“You got it.”
Dylan jogs toward the tennis courts, and Ethan and I lean back, gazing out at the water. “Here,” Ethan says, handing me a Diet Coke from a mini cooler. The aluminum is frosty against my skin, a momentary reprieve.
“Oh, thanks.” I close my eyes and take a sip, trying to cool down, savor the bubbles and calm my nerves. Even though it’s our first day, I can’t believe it’s taken me this many summers to finally make it up here on the tower.
Everyone on Pelican Island gets access to the Tennis and Beach Club, and applying for a summer gig at the Club is basically a nonnegotiable for all the teenagers on the island, unless you’re like Lucy and score some sort of prestigious internship. ButwhichClub job you get greatly determines the trajectory of your summer.
Last year, I was stuck as a day camp counselor four days a week, hanging out with six-year-olds as they skipped around the property moving from the arts-and-crafts station to instructional tennis. Butthis year, I finally passed my lifeguarding test after Trevor coached me through the drills all winter.
Trev and I were so excited to line up our shifts, but then he tore his rotator cuff while riding his bike home from baseball practice. Still, his injury did make it so I get to work with Ethan every day instead. Though I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.
I blink open my eyes and try to sneak a peek at Ethan in my periphery without being obvious. But he’s not as relaxed as I am. He’s leaning forward, squinting at the water. A bead of sweat slides into his eyebrow.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
He extends his arm and points at the sea, and when I turn to follow his finger, I see what he sees—something bobbing in the water fifty yards from the beach.
“Is that a buoy?” he asks.
The answer flashes in my brain.No.
What’s floating out there in the water is not a buoy nor a lost noodle nor a boogie board. As the waves crest, pushing whateveritis closer to the beach, the shape becomes obvious. Four limbs. A torso. A head.
“Millie…” Ethan says, his voice trembling.
A jolt shoots through my body, and I move on autopilot, reaching for my radio. “Lifeguard A to Clubhouse. Code forty-five. Call 911. Now.”
“Millie…” Ethan says again, but I don’t hear what comes next because in a split second, my feet hit the sand and I’m sprinting toward the water with the red flotation device slung over my back. Behind me, there’s a commotion—voices rising. A stray shriek. One word:Help.
I dive into the water, the cold a welcome shock. My cupped fingers slice through the waves and the sounds of the sea fill my ears, drowning out the noises on the beach—the screams, the harrowing realization that a perfect Saturday morning has been upended.
I pop my head up out of the water and realize I’m right where I need to be, the person in distress only a few yards away.
At first, I see feet. Bare: no shoes, no socks. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, floating face down. I can’t tell how old he is, though he has pale skin that’s now nearly blue. Translucent.
I do what I was trained to do, sliding my flotation device under his stomach, maneuvering it so I can turn the person over while calling out, “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”
There’s no response, and when I flip him over, I take in his features. A bow-shaped mouth. Thick eyebrows. A Roman nose and freckles scattered across his cheeks. Light hair, stuck to his forehead. I’d know him anywhere. Ethan’s best friend, the guy Lucy calls a loser behind his back, the kid who throws the parties.
Billy Godwin.
I push all emotions away as best I can and hook my arms under his, positioning the flotation device between us so I can swim back to shore. There’s still time to save him. I don’t know when he turned over, if he only recently became unconscious. But as my skin touches his, even in the water, I gasp at how cold he is.
A crowd has formed on the beach. Ethan stands there with the walkie-talkie in his hand crackling. Children circle around the kayak stand, shielding their eyes, and then I see my mother standing next to Billy’s, Mrs.Vreeland behind them. They’re all dressed in tennis whites, visors obscuring their faces. I want to tellMrs.Godwin to run. That she shouldn’t see this. But as I get closer, she crumples to the sand, her hand over her mouth.
Suddenly, I can stand. I’m nearing shore, and Ethan is by my side, helping me drag Billy up the beach. “I don’t know…” I start to say, out of breath as I wade through the shallow water. “I don’t…” The air is still and heavy, the unyielding sun pounding down on my scalp, and as soon as I stumble onto the sand, I wonder if the heat can warm Billy fast enough to save him.
“The paramedics are coming,” Ethan says, his voice quavering, then drowned out by the sound of sirens wailing and a beach buggy cruising down the sand. EMTs push us aside, and I stagger back, nearly falling into a pile of beach toys and plastic shovels.
Something inside me takes charge, and I begin to corral the children. “Over here,” I say, and realize my voice is still wavering. “Come on. Come this way.”
Just then, the sky darkens all at once. A crack of lightning shatters the sky and a rumble of thunder growls in the distance. I look up and see an army of gray clouds moving toward us, a summer storm rolling through. They’ll dump rain on us any moment. But I have to keep my attention on what’s happening, on Billy.
Maybe the EMTs can revive him. They’re crowded over his body, taking his pulse, checking his breath. The air fills with sounds of medical equipment—beeping and electrical currents and metal hitting metal—and then…nothing.
One of the first responders flicks her eyes to another with a silent message:There is no hope.
I run a hand over my face and find my fingers wet. From tears or the Sound, I don’t know.
