100 Days (28 page)

We keep climbing, slowly, up the trail until finally we're standing on the bank of the reservoir.

“It's so beautiful,” Agnes says, lowering herself down from my back. “I wonder if there's a place we can sit.”

“Looks like some old fire pits and stuff over there.” I point about a hundred yards west.

“I'll go check it out,” Moira says. “You stay with Agnes.”

When she's gone, Agnes tugs on my sleeve. “Boone, you should go with her. I'll be fine.”

“I think I should stay with you.”

“Why? Because I might be eaten by a bear? I'm right here.”

Sometimes, it feels like no matter what I do, it's the wrong choice. This is one of those times. I decide to walk away. Maybe both the girls need some space. Maybe I can just distance myself a bit while still keeping an eye on them. You never know when some Freddy Krueger type might make an appearance in a place like this. The three of us have already created the perfect setup for a teen slasher flick by not bringing flashlights to a spot in the middle of nowhere where there's no cell service.

I've gone about twenty-five paces when I hear a scream. It's accompanied by a splash.

“Agnes, no!” Moira's running toward the spot where Agnes and I stood just a minute ago.

I whip around and scan the bank. She isn't where I left her. I break into a run, and I'm almost back to the spot when a moving glint in the dark water catches my eye. Agnes. Her head is just above the surface, and she's doing this gasping cough thing that makes it impossible to tell if she's drowning or just clearing reservoir water from her pipes. I'm running toward her, ready to dive in fully clothed, when the coughing subsides.

“I'm okay,” Agnes croaks. After she clears her throat, her voice sounds heartier than I've ever heard it, no doubt from cold shock. “Take off your clothes and jump in!” she calls to us.

“What are you
doing
?” Moira screams at her. “Get
out
of there!”

“You of all people should know how well I swim,” Agnes responds.

“Swimming isn't allowed here, and you're going to get a chill!”

“Maybe
you
should chill.”

Moira looks like she's been slapped. “Agnes!”

“I think she's okay, actually,” I say in what I hope is a calming voice.

“You don't know shit.”

Agnes is clearly working hard to keep herself afloat. “Come in, Boone,” she hollers at me. “You too, Em.”

“Like hell,” Moira says. “We have to get her out of there. She doesn't have her flippers or her wings.”

“She actually looks like she's doing fine out there.”

“Are you kidding me?”

I hate to ignore the girl I love, but I do it anyway. This time, it's Agnes who has the right idea. I start with the top button on my flannel shirt. Then I keep going until I get to the end of the button fly of my jeans. I pull my T-shirt over my head, kick off my shoes, and shimmy the jeans carefully down to the earth so that I'm standing there in nothing but my boxers. “I can't believe I'm doing this.”

“What the hell
are
you doing?” Maybe it's wishful thinking, but I'm pretty sure Moira's eyes linger on me for just a few seconds longer than they need to after the question leaves her mouth.

I shrug in response. “Going in, I suppose.” With that, I walk to the edge of the reservoir, hold my arms over my head, and dive.

“Woo, Boone!” Agnes hollers when I'm in midair.

A few seconds later, I emerge beside her. “Holy cheese, it's cold!”

“I know,” Agnes says. From this close, I can see her teeth chattering, but she looks like she's having the time of her life.

“Dude,” I tell her. “You know Moira's going to kill me if I don't convince you to get out, right?”

We both glance toward the bank, where Moira's standing. She's holding herself tight, arms crossed over her belly.

“No, she won't,” Agnes whispers. “Watch.” She takes a deep breath and calls out, “I know you're many things, Moira Watkins, but I never figured you for a chicken. Looks like that's exactly what you are, though.”

Moira's mouth falls open, and her arms drop to her sides. “Give me a break, Agnes.”

“Bok.”

Moira doesn't try to defend herself. Instead, she starts lowering herself into the water with her clothes on.

“Nuh-uh,” Agnes calls to her. “If I can do it, so can you.”

