Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby

lip.
    â€œI’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I didn’t mean that.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head. “Gimme your boots.”
    I sit on the pile of cattails and pull them off.
    â€œWhat’d you do there?” Andy pointed to the raw, red marks in almost a complete circle around my calves.
    â€œIt’s where the boots rub.”
    â€œLooks painful.”
    â€œNot too,” I say. In truth, it hurts a lot, but I’m not going to complain about another thing. I’m too ashamed of what I called him. I, of all people, know what that feels like.
    Andy pinches the top of a boot together and starts to make a cut.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œThey have to be short enough for the water in to equal the water out.”
    Using the butcher knife, Andy makes a long slit from the top to just above the ankles of both boots. He then tries to cut the tops off with the scissors, but they break apart without making a dent. My brother’s face, as he hesitated to hand over his knife, pops into my mind.
    I hold first one then the other by the bottom and the top while Andy uses the butcher knife to cut through until what remains are boots only as tall as my old hi-top Converse All-Stars.
    â€œNow try ’em.”
    I pull on the cold, clammy remains and step off into the water. “Almost perfect,” I lie. I take a couple of steps; they slap loosely against my anklebones, so loose that, if we get into any mud at all, I’ll have to curl my toes to keep them on.
    â€œThey can’t completely empty when you’re in the water, but they should be a lot lighter.”
    â€œThey are. Much.” I touch his arm. “Thanks. And I really am sorry.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter, Sarah. I am a redneck.”
    â€œI don’t even know what that means.”
    â€œA hick. A bumpkin.”
    â€œI know the definition. I mean why
red
neck?”
    He shrugs. “Who cares?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œWell, care later. Walk now.”
    The water gets deeper and the cattails denser, so dense that I have to elbow my way through the stand. The farther into them we get, the more suffocated I feel. The wet, soft strands of rotting cattails sliding across my bare legs make me feel like I’m wading through eels. My eyes snap from side to side, tracking every movement. I’m so consumed with watching what’s happening around me that I run right into Andy, who’s stopped suddenly. “What?” I peek around him.
    We’re at the edge of a clearing. There are maybe five yards of open water totally surrounded by cattails. For some reason, it makes me think of the eye of a hurricane. That peaceful, quiet, sunny circle of blue sky, with killer winds whirling just beyond.
    â€œ
This
is a gator hole,” he says. “Let me go first.”
    I almost laugh, but it couldn’t have gotten past the lump of panic in my throat. “Okay,” I whisper.
    He doesn’t even look at me or get that the suggestion that he might
not
be first in is funny. Andy begins by slapping the water and kicking his feet. For a moment there’s no movement, then suddenly something huge and dark shoots out of the depths of the pond. Mud boils up as it plows through the cattails, flattening a trail as it goes.
    I whirl around and try to break through the wall of cattails that have closed behind us, but a step or two in and I feel surrounded. I’m gasping for air. I spin and cover my mouth with my hands to keep a scream from escaping. I see Andy, with the backpack raised over his head, moving deeper and deeper into the black water until he has to tilt his head up to keep his nose and mouth above the surface. Just when I think he might have to go completely under, he begins to move up the far side.
    â€œIt will be over your head,” he says when he turns.
    He didn’t see my panicky attempt to escape, so I try to act calm.