There are sirens outside, their screams slicing through the hollow holes of the laundromat. I angle my body toward them, like they’ll sense my presence as they pass. My throat is caked with dust. Each inhale is dry and gritty. Filth gets stuck in my chest until it hurts, like breathing smog-filled air on a hot California day. I know it’s impossible to hear my cries for help over the wail of the sirens, but I yell anyway because it’s the only thing I can do.
“You can probably loosen your sweatshirt from your arm now,” Charlie says when I pause to suck in air. “Just a little. See if the bleeding has stopped.”
I’ve been trading off between my teeth and my right hand to pull the sweatshirt taut. My jaw is tight. My fingers are stiff. It’s a relief to give them both a break. The pain isn’t gone, but I don’t feel any blood rushing to the surface when I let go.
“I think it’s okay.”
“Good. When we get out of here, we’ll go to a nice hospital and get it all cleaned up just to be safe.”
“A hospital? I don’t want to go to a hospital.” My heart races with panic. I hate hospitals. Hospitals are where people go to die. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Fine. I won’t force you.”
Charlie drags in a labored breath then coughs. It’s hard to ignore the fact that we don’t have water. I’m lucky. I drank a water right before the earthquake. But I could easily down another gallon.
“When’s the last time you had water, Charlie?”
“Lunchtime. Does your throat feel like you swallowed protein powder straight?”
“Worse.” I know there’s plenty of time before we have to start worrying about water but it’s hard not to think about it when the air scratches my throat with every inhale.
I keep telling myself it’s only a matter of time. That we won’t have to wait much longer to be rescued. I tell myself this even though the sirens are spinning in the distance now. Away from here. Away from us.
I can guess where they are instead.
Downtown.
My mom’s office.
Firefighters in heavy coats, brandishing flashlights and whistles while dogs pad their way across the concrete slabs, pressing their noses to the rubble of fallen buildings. I’ve only seen images like that on TV, happening in places far from home. Haiti. Mexico. Japan. Even though everyone thinks California is earthquake country, the temblors we have are mostly small. News coverage generally consists of a local reporter at a grocery store talking to a manager who’s pointing out all the stuff that had fallen off the shelves. Even the Ridgecrest quake we had on the Fourth of July, which registered relatively big at a magnitude 7.1, didn’t do a lot of damage. I was at the beach with Leo, where I’d felt nothing, but my mom was home and said it had only made our shutters sway.
The worst damage I’d seen was from Northridge, in 1994, when whole apartment buildings crumbled to the ground. Or San Francisco, in 1989, when the upper level of the bridge collapsed, crushing cars and people on the lower deck. But I wasn’t alive then. Those earthquakes aren’t a part of my history like they are for my mom. She remembers them. But to me, they’re only pictures on the TV or online. And those earthquakes weren’t The Big One. Even though The Big One is supposed to happen, even though I’ve grown up being told we’re overdue and we should be ready for it to take place in my lifetime, the actual big earthquakes I’ve known have happened to other people. In other places. Far away from here.
I should’ve known better. Nothing is ever so far away that it’s impossible.
I took an emergency earthquake kit to every first day of school from preschool through eighth grade, but the water bottles, thermal blanket, and seven-day supply of nutritional protein bars weren’t real. The ground never shook hard enough for teachers to have to distribute them. Those kits were something I held in my hands for five minutes then handed to my teacher to stash away in the back of the classroom where they were forgotten about until they were returned to us on the last day of school nine months later.
Charlie grunts, and I can hear the shuffle of something—his arm or leg—as he tries to move. He sucks in a breath. Hisses through his teeth.
The pain in my arm has a heartbeat. Does Charlie’s? I pat the ground around me. Hard and gritty. I remember the stains on this floor and the way it looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. The wads of gum stuck along the edges of the tables. I’m lying on top of this and underneath that now. I’m living and breathing in filth. All of it seeping into me.
I need a distraction.
I need to think about something to keep me from focusing on the thump, thump, thump of my body.
I think of the safest place. Home. With its warm blankets and hot showers. My mom in the kitchen and the TV buzzing. And then I see Coach Sanchez there and my stomach knots.
“Are you from here?” I ask Charlie.
“Here-ish.”
Wait. Was he my classmate? Should I know him? “Did you go to Pacific Shore?”
“Harbor.”
“Ah, sure. Harbor. The charter school nobody wanted.”
He laughs. “Yeah. Our motto was ‘Better than public, too many losers for private.’ ” Another laugh. “I take it you went to Pacific.”
“Not did. Still do.”
“Oh. You’re even younger than I thought.” He coughs. “I didn’t think kids from Pacific knew how to do their own laundry.”
“Wow.”
“Sorry. Just bitter. I wanted to go to Pacific.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My parents said no.” A grunt. “Their favorite word.”
My mom says yes to everything because she wants me to live a life of experience. She says yes to things she probably shouldn’t. But I’m glad she pushes me out of my comfort zone. “That sucks.”
“They’re parents. Ones who aren’t thrilled I’m not at college right now. I’ve got a full scholarship. What a waste, right?”
“Wait. You finally got out of here and you decided to come back? Why?”
“Had to.”
“What do you mean you had to?”
