TORCH (2 page)

Regan nods. “Looks like she got a nose job this summer. Last year it was veneers. The boobs are all hers.”

“Why’s she so wound up?” I ask.

“Melissa’s in her seat. It’s got the best view.”

“
Her
seat? It’s a diner.”

“Make that her throne,” Regan says, snickering. “Remember, Bianca’s dad’s Chief of Police.”

The cute guy Melissa was with must be in the restroom, because she slides out of her seat and gathers his plate and hers, preparing to move.

Before I can stop myself, I call out, “Excuse me. Bianca?”

As Bianca turns, Regan kicks me under the table.

“Who are you?” Bianca says, scanning me with narrowed eyes.

“A friend of Melissa’s,” I say. “I just wanted to point out that she was here first, and her food’s on the table. You can’t make her move.”

Bianca stares at me for a few seconds, before repeating, “Who
are
you?”

Behind her, Melissa shakes her head warningly before carrying her plate to a table in the middle of the room. One of Bianca’s friends grabs Melissa’s purse and follows her with it.

“Hey,” I say, sliding out of my own seat. “Leave her stuff alone.”

I have at least four inches and fifteen pounds of muscle on Bianca, even in those heels, but she isn’t fazed. “Okay, the question is ‘
What
are you?’” she says. “A guy in drag?”

Even with the blasting music, the diner seems suddenly quiet.

Christine comes over, her smile brighter than ever. “Girls, girls, what’s the trouble? Bianca, there’s an empty booth right over here with a great view, and better yet, free milkshakes.”

As she talks, Christine gently herds Bianca and her friends to a booth by the door. Surprisingly, Bianca slips into the new booth, but she calls back, “I don’t drink milkshakes. They make you HUGE.”

“Honey, you’d be beautiful no matter what,” Christine says, helping Melissa move to her original place. Then she prods me back into my seat with the force of her smile. “Don’t you worry, Phoenix,” she says. “You and Bianca will work things out in no time.”

Regan stares at me as I sink my teeth into my second burger, which has just arrived in the hands of a waitress. “Are you crazy, Phee? Bianca just issued a warrant for our social arrest.”

“You’re overreacting,” I say, around a mouthful. “We’ll work things out in no time.”

She closes her eyes. “Phee, you really have no sense at all about social hierarchies. I’m already at the bottom of the pond at Eastfield. You just sunk us into the mud.”

Back home, being on the swim team meant I didn’t need to care about my place in the school ecosystem. I still don’t care much, but I hate to think I sunk Regan into the social mud because she
does
care. “Okay, I’ll go over and suck up. Just let me finish my burger.”

Bianca isn’t willing to wait. She lost the first battle and comes armed for the second. Strutting up to our booth, she says, “I know who you are. You’re Phoenix Forsythe.”

“I am?” Regan kicks me under the table again and this time I take the hint. “I am. Nice to meet you, Bianca.”

“I’ve heard about your family,” Bianca says. “And I want to go on record as saying that Rosewood was doing just fine before the Forsythes came along.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” I say. “It’s nice to be here.”

Bianca glances at Regan’s laptop and sees the chart. “Are you serious, Wilder? You haven’t got a hope of making it onto the school council or debates club.”

“We’re really aiming for Robotics,” I say. “See you there?”

 “You’ll see me everywhere,” she says. “Because I rule the school.”

 She heads back to her booth, now stuffed with six girls, and their laughter causes Regan to slump in her seat. “We’re dead.”

“We are not dead,” I say, grabbing the rest of her milkshake. “Although the top tier of the Operation Destiny list is probably in jeopardy.” I turn the laptop around and say, “Field hockey’s viable. Bianca’s not going to risk her face on that.”

 Regan sighs. “Two friends are all anyone really needs anyway.”

I
used to be hooked on chlorine, despite the damage it did to my hair, eyes and skin. After early morning swim practice, the smell clung to me all day, a constant reminder that I belonged to a winning team. But somewhere between San Diego, and Rosewood, I lost the love. Worse, I lost the talent. Training has always been hard work, but the minute I slipped into the pool at Eastfield High, I knew something had changed. Each swim is worse than the last, so I’ve decided to skip team tryouts. From what I’ve heard, they’re hopeless anyway.

