Dive Smack, page 6
* * *
She handed me half a meatball sub in our old kitchen. “Eat something hot, Theo. Before we go. It’s a big hike to the cliff.”
“Is Uncle Phil coming?”
“Yes.”
“Is Dad?”
“Not today. He’s with a client.”
“Big surprise.”
* * *
CHIP PUSHES past me to try and taste his mom’s sauce and she swats him with a dish towel, just past my face, flicking the memory away. I chuckle awkwardly like it’s no big deal. Completely normal. When in reality this isn’t the first time a memory has come back to me today. It’s just the first time where I wasn’t alone.
“I put all the photos and stuff you’ll need on your bed, Chip.” Mrs. Langford gives me a gentle smile.
Family history photos. She understands my dilemma without me having to say a word.
“Cool, Mom. Thanks,” Chip says adding, “You’re the best,” to mock me.
I pull him into a headlock and drag him to his room where I finally release my grip.
Chip’s twin bed is covered in photo albums, scrapbooks, and shoe boxes. My bed—the one I claimed in fifth grade—sits six feet away, bare. The only thing on the plaid comforter is the hoodie I left here last week that Mrs. Langford washed for me. I pick up one of the Langfords’ scrapbooks and flop onto the bed next to Belly. Photos of Chip and me cover the pages. We’re nine or ten. I can tell because his front tooth is still chipped. His parents didn’t take him to get it fixed until right before middle school. That’s how he and I became friends, a fistfight on the playground that resulted in his chipped tooth. Lewis Langford: forevermore known as Chip.
There’s a gold medal around his neck in one of the photos. I read the words, glued around the pictures in multicolored letters. Age 10. First Place Butterfly Stroke. Taken around the same time he started obsessing over Michael Phelps, while also telling me everything I needed to know about Greg Louganis, the greatest diver of all time. Everybody needs a hero.
“Look at this,” Chip says, flipping an old black-and-white photo my way. Frederick Langford, 1932. “Check out that suit, man. My Great-Grandpa Freddie was a snappy dresser. I bet he was a hit with the ladies. See, that’s the shit in my blood.”
“Your problem is keeping the blood in your head from always rushing to your johnson.”
“I don’t see it as a problem so much as an ability to please the masses.”
“Right. I forgot. You’re an idiot.” I Frisbee-toss the photo back with a laugh and pull out my phone.
“Who are you texting?” Chip asks.
“Nobody. Just seeing if I got a text from Iris.”
“You got her number?” He looks impressed.
“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t. Not technically. We had to exchange numbers for Malone’s class.”
“Bonus. Unless you’re just gonna add it to your stalker collection of unused girls’ numbers? ’Cause I gotta be honest. I worry about you, bro. I don’t want to walk into your room one day and find a pinboard full of photos of all the girls you never called.”
“We already texted.”
“So Malone did, in fact, do you a favor.”
“I still have to deal with Les outside of my responsibilities to the team.”
“True.”
I put my phone down and shuffle through another stack of old Langford photos. There are so many, I wonder if I could pass some off as my own. Truth is, the Langfords look nothing like me, though. Chip is five-ten with brown hair and hazel eyes and I’m topping out at six feet, blonde and green-eyed. Not even close.
“Too bad we don’t look more alike. I could use some of these.” I hold a photo of one of his uncles next to my face. “What does your mom’s side of the family look like?”
“Like my mom,” Chip says. “Short. Brown hair.”
“They have light eyes, though, don’t they?”
“You know I consider you family, bro, but we’re in the same class.” He gives me a sympathetic look and his resemblance to his mom is even clearer.
I can handle a little pity from Chip and his mom, but that’s about it. I was hit with enough soft looks and “poor things” from strangers after my parents died to last a lifetime. And the first time around was way worse than the last.
“I know this project probably has you freakin’ out over what happened,” Chip says. “But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe it was.” I drop a shrug and look away. “There are limits on my memory since the fire.”
“You sound like a shrink.”
“I’m just saying you have all these photos to jog your memories. The project has mine coming back to me all choppy.”
“So what’s really bothering you? That you don’t remember every detail of everything that’s ever happened to you, or that you don’t have anything for the project?”
“Both.”
Chip taps his temple. “You just haven’t unlocked your mind castle, Sherlock.”
“My mind palace. Thanks for the advice, my good Watson. But it’s not like I haven’t tried.”
“You’ve made honor roll every year. Trust me, broheim. There’s nothing wrong with your memory. Haven’t you ever watched one of those hypnotists on TV? There’s always a trigger.”
I don’t need to watch a hypnotist on TV to know about triggers.
“Plus, you have Dr. Maddox. Who could pass for your real uncle and said he’d help you with pictures and stuff.”
“Good. If I had to rely on GP alone I’d be screwed.”
“Look at the upside,” Chip says. “His booze has come in handy for us a few times. Living with him isn’t all bad.”
“True. He might even help with the Mackey side if I ever catch him sober enough.” I drop the stack of photos on the bed. “Screw it. I took a beating at practice and could use a soak in the hot tub.”
Chip narrows his eyes. “I have a better idea.”
