Almost as if she can read my thoughts, Hartley says, “Aren’t you going to take off your dress?”
“You wish,” Farrah says.
“Whatever, don’t say I didn’t warn you when you have to wear a muddy dress home,” Hartley answers.
Farrah seems to consider it, then grunts with annoyance and shimmies out of her dress. She’s wearing a racy pair of boy-cut lace underwear and a matching push-up bra.
Hartley whistles.
“You’re such a perv,” Farrah mutters.
“Wait!” Hartley says. “Did you hear that?”
We keep still, listening in the dark for whatever it is Hartley heard.
“What?” Lyla whispers.
“It was like…a grunt or something. From over there.”
We turn to face the water. It’s as black and still as ever, shining dully in the moonlight.
“You’re hearing things,” I say. I have no idea if it’s true, but I want it to be true.
Hartley shakes her head adamantly. “Must’ve been the swamp monster.”
Farrah heaves an annoyed sigh.
“I’m serious,” Hartley says. “My friend saw the monster once.”
“You’re an idiot,” Farrah says. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
Hartley leans closer to Farrah. “He was seven feet tall and had gray hair and bright yellow eyes, and he smelled like rotten sewage.”
“Stop trying to scare me,” Farrah says. “It’s not working.” Though it’s clear from the way her voice trembles that it is.
Still, she faces the swamp, rolls her shoulders once, then glides into the water.
It doesn’t matter that two people have just done this very same thing. My legs are weak, and I have to sit down as she makes the tunnel crossing in unbearable silence. Farrah reaches the island a moment later, and I drag in a ragged breath.
“Are you okay?” Lyla asks.
I nod, pressing my head between my knees to stave off a dizzy spell.
“Are you sure? You don’t look good.”
“I’m fine!” I snap.
She stares at me in shock, and I release a harsh sigh. “Sorry. I just…” I let the words trail off. I don’t know why I’m being so rude. It’s not anyone’s fault that my lungs suck.
Farrah gasps out of the water. She’s shivering violently as she sloshes toward shore. Her knees buckle, and she trips face-first into the mud. We jump back from the splash. Cackling laughter ripples behind me.
Farrah clumsily gets to her feet, then gives Hartley the middle finger. Hartley smiles wickedly as she flicks her lighter.
I’m the only one left.
“Well?” Hartley raises her eyebrows at me. She’s got her T-shirt draped around her neck. Could be waiting for her bra to dry off, or could be trying to make Farrah as uncomfortable as possible.
“If you’re not going to do it, can we hurry up and get out of here?” Farrah says. “Hartley, turn around so I can wring my bra out.”
“Not a chance, princess.”
Farrah huffs and yanks her dress out of the grass, then starts stomping up the embankment. “I’m waiting in the car. Don’t follow me,” she adds to Hartley.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” she answers.
Hartley wanders off to the cabin, examining the trinkets hanging from the wooden beams across the porch roof like she’s some sort of antiques specialist.
And now we’re alone, just Lyla and me. No one thinks I’m going to do it. No one even bothered to hang around for a few minutes to see if I would.
I want to be offended, but why should they believe in me? I’ve been sitting here having a mini panic attack at just the thought. I can feel Lyla’s eyes on me. I try to recall the feeling I had at Six Flags, standing on top of the world, ready to tip over the edge. Was I afraid like this? Could I breathe in that moment? Is it fear holding me back this time or sickness? I realize with alarm that it’s actually hard to tell the difference between the two. I’ve been raised to be fearful of everything, and the result is, I have no idea what I can and can’t safely do.
Can I hold my breath for longer than a few seconds? I haven’t actually tried.
“Wait!” My voice rings out in the silence. My heart beats fast. I’m not so sure about what I’m doing, but I rise to my feet on weak legs.
Lyla cheers as I peel off my sweater. I hesitate a moment, then push down my plaid pajama pants. I really wish I were wearing cuter underwear. I kick off my shoes, and my feet sink into the cold, wet mud. Hartley has reappeared, but Farrah stays absent.
“Nice undies, Callahan. Get those in the big girl section?” Hartley jeers.
I tune her out.
The girls are talking, but I can’t hear them over the sound of my own heartbeat rushing in my ears.
I wish I had my inhaler.
“Just do it,” Hartley mutters.
“Shut up,” Lyla snaps, and then to me, “Take your time, Hope.”
I nod. The trick seems to be not overthinking it, so that’s what I’m going to do. I won’t think about my shitty lungs. I won’t panic. That’s my plan of attack.
Attack.