Still, I’m happy to use my credentials to earn a few bucks, so today I’m perched on the lifeguard stand. As jobs go, this one’s pretty cushy. All I have to do is sit around watching other people swim laps and make sure they follow pool protocol.

A sneeze to my left tells me that Regan has dropped by to say hello. She’s standing beside my chair, fully dressed and wiping her nose. Regan’s allergic to chlorine. She gets an ugly rash after a short swim.

“Look at her,” I say pointing to a girl in a white bikini and bathing cap. “She shouldn’t be in the fast lane. Did you see her turns?” I swing down from the chair. “I’m going to tell her to move.”

“There’s no else in her lane,” Regan says.

“I’m making a point,” I say.

“Which is…?”

“That people in white bikinis aren’t serious swimmers.” I grin at her over my shoulder as I walk away.

“You’re such a snob, Phee.”

I am a snob when it comes to swimming, but there’s more to it than that. I’m pissed off that Bikini is treating the lane like her own personal catwalk when my lap time is humiliating. I may have wanted to be defined by more than swimming, but I didn’t want to lose it completely. Without swimming, I have no idea who I am.

Circling the pool to the deep end, I wait at the top of Bikini’s lane. Before she has a chance to make her awkward, thrashing turn, I rest my foot on her head. She directs her goggles at me, sucks in some chlorine and chokes, “What the f—?”

It’s Bianca Larken. Once again, I’ve stuck my foot in it, this time literally. But there’s no backing down. Signaling her to move under the buoy line, I say, “Slow lane, please. You’re holding up traffic.”

It’s about to be true. A tall, broad-shouldered guy in a black bathing cap and blue swim trunks has slipped into the shallow end and is heading toward us. He has a beautiful stroke—deliberate, controlled, powerful. When someone moves like that you get out of the way.

Bianca hears the splashing behind her and ducks under the buoy line. I ignore the threats she gurgles in my direction.

When I’m back in my chair, I break the news to Regan and she winces. “Tell me you did not kick Bianca in the head.”

“How was I to know is was her? Everyone looks the same in a bathing cap. Anyway, I just nudged her into the bikini lane.”

Regan bumps her head gently against the lifeguard chair and says, “Welcome to the primordial ooze, our home until college.”

I slouch in my chair. The art of negotiating a social hierarchy eludes me, and Regan desperately wants this year to be different. She expected me to help, and I’m doing exactly the opposite. But seriously, she should know me better, because she knows me better than anyone.

Aside from a need to fit in, we have a lot in common, including the fact that we both lost our moms early. Mine died when I was six, and Regan’s died three years later. An only child, she became very close to her dad, whereas my brother, Nate, stepped up as quasi-parent while Dad threw himself into work. When Nate died, Uncle Rick was upset because he’d lost my brother on his watch, and Dad sunk into a deep depression. So Regan got her dad to pressure mine to move here, and I pressured Dad from my end, hoping they could help each other. The potential benefits outweighed the downside of accepting Rosewood’s superiority complex. Now, I apparently have to accept Bianca’s, as well.

“I’m sorry, Regan,” I say. “I’ll try harder, I promise.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “You’ve got a lot on your mind.”

She thinks I’m overcome by grief, and maybe I am, if it’s possible to be overcome and not know it. I mean, sometimes I miss Nate so much that it hurts to breathe, but mostly I cope okay. I like to think I’d have stepped on Bianca’s head at any point, given the opportunity.

“What’s scheduled for tomorrow?” I ask, knowing the best way to make amends is to show some support for Operation Destiny.

“Dance club audition,” Regan says.

The only moves I’ve ever had were in the water, but I smile. “Sounds like fun.”

A loud clang makes us jump. It’s Matt Huxley, the head lifeguard, making his point with a metal rescue hook on the back of my chair. “This isn’t glee club Phoenix,” he says. “How about saving some lives?”