“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like the way you keep avoiding shit. You’ll have to trust me on this.”
Chip is one of the only people I do trust when I think about it, despite his crappy driving. He’s also the only person I’ve told about the hypnosis I got for PTSD after the fire, because admitting I needed that much help makes me feel weak.
“All right,” I tell Chip. “I’m game. What’s your big idea?”
* * *
TEN MINUTES later, we’re hanging ten over the edge of the pool in Chip’s backyard.
“Here’s the deal,” Chip says. “You win, I’ll help you with the project—no matter what. I might even consider giving you Freddie Langford as a last resort. But if I win, you swallow your dumb pride and push your grandfather for help on the issue. The man is a high-functioning alcoholic, not a dead-end. Shadowboxing around this thing cant go on forever. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen: he helps you with the family history project and fills in some blanks in your memory? Sounds like a win-win to me.”
To him, it’s a win-win. Chip’s always been the stronger swimmer. For me, losing means dredging up things I’ve avoided talking about. Not to mention how hard GP would flip a nut if he ever found out I’m getting help from Uncle Phil. If I win, I’ll be lying to everyone, including myself. Sounds like a lose-lose to me, but I’m short on options and family. Freddie Langford and Uncle Phil might be my best choices.
“No matter what?” I ask to confirm.
“That’s the bet,” Chip says. “Take it or leave it.”
“I have one stipulation.”
“Name it.”
“No butterfly. We have to do the same thing. Freestyle.”
Chip grimaces. “Fine. A hundred meters. Take your mark.”
I take my position as the sun dips below the horizon. I’m ready. Because I might actually need his help.
The automated pool lights flicker on, bouncing across the top of the water like camera flashes, leaving me temporarily stunned.
“Prepare to have your ass handed to you,” Chip says, curling his toes over the edge of the pool. “Just remember. A bet’s a bet. I’ll call it. On your mark. Get set.”
A bet’s a bet.
“GO!”
I cut into the water before the vowel sound is cut from Chip’s mouth. Air bubbles travel along the sides of my cheeks and past my ears. I surface and start digging deep. My competitive instinct takes over in a few strokes. I have a slight height advantage, but Chip is no longer human once he hits water. His parents should have named him Gills. When I rotate for a breath, I see him pulling ahead of me and give it everything I’ve got.
I flip before I reach the wall and push off hard, gliding ahead in smooth dolphin kicks. My height gives me the lead again, but my mind starts drifting to a race I had against my mom, clouding my vision. I struggle to focus on the here and now. I flip again, but fail to keep the memory that started in the kitchen at bay.
* * *
Mom and I had a race at the end of the day, and I won. She laughed and swore she didn’t let me win on purpose, but when she climbed onto the rocks and looked at me, her eyes were sad. That happens sometimes. One minute she’s smiling, and the next minute her eyes are downcast, like her happiness can’t make it all the way out.
Still, a bet’s a bet, and she lost.
Her punishment was jumping into the water from the rocks. She hesitated, sighing. Seeing Mom sad was the thing I hated most, so I puffed up my cheeks and ran full speed to the edge of the rocks and jumped, yelling, “Bonzai.”
Mom screamed my name.
But I was fine. The rush was incredible.
I surfaced before I had a chance to think about what I’d done. I looked up at the cliff and saw Mom standing with Uncle Phil. She dove in after me and it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. When her head broke the surface of the water, she was smiling. She swam over to me, breathless. “What made you do that? Do you realize that’s a 10-meter drop?”
“I knew I could do it because I saw the girl do it first.”
“What girl, Theo?”
“The teenager girl with the black hair and body tattoos. I told Uncle Phil about her when we got here.”
“Are you sure you’re not remembering something from a movie me and Dad watched?”
“No. I saw her. She jumped in after me when the sun disappeared and it went all-dark outside.”
Mom treaded water beside me and looked around nervously. Uncle Phil was still on top of the cliff where we left him. “I didn’t see a girl, Theo. And the sun didn’t disappear. But it is darker under the surface.”
Mom smiled again, but it was sad this time and didn’t go all the way to her eyes. “You’re so much more like me than I ever imagined, which makes me incredibly happy, but you have to be careful what you say to anyone but me. Don’t blurt out everything you see, okay? Not everyone will understand.”
“What won’t they understand?” I asked.
“You.” Mom ruffled my hair. “If you see that girl again, promise you’ll let me know, okay? I’ll be looking for her too.”
* * *
I PULL hard through the next few strokes, desperate now to keep the memory going, to connect what happened between our time at the cliff with Uncle Phil to the fight between my parents, that I lose sight of my position in the pool. My hand reaches for the concrete wall too late. My elbow collapses and I hit my head. Dull pain radiates from my skull into my shoulders and I bounce back, gulping water as I pull myself up to for air, then coughing it back out. My head is pounding inside and out, blunt and throbbing.
“You okay?” Chip asks, wide-eyed.
I press the butt of my hand against the top corner of my head, nodding. Lying. A monster headache is making it hard for me to think.
“Were you planning on swimming straight through the wall?”
