Chapter 56
Chapter
It’s lunchtime now, and I go out to get some fresh air. There are lots of people sitting on the benches and on the grass, talking about everything that’s happened.
So there’s a real audience when Mark Winterson comes out and stumbles across the street—there’s something distinctly off about him, like he’s sleepwalking. Someone gasps as a car stops short, inches from hitting him—Watch it, asshole!—and honks the horn, but he waves it off and keeps going.
“Is he drunk?” Carol says.
But my eyes are glued to Mark Winterson as he shuffles over to the pool—the one I worked at as a lifeguard—and falls in.
He’s going to surface any second, limbs thrashing, water droplets flying. I know it.
But there’s nothing. The water is still.
Before I have time to think about it, I’m running across the street.
I kick off my shoes, toss the life preserver into the water, and jump in after it.
Maybe if you ask me later, I won’t be able to tell you why exactly I did this.
But the only thought reverberating in my mind right now is, How fucking dare you?
I swim to the bottom where Mark Winterson is resting—somehow he sank straight down. When I try to haul him up, he’s weirdly heavy. Did he put something in his jacket?
I’m struggling to get him out of it, wrenching the sleeves off his arms. I have to come up for air once, dive down again. His mouth is open, no more bubbles coming out. Fuck fuck fuck.
Finally I get the jacket off him and pull him to the surface, gasping, and get him into the life preserver, pushing him to the edge. Some people have run over to this side of the street, and a few of them help me haul him up.
I’m pumping the water out of his chest, the way I learned to. He sputters and coughs and a stream of liquid pours out of his mouth, onto the poolside tile.
“No no no leave me there I don’t want this,” he mumbles, words slurred. His head rocks side to side against the tile. “I just wanted him to be proud of me.”
Ugh, God, please tell me we’re not that similar!
“Stop it! Grow up!” I’m not sure what comes over me, but I’m shaking him, hard. “You don’t get to do that! You don’t get to! You don’t!”
My brain realizes on a delay how incoherent I sound, how beside myself. And then I notice that people around us have their phones out, filming, and for a second I get nervous about how this will look.
Mark Winterson turns over on his side and throws up on the concrete.
He rolls onto his back again and scoffs. “So you do care.”
“What the fuck did you take?”
“Xanax, Ambien, NyQuil. Whatever I had in my desk.”
I glance around again and lean in close, like I’m checking his vital signs.
“Mark Winterson. Listen to me very carefully. You see those people filming?” I pretend to take his pulse and turn his head so he can see.
“You’re going to drop the lawsuit. Or I will not rest until the main thing you’re remembered for—the main thing for which you’re known—is being the giant weenie who sued the girl who saved his life. ”
He starts laughing and coughs up some more water.
“You kill me, Ruby,” he croaks out.
“Quite the opposite just now, actually.”
“Fine! Fine. Just one thing.” He’s lying there, half drowned and washed out to dry, looking like hell, but somehow he musters a grin. “Come on, be honest. I’m at least an eight out of ten.”
Wow, how did that get back to him? I guess Morgan really is a gossip.
“Goodbye, Mark,” I say, and head back to work.