He makes a face. “I hope he shows up.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“If I can do anything—”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
I turn and run-walk across the deck. In my mind, I see you, standing, glimmering, by the edge of the riverbank.
Maybe you’re standing in our spot waiting for me. Or is this just wishful thinking? Oh my god, I hope you’re okay.
Would you give up your nonviolent principles and fight if someone was going to throw you into the rapids? I don’t mean to judge, but Pendling is like any other small town. Sometimes you have to fight.
Please tell me you’d fight.