“I, um, I remembered … A few minutes out I started to realize—”
Iris reminds me of the girl I saw standing on the cliffs.
“That you know better than to race me by now, you fool?” Chip interjects. “If I thought you’d brain yourself trying to win I might have let up.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“True,” Chip says. “I enjoy watching you try to beat me too much.”
“Will you help me with the project anyway? Even though you’re not on my team.” I look at him with one eye closed against the pain in my head and drop mentioning the memory.
“I’m always on your team,” Chip says. “Plus I feel obligated to help uncover whether you actually have an extended family or were hatched from an alien pod and raised as a human by evil scientists.” He chuckles. “Dude, maybe that’s why you’re not good with girls. The whole women are a different species thing might be true in your case.”
I make a grab for Chip over the ropes, but he’s too fast. “You still have to talk to your grandfather, though,” he says, backstroking away. “Your loss might be a win.”
The optimal word there was might. But a bet’s a bet and I lost this time.
EIGHT
Press: The downward press of the springboard before its upward recoil.
GP WAS in a stupor when I came in from Chip’s so I spent the rest of the night finishing a ridiculous mound of homework, while intermittently staring into space, trying to make sense of the memory from the cliff. Especially what Mom said about being like her and not blurting everything I see. But Uncle Phil isn’t just anyone. He’s the only person I can talk to about any of this stuff. My grandfather is the one who wouldn’t understand.
I hear GP coming toward the kitchen and I fumble a bag of much-needed coffee, knocking over the glass of water I poured to take my morning Adderall. The dark roasted grounds and water swirl together and cascade over the oak cabinets like mud, drizzling onto the dingy, yellowing tiles at my feet. I stare at the mess through eyes that sting from lack of sleep, semi-frozen, because for a split-second I thought I felt the memory crawling forward again from the deepest part of my brain.
I crouch to mop up the grainy mess and stuff the sopping wad of paper towels into the trash bin under the sink. As I stand my eyes land on the kitchen window and I jump a freaking mile. GP is standing right behind me. Not super close. But offset like a pair of playing cards, our side-by-side reflections a study in genetic anomalies. Different heights, different builds, different hair colors, though his is mostly gray now. I look more like my mom than the Mackeys who all have brown hair and eyes.
“Caught you off guard, did I?”
Yeah. You could say that. But I don’t. “I was just making some coffee.”
“Looks like it got away from you.”
Not as much as the bottle got away from him last night. “You want a cup?”
“I suppose I should.”
And I suppose he’s right, as long as he doesn’t substitute Jack Daniel’s for half-and-half. If I’m going to get any help from him, I need him relatively sober.
Adapt or perish.
That’s what Mr. Malone said about survival of the fittest during sociology before he assigned us our partners. He was talking about it in context to our family histories. Ancestors immigrating to the United States, taking control of their futures, when they had no reason to trust the process. Truth is, unless I’m on the springboard, taking control was never my strong suit. But that has to change.
I take two mugs from an upper cabinet and restart the coffee making process under the weight of GP’s presence. He won’t apologize for being drunk last night. I doubt he even remembers half of what he said. From the corner of my eye, I see him staring at my sociology notebook. I try not to stiffen.
“How are your classes going?”
“My classes?” Now I know he’s sober. This is the first time he’s shown interest in my academic status in ages. “Okay, I guess. For the most part.” I flip the knob on the coffeemaker and face him, keeping my back against the sink.
“For the most part,” he says. “You guess.”
“Not as good as they should be,” I clarify. Even though I hate when he responds in question-statements. My dad used to do the same thing. Nature versus nurture in full effect.
GP scratches the gray scruff on his chin. “I hear there’s something you want to talk to me about?”
Curtis must have mentioned the family history project to him last night. I root through the cabinets for sugar, avoiding his stare. Then I take a deep breath, the way I do before every big dive, and let it rip.
“I know you don’t like talking about the night of the fire,” I say to the inside of a cabinet, “and that the subject is sort of off-limits, but my sociology class is doing a semester-long project that explores the family as a social institution. We’re supposed to start with our nuclear families, conducting interviews and gathering information, then work our way out to mini-biographies of other relatives.”
“Social institutions, huh?”
“I can show you the synopsis.” I start pulling up School Loop on my phone, but have to wait for a stupid app to update. The little progress bar, running red, is an accurate measure of my patience. It turns over to green and I hold my phone out for GP.
“I don’t need to see that damned thing. Just tell me what you need already, before I’m dead from old age. Or worse.”
Right.
I shove my phone into my pocket. “The first part of the assignment is due in a couple of weeks, which wouldn’t be a big deal if I had the names of any of Mom’s relatives. If there’s anyone in her family you know of that I can contact. Maybe they can … I don’t know … fill in some blanks.” I shrug to keep it casual.
GP has one eyebrow cocked discouragingly, but I’m in too deep not to finish testing the water.
“I know you won’t like this idea either, but if you don’t have anything that might help me I could always ask he-ain’t-your-goddamn-Uncle-Phil if he has anything I can use.”
“You know I don’t want you doing that.”
GP lets out a barking cough.
“Are you sick? You’ve been coughing a bunch.”