“There was some . . . stuff that happened. I’d rather not get into it.” He coughs. “But my parents were so pissed they wouldn’t let me come home, so I’ve been crashing on my brother’s couch. You’d think they’d give him a hard time for not having some illustrious career by now, but I guess since he works at the Apple Store in the Pacific Pavilion mall they think he’s an actual genius.”
“So you dropped out of college to sleep on your brother’s couch?”
He laughs. “I sound like a real loser when you put it like that.”
“Are you?”
“Probably.”
“When I get out of this town, I’m never coming back.” Some coaches have already talked to me about playing for them in college. I can’t wait to go. I don’t want to be someone who never leaves this place, finishing high school only to scoop ice cream at the same shop they’ve worked at since they were fifteen.
“I get it.”
“I didn’t actually come to the laundromat to do laundry,” I blurt.
“Because you can’t, right? Ha! I knew Pacific Shore kids didn’t know how to work those fancy buttons.” He sounds so satisfied that it makes me smile.
“I guess I walked right into that one.”
“You kind of did, Ruby’s Diner.” He laughs again. “So why did you come here if you’re not a couch-surfing college dropout like me?”
“Truth?”
“Sure. Why the hell not?”
“The laundromat’s where my friends and I find deadbeats to buy us beer.”
“And I was your deadbeat?”
“You were a contender.” I jiggle my right foot, trying to shake out the pins and needles that numb my toes.
“I may be a deadbeat, but I’m only nineteen. And even if I were twenty-one, I wouldn’t have contributed to the corruption of a minor. Especially one who can’t even do her own laundry.”
“Why not?”
“Too much pressure. What if something happened to you after you drank the beer I bought you? I don’t need that on my conscience.”
“Okay, Dad.” I snort. But then I think of Mila and how this should be a legit concern for anyone who buys her alcohol.
“Also? I don’t drink.”
“Ever?” I ask, surprised.
“Anymore.”
“Why?”
“Reasons.”
I try to shift my weight to ease up on where my shoulder is digging into the ground, but there isn’t enough room. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“Not one I want to share.”
“You were advocating for truth-telling five seconds ago. Who am I going to tell anyway?”
“It’s not that. I just don’t like thinking about it. Fine with me if I’m a hypocrite.”
Silence.
“So do I get your college-dropout story instead?”
He sighs. “Maybe later. I’m tired.” At first I think he means he’s tired of this conversation but then he yawns.
It’s too early for him to be tired. I’m scared for him to fall asleep. I’m scared of the silence. I’m scared of being alone. I’m scared he won’t wake up.
“Why are you tired? Is it because you’re hurt?”
“Been up since six. For work. At the gym.”
“You work at a gym?” I probably shouldn’t conjure up his buff biceps, but I do. “I thought maybe you painted houses.”
“What? Why?”
Is this the part where I tell him how I was watching his every move before the earthquake? “Because you had blue paint on your hands. And your chin. Before. When I saw you.”
“Hm. Observant. I do paint. But not houses.”
“That’s cool. I’m not artistic.”
“Not sure I am, either.”
“So you don’t paint houses but you do work at a gym.”
“Yep. I quit Stanford to get a job at a gym. How’s that for aiming high?”
“I’m not commenting on a story you haven’t even told me. And by the way, I get up before six every day and I’m not tired.”
“Are you a farmer?”
“No. I have workouts before school. For water polo.”
“That’s the sport where they swim up and down in Speedos with the ball, right?”
“It’s slightly more complicated than that, but sure.”
“We only had tennis at Harbor. Stanford has a water polo team, though. I’ve never seen an actual game, but some of those guys lived in my dorm.” He laughs. “Cocky bastards. I guess that’s what happens when you walk around ninety percent naked all day. But it’s a real sport?”
“Are you kidding? It’s one of the most demanding sports you can possibly play. It’s like basketball. In the water. You have to be in really good shape.”
“Okay, but how hard can it be if you can touch the bottom of the pool?”
“You can’t touch the bottom. The water’s too deep. That’s kind of the whole point.”
“Sorry—you tread water and throw a ball around. Doesn’t sound that rigorous.”
“You aren’t treading water. You have to move your legs like those attachments on an electric mixer. It’s called eggbeater.”
“And you think that’s hard?”
I feel like I’m meeting one of my mom’s new boyfriends all over again, and trying to explain what water polo is. I guess that’s one advantage to her dating Coach Sanchez.
“Treading water isn’t hard,” Charlie says.
“It’s not treading water.” I clench my fists. “When you tread water it’s because you’re tired, right? You need to rest and catch your breath. You don’t eggbeater to rest. It takes a lot of energy, and you do it to stabilize your body so you can throw the ball and wrestle people off you. Try scoring a goal while getting pulled, beaten, and dunked. Try throwing passes and stealing balls without ever resting. Try that for an hour and see what you think.”
“Okay, okay. You’ve convinced me.”
“Stanford has one of the best programs in the nation, by the way.”
“There are a lot of ‘one of the best programs in the nation’ at Stanford. Ask my parents. They wanted me to major in all of them.”
“Ha.”
“So tell me this: If water polo is so hard, why would you want to do it on purpose?”
“Because I can.”