Moira looks at me, but I just hold my hands above the water, palms up, like I have no power here. I try, unsuccessfully, to hide my smile. “What can I say? She's right.”

Moira starts unbuttoning her shirt. “I'm keeping my bra on,” she informs us. “Also my slip. These items are nonnegotiable.” She commands me to turn around, so I do.
“Don't look,”
she says.

I don't, but only because of something like divine intervention that keeps my back to her and my eyes focused on the reservoir stretching out in front of me.

There's a series of splashes followed by the sound of Moira shrieking. Next to me, Agnes's breathing is starting to get a bit more labored, but she still manages to giggle.

“Can I look now?” I ask her.

“I think so,” Agnes says.

Moira is already in the water when I turn back around, and she's grimacing from the cold. Only her shoulders and head are visible above the dark surface, which means I have to imagine the rest of her, all those endless curves. The skin that I can see is luminous in the moonlight. It appears to be lit from within.

“It's not that bad,” she says, dog-paddling toward us. When she gets close enough, she motions for Agnes to climb on her back, like a baby seahorse, so Agnes can catch her breath. After that, just Moira and I are left treading. Occasionally, our fingers and toes brush against each other as they move slowly through the water. For several minutes that pass more like seconds, the three of us stay like that in the almost silence, none of us making a sound.

*   *   *

“I have a horse blanket in the truck,” I offer uncertainly when we're standing on the bank again.

“Get it,” Moira says. The girls are clutching their clothes to themselves. They don't want to put them on until their skin dries off some. Thank God it's a warmish night. The breeze, when it kicks up, is still chilly, though.

“Please hurry,” Agnes adds, her teeth chattering harder now. As if I would do anything else.

“Use my clothes as towels,” I tell them, handing over my T-shirt and jeans. Then I stuff my feet into my tennis shoes and jog back to the truck in my soaking boxers, wondering what else I might have that they can dry themselves off with.

By the time I reach the still-empty parking lot, I'm all but dried out from the sprint. I pull the blanket from the back of the truck and give it a good shake. It's hairy and probably smells like Diablo, but at least it'll be warm.

Before heading back up the trail, I start the engine and crank the heater up as hot as it will go. Fortunately, the cab always warms up fast.

Back on the bank of the reservoir, Moira doesn't look like she's dried off much. Agnes has, though. It's clear that, after I left, Moira used her own clothes instead of mine to blot as much water as she could from Agnes's skin. She's standing there shivering, wearing little more than she entered the water with. I force myself not to look below her eyes, which are locked on to mine.

*   *   *

In the truck on the way back to Moira's house, there is no scolding, no “I can't believe you did that, Agnes.” There's nothing of the sort. It's like Moira and I have an unspoken agreement to act like everything's normal, even though nothing could be further from the truth. With hot air from the heater vents blasting on us full strength and the rocking of the truck as it lurches back toward the paved road, Agnes falls asleep almost immediately.

It's a couple minutes before midnight when we get back to Moira's house. Agnes wakes up and allows me to carry her from the truck to the doorstep. “Should I bring her in?” I whisper.

“I think it's best if you don't,” Moira tells me, but it doesn't seem right not to. It seems unchivalrous to leave two freezing girls on a doorstep late at night. Still, I know better than to argue. Moira knows what's best for Agnes and herself. She always has.

 

93

AGNES

DAY 8: JUNE 17

Moira's parents are up late watching an old movie when we get inside the house. A rental DVD case sitting on the entry hall table has the word
Koyaanisqatsi
typed across the front. Whatever that means. From the brief glimpse I get of it on the TV screen in the other room, the movie looks indie and artsy and deep.

“We've been waiting up for…” Moira's mom starts to say. Then she notices Moira's still-damp hair and rumpled clothes. I must not look too put-together, either, because she gasps when she looks at me. “Oh my God. What did you girls do?”

“Mom, it's no big deal,” Moira tells her. “Agnes is fine. We just went swimming.”

“Swimming?” Her mom looks astonished, and not in a good way. “I need to call Deb.”

