‘No, but I know you,’ Clondine responds, flashing the healing cigarette burn on the back of her hand.
We’re at the opposite end of the pool from the instructor. Hushed whispers pass back and forth, loud enough for me to hear. Phoebe and Izzy comment on the way my swimsuit fits, how dark the hair on my arms is. An old scar interests them, purple and large, on my right forearm.
‘Bet you she did it herself.’
‘Yeah, bet she did, probably into S and M.’
An eruption of giggles.
‘Quieten down, you girls at the end.’
The purple crater in my arm. No. I didn’t do it myself, that’s not how it happened. You said as you did it, Mummy, it’s so you’ll never forget. A branding. You held my arm against the heated towel rail in our bathroom. You’ll always be mine, you said. A tattoo of our love scorched into my arm.
The instructor enters the pool, demonstrates how to roll in a canoe. The difference between life and death, he says, when he comes back up from the blue. Relax. Trust in the water, and your partner too. Whatever you do, don’t panic.
I watch him, his mouth moves yet the sound is distorted. Slow motion. It takes me a moment to realize I’m falling. Shoved into the pool. Whispers first, something like, just do it, push her, go on. I land in the water with force, the tiles on the bottom bruising my legs. I use them as purchase to swim up for air. A row of heads all in a line stare at me as I surface. Girl soldiers in black Lycra, arms not at their sides but folded over their developing breasts. Laughter, a round of applause breaks.
I swim to the edge, the instructor makes a joke about a keen bean. Phoebe offers me her hand as I approach the poolside. I know what she plans, I can see inside her mind and it doesn’t look dissimilar to mine. I take her hand, one foot up on the side of the pool, halfway out, then she lets go. This time I land flat on my back, the impact of the water stings my skin. More whoops and laughter.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Phoebe, grow up, that was stupid and dangerous, not to mention time-wasting for the rest of the class. I suggest you and Milly partner up for the canoe roll, see if you can be at all sensible together, and for pete’s sake, Milly, hurry up, or do I have to get a rod and fish you out?’
‘No, Mrs Havel.’
I swim to the steps, satisfied by the look on Phoebe’s face. The joke’s on you now, canoe partner.
‘Actually, Mrs Havel, I could use a volunteer and as you’re already in the water –’ The instructor points at me.
‘Excellent idea, swim this way please, Milly.’
When I get to him he asks me to climb into the canoe while he holds it still. It’s all about communication he says, and trust.
‘Ready?’
I nod, gripping tight on to the sides.
‘Rolling on three, okay? One, two, three, and under.’
A blur of blue, up in a flash.
‘How was that?’
‘It was okay.’
‘See, girls, a piece of cake. If you split into pairs for this next bit please, those without canoes can practise assisted swimming. Simply get your partner to lie on their backs in the water pretending to be unconscious. It’s your job to swim them to the side, keeping their nose and mouth clear of the water at all times.’
‘Mrs Havel, can’t I work with Izzy or Clondine?’
‘No, you and Milly will work together. If you hadn’t been so keen to muck around earlier you might have had the luxury of choice, but not now. Your turn for the roll.’
The noise in the pool, splashes and screams, a nervousness in the air, nobody likes the idea of rolling under water. Marie complains about chlorine, the damage to her hair. I swim over to Phoebe, hold the canoe still. Her turn to roll. Perhaps she sees inside parts of my mind too, the thoughts I’m having, because she says, ‘Don’t try anything funny, okay?’
My silence unnerves her, works every time.
‘I mean it, otherwise you’ll pay.’
I nod, fingers crossed behind my back.
While she’s climbing in I’m tempted to ask her about Sam. Her laptop, left behind in her room over half-term. I was surprised, yet pleased, to find it could be accessed with no password. Setting a password was the first thing I did when I was given mine. No need, she thinks. Mike’s the sort of parent who would never look without asking first. A firm believer in respecting privacy, in letting us be teenagers.
I check behind me. The instructor is busy. Mrs Havel, at the other end of the pool. Girls being girls, absorbed in themselves. I tell Phoebe I’ll count to three, then roll.
‘Just hurry the fuck up,’ she says.
So I do. One, two, three and roll, all the way over.
Not.
Quite.
I stop halfway through. One elephant. Two elephant.
Three.
She realizes at three. Her hands uncross from her chest, thump on the sides of the canoe. I feel her body move, whacking and writhing from side to side.
Six elephant.
Seven.
The noise in the pool bounces off the tiles, laughter and coughing as water is cleared from mouths. Nobody looks, nobody notices. How long can the average person hold their breath underwater? Thirty seconds? Sixty?
Nine elephant.
Ten.
Her nails dig into my hand, a vague swirl of pink in the water. Half-moon-shaped injuries, carved out by beautifully filed nails, her pride and joy. The instructor moves closer, Mrs Havel too. I roll the canoe, her head is up, out of the water. Emotions. A rainbow of colour across her face. Panic. Fear follows next. Relief she’s alive, and fury, the last to make an appearance. I revel in every single shade. She gasps, her chest heaves up and down, looks at me.
‘You bitch,’ she says. ‘Mrs Havel. Miss.’
The instructor blows his whistle, shouts for us to switch over, those who’ve done the canoe roll now practise rescue swimming, and vice versa.
‘Mrs Havel.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Phoebe, can’t it wait?’
Clondine and Izzy swim towards us, it’s Phoebe’s face they see. Pale. Panic. Stuck on repeat. The feeling her lungs are about to burst. Trapped.
‘What’s wrong?’ Izzy asks.
‘I almost fucking drowned, that’s what’s wrong,’ she replies, staring at me. The whites of her eyes slightly red, the chlorine.
‘Drama queen,’ Izzy teases.
‘Fuck off, Iz, all of you just fuck off.’
She climbs out of the canoe, swims to the steps nearest Mrs Havel and hauls herself out of the water. Goosebumps visible on her skin. You get them when you’re cold, other reasons too. Her hand reaches to her throat, reassuring herself she can breathe. I don’t know what she says to Mrs Havel but whatever it is she’s allowed to leave the pool and doesn’t return for the last part of the lesson.
In her emails to Sam she mentioned me – there’s something I don’t like about her, she wrote. In what way, he asked. Don’t know, she’s just a bit of a weirdo or something.
Or something, Phoebe.
At the end of the lesson as I swim the canoe back up to the shallows, my right hand nips. Four indentations, the shape of her fear. Behind the privacy of the cubicle door I use my phone to photograph my hand. A keepsake.
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