The Art of Losing Yourself (33 page)

C
ARMEN

“You need publicity.” Natalie inched her chair closer to mine, her voice a whisper in the darkened room. “You can’t just turn on the Vacancy sign and think people will start showing up.”

I kept my attention trained on the TV at the front of the room. On the screen, a man with a Tom Selleck mustache collapsed to the ground and a woman with Dolly Parton hair let out an exaggerated gasp. I crossed my arms and leaned toward Natalie. “This acting is horrendous.”

“It’s a CPR training video. What do you expect?”

The gentleman sitting a row ahead of us shot us a look over his shoulder. Natalie and I shrunk back in our seats and watched as Dolly checked the man’s vitals, then called for help. She pointed at a passerby and said, “You there, I need you to call 911 right away. This man isn’t breathing.”

She actually said “you there.”

“What about getting the station to run a story?” Natalie whispered.

“On the motel?”

“Yes. You could send out press releases to the newspapers. Oh! Maybe you could call the historical society and have The Treasure Chest registered as a historical landmark. It’s old enough, you know.”

“First I need to hire a manager.” Because without a reliable manager, The Treasure Chest couldn’t open. Yesterday, I put an ad in the paper and on several online hiring sites. It made the whole thing feel very real. “Once we have a manager, then we can talk publicity.”

“It’s exciting though, isn’t it?”

I nodded, but I wasn’t so sure. The repairing part I could do. Ripping up carpet was all pretty clear-cut. This publicity stuff, on the other hand, intimidated me. Sure, I did some for Channel Three, but that was my job. Publicity for The Treasure Chest was a whole different ball game. The stakes felt so much higher. What if I found a manager and we opened the place and nobody
showed up? Dad said we could keep the motel so long as it paid for itself. It wasn’t going to do that without customers.

As soon as the video ended, the instructor moved us into another room of Bay Breeze’s community center, where six CPR training mannequins lay spread out on the floor. Our instructor had us partner up and find a dummy. Today’s two-hour training session would result in CPR certification—a necessity for Natalie if she wanted to begin in-home day care, a perk for me. Not only would
CPR certified
look good in our portfolio, it would give me an excuse to touch base with our social worker. We had been back on the waiting list for a few months now with no word and no phone call. There were moments, most often at night, when I literally wanted to crawl out of my skin with the waiting of it all.

“Since it’s a full class today, we have to share the dummies. But don’t worry, we won’t share the germs.” The instructor passed out packets of alcohol wipes, asked us to have a seat on the cold floor, then took his place at the front of the room. “This is the most important part of today’s class. Hands-on training. If you ever find yourself in a CPR situation, I guarantee this, right here, is what you will recall.”

He knelt behind his very own mannequin. “Somebody tell me, before you start administering CPR, what are you supposed to do first?”

Natalie raised her hand. “Ask someone to call 911.”

“And then?”

“Try to rouse the victim and check to see if they’re breathing.”

“Good.”

Natalie smiled at me. “See, I was listening to the video.”

“If the person is unresponsive and is not breathing, you begin CPR. First, roll them on their back and start chest compressions.” He showed us how to position our hands, with the heel of one palm on the victim’s chest, the other hand on top of the first with fingers interlaced. “You compress the chest two inches for an adult, one and a half inches for a child, one hundred beats per minute. An easier way to keep track is to compress to the tune to “Stayin’ Alive.” “Another One Bites the Dust” works too, but that’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

He gave us all a corny smile, then began singing the first song in a pitchy
falsetto while compressing the dummy’s chest. “Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man. No time to talk.”

Natalie and I exchanged high-browed looks.

“You want to press hard. You should hear your dummy make a rhythmic thudding click with each push. You want to do thirty compressions, then two breaths.” He demonstrated how to tilt the victim’s head and administer the breaths. “If your breath is too forceful, your dummy will make an impolite noise. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A nervous twitter rippled through the room.

“You should be able to hear a swish of air and see the chest rise.”

He went through the process a few more times, then turned on the radio and invited us to try. The Bee Gees blasted from the speakers. I motioned for Natalie to go first. While she hummed along to the music, I found myself staring at the lifeless, half-bodied, plastic man in front of her. As its chest rose and fell with Natalie’s breath, all I could think was that CPR wasn’t something a person could administer to themselves. No matter how hard a person tried, she couldn’t breathe life into her own lungs.

G
RACIE

The moment Malik read my name off the list, an interesting progression of emotions tumbled through me like dominoes. A wave of disbelief knocked into elation, elation knocked into excitement, excitement knocked into anxiety, anxiety knocked into fear. The kind that went well with a barf bag. I was officially on the academic bowl team—not just the after-school practice team, but the team that would compete. The team that went all the way to nationals last year and expected to do the same this year.

A sophomore gave me a congratulatory pat on the back.