I beg her not to. “It will just ruin her night,” I insist. “I'm fine—look!” I do a slow twirl. “See?”

She still doesn't look convinced. “Mom,” Moira says. “She's okay. We just got a little goofy.”

“Well, you were obviously soaking wet at some point. Really, Moira, I thought you'd use better judgment than this!”

I watch Moira shrink in the face of her mother's disappointment. I've never seen Mrs. Watkins this way. “You guys,” I say, trying to get their attention. “I think I'd know if I wasn't fine. Jeez. Helicopter much? Maybe I'll have to run around the block in my jammies just to prove—”

“No!” they both cry out.

Moira's mom draws a hot bath for me. As I soak, I think about our night. How Boone's big body shattered the moon's reflection on the water when he dove in, and how the pieces of light started squiggling back together almost instantly when he was under the surface. It almost made the water seem alive.

The truth is, I might not be quite as fine as I was trying to make them believe. Well, duh. Dr. Caslow's message on the answering machine Wednesday was proof enough of that. But there's a certain new quavery shortness of breath that has started up only in the past couple of days, like my lungs need a good long nap. As we hiked up the trail to the reservoir, I felt bad for saying I couldn't go any farther, but it was true. When Boone backed up and told me to climb onto his back, part of me—a big part—wanted to say, “Boone, don't.” Because I knew where it would go for me, I knew how it would end up making me feel. It was okay, though. I still maybe love him a little, but it's nothing I can't handle. Plus, the simple fact of the matter is that he has to be with Moira. I need for them to have each other. To be strong for each other. Stuff is coming soon that neither of them should have to handle on their own. I've never been able to piece that thought together until right this second, but there it is: the inescapable truth.

After Boone carried me all the way up the trail and I stood looking at the water of the reservoir, I remembered a documentary I once saw about people in Finland, how these old men came running out of sauna huts built next to a frigid lake. All of them ran down the pier naked and jumped into the near-freezing water. It was supposed to be good for their circulation or something. After Moira and Boone had both walked away, I tried not to giggle at the thought of what I should do next.

It took me less than a minute to shed my clothes. Like those Finnish men, I decided to make a splash.

The water was so cold, it stopped my breath. In the black silence beneath the surface, I thought,
Now you've done it, Agnes.
I imagined my body pulled from the water, my blue face frozen into a permanent mask of regret. The image made me kick my legs faster, but it was hard to propel my fat-free body very far without the help of flippers. Trying not to panic, I looked up toward the underbelly of the water's surface and found the moon shining through like a sign that I shouldn't give up. I kicked some more until I didn't think I could kick any harder. I wasn't wearing my nose clamp, and some water got into my nose.

Moira's scream was the first sound I heard when my head finally broke through.
Calm down,
I wanted to call out to her.
Just calm down, will you?
But I was too busy gasping for air. My too-large underwear ballooned around me in the frigid water. At least it had stayed on.

When I watched Boone strip down to his boxers on the bank and saw him for the first time without his clothes, I gasped again, and not just from the cold. I felt a sharp twinge in my chest. I couldn't help it. It was a twinge of longing with just a dash of white-hot jealousy, and then it was gone.

When Moira got in, too, I could hardly believe it. She looked like some earth-destroying goddess returning to the sea. She looked like she was made of light and the absence of light, with a little bit of rage and grace mixed in. I wanted to hold on to that thought of her so I could write it down later, but I knew I'd probably forget it. My friends were so stunning that it almost made me weep. I thought of the stars above, a billion tiny peepholes for angels to look through. I hoped angels were watching the three of us in the water and laughing at what they saw. I bet they were. God knows, we were a sight to behold.

Now, from downstairs, I hear Mrs. Watkins demanding an explanation and Moira, near tears, saying, “I didn't
know
, Mom. I didn't know she was going to jump in.”

Half an hour later, in the spare trundle bed, warm, safe, a little dizzy maybe, a little overtired, I register Mrs. Watkins coming into the bedroom. She sits on the edge of Moira's bed and says, “I sure love you girls. That's the truth.”