I push myself upright and make a show of scanning the pool. There’s a grand total of two swimmers: Bianca and fish-boy. With Katie, the other lifeguard making her rounds, we’re well covered. Still, I’m not getting paid to chat to Regan, so I apologize.

Swinging her bag over her shoulder, Regan backs away, saying, “It’s my fault, sir, sorry.”

I fight a grin over the “sir.” Matt, who only answers to his nickname, Hux, is twenty-three and still on a break between high school and college. He seemed like a chill guy during my job interview, with his constant grin and surfer slang. Apart from the frosted tips on his dark, tousled hair, he’s cute, too. Even today, when he’s trying to be a hard ass, he can’t help smirking. In that way, he reminds me of Nate, which is why I’m not intimidated.

I wave goodbye to Regan and train my eyes on the pool. In the deep end, Bianca hoists herself onto the deck and pulls off her bathing cap. A long ponytail slaps onto her back and she finger combs it with both hands while glaring at me. Her wet bikini clings transparently to her curves.

After making sure we’re watching, she drops her bathing cap into the water with a loud, “Oops.”

“I’ll get that for you,” Hux says, hurrying around the pool carrying his rescue hook like a sword. He listens intently as Bianca shares her tale of woe, gesturing in my direction. I pretend not to notice, staring instead at fish-boy. There’s something calming about the perfect rhythm of his strokes. The water flies off his arms in arcs of shining crystals. He’s probably in the same trance I used to fall into while swimming lengths.

A shout from Hux pulls me back to reality. “Bring the net, Phoenix.”

Sighing, I clamber down from the guard chair and take the net off the wall. I figured Bianca wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d shown me my place. Might as well get it over with.

Missing the politics of the situation, Hux tries to take the net.

“No, let me,” I say.

“Yes,” Bianca says. “Let her.”

I yank on the net and Hux releases it so quickly that I spin. The pole swings around and I feel a thunk as the rim of the plastic net hits something.

Someone.

The swimmer in the black bathing cap looks up at me and his eyes widen for a second behind his swim goggles.

A hot flash sparks in my chest and roars in both directions. My heart races and my head thrums. For a second I think I might faint, but then I remember to breathe. One breath, two, three, four. My pulse slows. I look around, expecting everyone to be staring, but Bianca is leading Hux away.

My eyes track back to the guy in the black bathing cap. He’s moved a few yards, only now he’s face down and motionless, except for the gentle rocking of ripples.

It must be a game. He’s probably a friend of Bianca’s and pretending to drown to see what I’ll do. If I react, he’ll pop up laughing and I’ll look like a fool. A guy that fit could hold his breath for a couple of minutes, easily.

The seconds tick by and I stare until my eyes burn. What strikes me is his utter stillness. It’s like an energy void. This can’t be a game.

I glance again at Hux, and see that Bianca’s sunk her talons into his arm, and he’s riveted. Katie, the other lifeguard, is talking to someone in the pool office. Two or three more seconds pass while I decide what to do. Finally, I drop the net on the deck and slip into the water. With two strokes, I’m beside the guy, treading to keep afloat. I have to tread hard. The water seems to be sucking me down, like quicksand. Cold quicksand.

Reaching out, I shove the swimmer’s shoulder. No response. I reach under him, grab his opposite arm and flip him over. His eyes are closed. Still treading, I prop the guy up with one hand and scrape my knuckles across his sternum, hard, with the other. No reaction. He’s definitely unconscious. It can only have been a minute or two at most, but brain damage starts at three or four. Every second counts.

And yet, for fleeting moment, I hesitate, fighting to stay afloat and to keep him afloat. It feels like the weight of the Titanic on my arm. Deep inside, something tells me to let go. To save myself.

Shaking my head to dispel the thought, I wrap my arm across the guy’s chest and tow him to the side with a few kicks. Sliding my arm under him again, I hook my fingers onto the wall. I watch his chest and see it’s not rising. Pinching his nose, I press my mouth against his and give one quick puff of air. He is already cold, so cold. In profile his face is like a marble sculpture, except for the long dark lashes.