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“I’ve got you.” His body is small and light in my arms, his head flopping back. My stomach lurches.
It’s always kind of eerie on the episodes when I save kids. Like if I screw up, they might actually get hurt.
Bullshit, obviously.
But my temples throb as I wade back to the sand and lay the kid out next to his wailing mother. His chest is so narrow as I knot my fingers together and push down gently, rhythmically; as I grip his chin and bend down, pretending to breathe air into his lungs, my mouthactuallypressing against my own thumbs.
It’s an old stage trick, kissing your own thumbs. This wouldn’t fly in a movie or with a close up shot, but forRiptide? Yeah, it’ll do.
The other lifeguards yell at each other, breaking into a fight above me. This is the subplot of the episode: one of them kissed the other’s sister, and now they’re all riled up and scrapping over it. Meanwhile my character Hanson is down here, saving the day. Same old, same old.
“Oh god,” the mom sobs. “Oh please, oh god.”
My gut twists again.
Not real. Not real.
The kid really milks his survival gasp. He jackknifes up like a tiny zombie, coughing and spluttering, his teary eyes wide. His two little fists are clenched in the sand. “M-mom?”
I sit back on my heels. Push the wet hair off my forehead.
Above me, one angry lifeguard punches another. There’s a dullthumpand a ragged growl, but no crunch of bone. No curse words.
Not real.
“Hey!” I yell, pushing to my feet. “Cut it out.” A cameraman circles us slowly as I jab a finger at the weeping extras still hugging each other at my feet, glaring around the other lifeguards. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”
They all mutter and shake their heads and look bitter. Nice try, Hanson, but this argument continues into the next episode.
And for a split second, I can see it: every single day stretching into the future, all exactly the same. Thousands more lines delivered in the same tone; thousands more sprints into the sea. The same recycled plots, over and over. More head tosses, more makeup, more making out with my own damn thumbs.
I can’t keep doing this. Not forever.
Maybe not even for the rest of the summer.
I’ve never been so relieved to hear Franklin yell, “Cut.” Then: “Alright, we’ll go again with camera two.”
* * *
“You must be exhausted.”
It takes a long moment for Darla’s words to drift through my funk, but once I hear her, I wheel around. She’s clearing up the actors’ rest station, tossing used cups and water bottles into a big bag to recycle. She’s been out on this beach in the blazing sun for hours, too, but she’s still as perky and sweet as first thing this morning.
“Uh.” My voice is gravelly from all the salt water and yelling. “Yeah. Kind of.”
Her smile is sympathetic. “I could fix you a coffee if you like? Or I could fetch you a soda—”
“I’m good.” That smile flickers, and I school my harsh tone. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, I just don’t want Darlawaitingon me. She’s a production assistant, not my server. “I’m done with filming for today. Just waiting on Franklin’s notes.”
Franklin: the director. Her uncle, and the reason I didn’t beg for Darla’s number the first day that I met her.
Well, that and the fact that she’s ten years younger than me and not made bitter by life just yet.
“He’s grouchy,” she warns, leaning closer as she plucks cans and bottles from the table next to me. “Don’t let him get to you, though. Uncle Franklin is always grumpy after too long in the sun.”
I know that as well as any person alive, but I don’t point that out. I nod and smile, and try not to stare at the escaped tendrils of blonde hair blowing against Darla’s neck.
She’s wearing a blackRiptidepolo, the buttons undone. That slim triangle of bared chest is pure torture, the shadow of her cleavage enough to give me dry mouth all over again.
