Swimming by Nicola Keegan Page B

internally. I concentrate hard on the eventual siren, imagine it tearing through the air, but the harder I try to remain calm, the more intense the startle. This is an early warning sign of a weak constitution, but I don’t know anything about early warning signs or weak constitutions; all I know is I can’t get my heart to stop thumping, which makes me so antsy I have to leave the room. I breathe better wandering the corridors, slipping past the nurses chatting behind their oval domes, candy stripers pushing half-full carts. I lose track of time; an hour gets confused with fifteen minutes and sometimes, when I get back, she’s wide awake with a dinner tray she doesn’t pay attention to sitting in front of her and it’s already time to go.
    Where in the hell have you been? Mom’s been looking for you everywhere . She’s too tired to enjoy the drama.
    Just looking around. You want something for tomorrow?
    Bring the checker set, will you? Maybe Battleship … we haven’t played that in a while .
    When Mom appears, she won’t look at me. We ride the elevator down four floors in a crackling, electric silence. She lets it out when we’re in the car. I’m not exactly frightened, but I’m not comfortable, hanging on tight to the strap above the door as she pushes down hard on the gas.
    You’d think that you’d spend some time with your poor sister who … who … who’s just waiting to have a little taste of the world outside and what do you do? Wander the halls for over an hour .
    People are starting to honk. She was asleep .
    She looks at me with narrow red eyes. She slips in and out .
    I am bitten by the pointy teeth of shame. Her eyes were closed. Okay? It got … I got antsy .
    Her face collapses and she starts clutching at the wheel, speeding an inch away from parked cars. Tough titty for you. Antsy. Antsy. Antsy. Antsy. Antsy. Antsy. She gets antsy. She got antsy. Tough titty. Do you hear me? She leans over, fangs my arm, and the car jerks to the side. When I pull my arm away, she slaps the side of my head and the car jerks to the side again.
    They join forces. Leonard points to a chair and has me sit down, his arm around Mom’s sad waist, listing hospital rules that involve consistent sitting, homework completing, magazine reviewing, water from the bathroom getting. He raises his voice, grows stern, chopping the palm of one open hand with the other: No out the door going. No hall lurking. No disappearing .
    I sit in her room consistently. I go into her bathroom and look at myself in the mirror to see if the hospital has done something to my face. Nothing major, but my lips look blue. I sit on the toilet and stare at the gray and black diamonds that repeat themselves on the floor— gray, black, gray, black, gray, black— until Tanya Slaughter appears in my mind. She’s sitting on her ten-speed staring me down with narrow navy eyes. Kelly Hill and her probably no longer bald vagina are standing behind her, smiling a small smile that does not reach her eyes. The Cocoplat is standing behind me, hands on her hips, but she’s shaking inside; like all mostly nonviolent people, she is hating the idea of being hit. I try to make peace by being universal.
    I spread my arms, encompassing their bikes, Holy Name, the sky, the world. Listen, Tanya, there’s no reason … for … you to get so upset over … these little …
    Tanya Slaughter looks at me with I don’t give a shit eyes, gets off her bike. I heard , she says.
    I’m stumped. I can’t think of anything we’ve done to Tanya recently except for the PIZZA FACE we’d written on her locker when she’d had that bad breakout. But that was months ago.
    I take a quick look at the Cocoplat; she’s puzzled too but playing it cool. What’s up, Tanya?
    Tanya isn’t going for it. You know what …
    She’s a short, burly Catholic with bandy legs and a lovely, sour face. I don’t know what’s going on but we’re probably going to get punched. This must be the