Fourteen #2
“I didn’t think so, you’re usually pretty meticulous about cleaning up after yourself.” Glancing back down toward the door Mr. Lambert leaned in. “Am I seeing things or is the guy who called out the ref in your game down there in the second row?” I felt as white as his hair.
“I thought I recognized him,” I mumbled.
Nodding, he scratched his chin. “I thought I knew everyone at our school. Must be from somewhere else in the district.” Then smiling back at me, he added, “Sure was a good thing he was at the game, someone needed to say something. It takes some guts to get out in front of everybody, even if it might get you thrown out.” Lunch rested heavily in my belly. All I could do was nod my agreement.
“You guys looked better than the varsity. Hard fighting and tight. Glad they got their win. I’m going to have to tell him thanks before we go.”
I sputtered a protest but Mr. Lambert was already walking away.
This was not good. Really really not good.
Maybe I should just fill out that stupid form.
But that would mean a district interview, and what was happening between us anyway.
Nothing. Coffee, which was nice. But nothing.
He wasn’t even in my dream anymore. If the district interviewed us that would demand that we both take it seriously.
We would need to define it. And there was nothing to define.
Just crazy unexplained dreams that wouldn’t go away.
At ten after one the stream of people turned into a rush as everyone took their seats. Craig slipped in toward the end. I was hurriedly trying to fill in my notes when he came in so I avoided meeting his eyes but I felt him look up at me before taking his seat.
The test was super simple, and I remembered more than I thought, and got an eighty. They let us pass with a seventy-six. I’m sure that makes parents really confident in the safety of their kids. With the first aid test behind us, the proctor lifted up a torso from under the table.
“For the practical CPR portion of the course we are going to divide into six groups, so count off.”
Mr. Lambert was number three, front row. I counted ahead in horror barely keeping ahead of the proctor. Craig was four. I exhaled in relief until I heard powdered-sugar guy say “three” and turn to look at me.
“Four,” I croaked.
“Gather your materials,” the proctor said, directing each group to a different portion of the room. “I’ll bring a dummy around. We have three torsos and three infants. Each group will practice on one and then rotate.”
There were five of us in the front corner. An even split of two guys, including Craig, and two ladies, and me. I was unreasonably nervous and a party of five was not large enough to hide in. Having been the standoffish one I croaked out a lackadaisical “Hi,” to the group as I walked up.
The lanky lean guy whose beat up running shoes screamed track coach, smiled back with a “hello.” The wheels in his head were cranking, trying to come up with a reason why he should know me.
“Uh, hey,” Craig added. The two ladies exchanged glances and I would have given lanky guy’s left leg to know what they were thinking because they clearly knew each other and could speak with just their eyes. Like Craig was trying to speak to me.
His blue eyes were wet and slightly dilated, as if he was trying to take me all in because he was afraid this was all he was going to get.
So far this was all I had given him, and planned on giving, because I couldn’t handle any more sleepless nights.
And Mr. Lambert was on the far side of the room and I needed my job.
A thud echoed as the proctor dropped a torso with a plastic Ken-haired head in a grubby red cross t-shirt on the table in front of us. “Be nice to Carl,” she half joked before moving on.
“I wonder how much blood he had to give to end up without limbs,” the taller woman asked.
Craig flinched as the other woman answered, “They probably just fed him to a wood chipper which is why he needs CPR.” My fingers were damp with discomfort and stuck to the pages of my notebook as I tried not to look at Craig to check his facial expression. Was it anger at the callous comment?
“Okay now,” the proctor interrupted the chatter, before flicking to the next slide and beginning her instruction.
She ran through the mechanics of CPR before reminding us what we were supposed to do when we first approached someone unresponsive, which had been on the written test. After a few minutes she had us begin practicing on the dummies.
The whole thing felt like a bad improv class.
Shouting out, “Are you okay, someone call 911,” before leaning over to listen to plastic Ken’s non-existent breathing felt farcical and frustrating.
Lanky runner went first, putting the dummy on the floor before he began.
His motions had the smoothness of a practiced professional.
He made it look easy and no big deal, like he was rolling out loaves of bread, or stirring soup.
Not like he was a grown man playing with a doll.
Standing up after wiping down the dummy with the wet wipe he was breathing heavily from the effort of pumping Carl the Ken doll’s chest. The pair of chattering women looked down at the dummy with disdain and directed Craig to go next.
Craig’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows which he leaned on as he knelt with a grimace.
“Hey buddy, you okay?” He shook Carl’s shoulder, a touch that was solid but careful.
Without an answer Craig gently tilted Carl’s head back, firm fingers lifting Carl the dummy’s chin.
Leaning his ear over Carl’s permanently open mouth Craig closed his eyes, listening for a rush of air that would never come.
Watching the scene, I felt both embarrassed and jealous.
How could someone who allowed his anger to boil out in public be so real with a hunk of plastic?
I heard a quiet murmur from the pair of women and glanced up.
Craig wouldn’t like someone talking behind his back.
The tall one wore a lewd smile and the other was flushed red with her lower lip in her teeth.
Taking the entire scene in I realized the pair was craning to watch Craig from behind, watching how he filled his clothes as he moved.
They couldn’t appreciate how he leaned mostly on one knee, or how he quickly set his hand down to relieve the pressure on his bent back.
All they could see was the lumberjack, not what it was costing him.
“He’s not breathing,” Craig grunted, straightening up.
Pulling out his phone he shoved it into my hands.
“Call 911!” The shout was loud enough that the other groups looked over.
The proctor even jumped. Then with hurried care Craig moved his fingers across Carl’s chest, searching for the spot just below the sternum.
For a moment I wondered what those fingers would feel like running across my chest. Then Craig was wrapping his hands together and with matching exhalations began to pump Carl’s chest.
Keeping rhythm, Craig muttered the Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive” like we’d been taught.
Switching to rescue breathing Craig cupped Carl’s chin tilting his head before locking lips.
It was incredibly juvenile to think about kissing while watching someone perform CPR, but I work in a high school, I live in juvenility.
And holding Craig’s phone while watching his fingers slide across Carl’s jaw, and studying the shape of his lips, I thought about it all.
Jealousy of a plastic dummy is ridiculous but real.
By the time Craig’s five minutes were up I was as breathless and flushed as he was.
Standing nearby the proctor said, “Good job. Carl is definitely going to make it.”
Craig blinked, sitting up with a start, “Oh, uh, good.” Then starting to get up he stopped, wiped down Carl, and finished slowly standing up. “Does that mean I passed?”
“Definitely,” the proctor smiled. “I’ll have your certificate upfront since you’re not in the district system. I hope it helps.”
Exhaling all his nervousness Craig almost collapsed before steadying himself on the table edge. “Thanks.”
“I’ll go next,” the shorter woman said, stepping close to Craig to get in position near Carl.
She was so close she almost knocked Craig over.
I wanted to push her down the risers. I also wanted to be where she was.
Putting my hands and lips where Craig’s had been.
Totally middle school, not even high school.
Doing my best to ignore Carl and his new date I slid close to Craig. “Here,” I said, offering his phone back to him. “Carl must be the most unhealthy guy in the world.”