Three weeks. That was how long it took me to convince Isabella I should spend Labor Day weekend at Samantha Florrick’s Lake Forest house.
Five minutes. That was how quickly I regretted accepting the invitation.
I had been invited along as a novelty. I’m not really friends with Samantha or with her friends—the members of Albright Academy’s most popular clique. But I’d decided, over a boring and antisocial summer spent with my hired babysitter, that junior year would be different from the first half of high school.
Isabella would refer to herself as my companion, but I’m unconvinced that term is any better than babysitter.
So, here I am, fifty miles north of Chicago, feeling even lonelier than I do in the Windy City.
The whispers stop around one a.m.
I wait another fifteen minutes, just in case, before crawling out of the lower bunk. Samantha called the layout lame earlier. Said her parents designed the guest room when she was muchyounger and they needed to accept that she and her siblings weren’t kids, excited about the novelty of camping indoors anymore.
I laughed with the other girls. I didn’t say what I was thinking—how nice it would be to have parents who built you bunk beds and siblings you lived with. I know my living arrangement is strange; I know I’m not supposed to draw attention to it.
I tiptoe across hardwood, open the door silently, then continue down the empty hallway. The lack of sound is eerie, more than peaceful, but I’ve always been comfortable in the quiet. Lots and lots of practice.
The kitchen is a mess, marble counters covered with evidence of the evening’s activities. In a rare moment of rebellion, I swipe a half-empty bottle of vodka off the counter. I only took a couple of sips earlier, stating I didn’t like the taste. In reality, I don’t trust these girls enough to get drunk around them.
I slide the glass door open and step outside, eyes scanning the empty yard. This house feels remote, but it isn’t really. Hedges and other strategically placed landscaping shield the yard from the nearest neighbors, but I saw how tight the spacing was between houses during the drive. Land at this location is too valuable not to maximize lots.
There’s a pool past the perfectly manicured grass. We lay out on the stone pavers, sunbathing, earlier. No one went in the water, which was a relief.
I can’t swim.
I learned perfect Italian and English. I practiced violin until the calluses on my fingertips became permanent. I perfected avoiding any spotlight.
But I never had a reason—or opportunity—to swim. There’s a beautiful pool in my father’s backyard that I’ve only admired from afar.
I take a seat on the pavers, right beside the pool so I can lower my feet into the water. I swish my toes around, then swig some vodka. The first swallow burns my mouth, my throat, and finally my stomach. Heat crawls across my skin, countering the coolness of the water.
I tip my head back, staring at the sky. That overhead view has always soothed me for some reason. The sky’s enormity makes my existence seem safer, not insignificant. Like I don’t matter—in a good way. We exist on a floating rock and could die at any moment. Morbid maybe, but realistic. By comparison, nothing is that important. My aimlessness seems pedestrian in the larger context of the universe.
The night air is heavy with humidity, saturating my pajamas and frizzing my hair. I usually braid it before bed, but didn’t bother tonight.
The longer I sit, sipping and stargazing, the more I wish I could dunk more than my feet. Calves up, my skin feels sticky and hot—like I have a fever. My eyes focus on the stairs that submerge into the shallow end. Perfect. I stand, intent on my destination.
I make it two steps. Maybe three. Then gravity releases me from its grasp. I marvel at my own irresponsibility as I stumble, then fall, expecting the coming collision to hurt.
It doesn’t.
It’s wonderful. Cool and dark and muffled. An oasis no one else has discovered. A perfect, peaceful escape.
Until it begins to burn. Not the water—me. It starts in my chest, a pressure I can’t shake. Then spreads through my veins with the ferocity of liquid fire. I struggle, a strong burst of adrenaline chasing some of the pain away. Fight the foreign sensation. Fighthard, forgetting the former fog as urgency surges through me.
I’m drowning. Suffocating. This is what dying feels like.
By sheer determination, I break through the surface. The first inhale is a high I’ve never experienced. Complete bliss.
Absurdly, my first thought is,I should stop eating fish. Is that unnatural horror what they experience when they’re pulled from the sea?
Exhaustion wins for a few seconds, and then water closes over my head again.
I kick harder, arms flailing, trying to paddle to the shallower end by sheer force of will. I’m not far from it. I was sitting by the center of the pool, only a little past where the bottom slopes down.
I should scream for help the second I surface again.
My pride smarts at the prospect. I’m Carina Caruso. I’ve been fighting to survive since before I was born. A deep puddle won’t be my undoing. I won’t spend the remainder of high school being mocked for my idiocy and inability to float.