Our practice group had been whittled from ten to four—Malik, Veronica, me, and a kid with a rat face and horrible acne but a mind capacity the size of China. Seriously, he was like a walking database for Wikipedia, only everything was accurate. His name was Fred and his biggest dream was to have the longest winning streak on
Jeopardy
, which I had no doubt he would one day accomplish. I was the only new person to make the competition team, replacing a girl who graduated last year. There were also two alternates, should one of us fall suddenly ill or die unexpectedly.

Malik started the meeting. “If nobody objects, we will employ the same strategy as last year. ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ may not be a grammatical gem, but I happen to think it’s an infallible philosophy. Fred, last year you were our reigning expert in all things history and current events. How do you feel about taking a shovel to that expertise this year?”

With his hand in the shape of a gun, Fred flicked his wrist at Malik. It was Fred’s way of saying “You got it.” I imagined him doing the same thing one day to Alex Trebek, should Alex live long enough for the encounter.

“V, you ready and willing to resume your role as our science and geography aficionada?”

Veronica gave him a double thumbs-up.

“That leaves me quarterbacking literature and art, and Gracie Fisher, that leaves you with RMP.” Malik looked up from his clipboard. “I can be of assistance
with the R, as I happen to be a longstanding connoisseur of religious matters, but the M and the P will be all you.”

RMP stood for religion, mythology, and philosophy. I couldn’t be happier with the assignment if I chose it for myself. I found all three topics interesting. “Sounds good.”

“Welcome aboard, Fisher. I’d say do us proud, but I know you will.”

Malik went on to explain the new practice schedule now that our first competition was around the corner, stop number one on the road to nationals. His words set a kaleidoscope of butterflies free in my stomach. This whole extracurricular endeavor just got very real. As soon as our team captain wrapped up and dismissed us for the day, Veronica offered me a warm, official welcome and Elias knocked on the classroom door. He walked inside and slapped hands with Malik. I had no idea why he was still at school.

“Competitions are a blast.” Veronica pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder while the rest of the team dispersed. “We all pile into Malik’s van and cram the entire way there. Then afterward, we look for the most random restaurant we can find. Last year, we found this hilarious pirate ship–themed family eatery in Seagrove. The waitress made Malik walk the plank.”

“Into a ball pit,” Elias added from a few desks away.

I raised one of my eyebrows. “You were there?”

“Unfortunately, no. But I’ve heard the story a few times.” He smiled at me. “Congrats on making the team. I knew you would.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Never mind that I may need a prescription for Xanax.

“What are you talking about, ‘not a big deal’? Leave that heresy at the door.” Malik set his hands over his chest in classic Malik fashion. “You are an official member of Bay Breeze’s academic bowl team, the reigning state champions. It is a triumph worth lionizing.”

I laughed. “Lionizing?”

Somewhere in the middle of Malik’s speech, Veronica started nodding. “I agree. We should celebrate.” She looked between Malik, the wordsmith, and Elias, the beanie-wearing football star. “We should go the Sadie Hawkins dance.”

Both boys pointed to their chests.

I was as confused as them. “
Who
should go to the Sadie Hawkins dance?”

“All four of us. Malik and I can go together. And you and Eli can go together. We can double.”

I glanced at Elias, who seemed entertained by the suggestion.

Malik pushed his black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. I discovered a while back that they were all for show. They didn’t actually have prescription lenses. “Woman, are you inviting me to the dance?”

“I guess I am.” Veronica shrugged good naturedly. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“That’s some kind of delayed celebration,” Malik said. “The dance isn’t until the end of February.”

“Fine. We can go to The Barbeque Pit tonight, and the dance in a few weeks.” She turned to me with excitement in her eyes. “What do you think?”

“Gracie doesn’t like dances,” Elias said.

“Even if I did like them, we couldn’t go.”

“Why not?”

And here was the perfect opportunity to figure out what Elias and Chanelle were exactly, without sounding overly interested. “Wouldn’t Chanelle object?”

“Chanelle?”

“Yes, Chanelle.” I curled my thumbs beneath the straps of my backpack and focused every ounce of energy on not blushing. “Aren’t you two…?”

“Aren’t we what?”

“Together?”

Elias shook his head.

I tilted my head. “Come on. All that touchy-feely, snuggly stuff you two are doing?”

He choked back a laugh. “Chanelle and I have known each other forever. She’s like a sister.”

“Perfect,” Veronica quipped. “Then let’s all go.”

Despite my best efforts, heat crept into my cheeks. It even flushed up into my hairline. My ankles bowed outward so that I stood on the edges of my boots. “If that’s how you want to celebrate, then I guess I’d go.” I looked at Elias. “If you want to.”

His left cheek pulled in with the makings of a smile. “Did you just ask me to the dance?”

Malik slapped him on the chest. “In an offensive sort of way, I believe she did.”