Page 14 of A Summer to Save Us

T he metal of the bucket presses against my neck.

It’s happening so quickly. I hear the gurgling, feel the water pooling over my head, and panic.

I don’t know if I’m breathing in, breathing out, or holding my breath.

I thrash, choke, and try to get up, but a hand holds me down relentlessly.

I cannot breathe. My head explodes, and the water rises up my nose.

I want to scream, but all I can do is swallow water.

Always water. Air bubbles burst everywhere, and red circles flash between them like sparks. Spark. Sparks and water.

I sit up in silent horror and hit my head on something soft. My racing heart almost kills me. Calm down! You aren’t drowning. It’ll stop eventually.

Confused, I glance right and left and don’t know where I am, but then I recognize the fluttering tent flap. Just a dream. Oh my God, it was just a dream.

I suck in the air convulsively and blink a few times. River’s sleeping place is disheveled but empty.

I shakily put my hands over my face and wait for the tremors to subside. You were dreaming. Everything is okay. You don’t have to go to school .

I don’t know how long I sit there, but when I lower my hands, I see a leather jacket that obviously belongs to River, a plastic container of iced coffee, and prepackaged cookies with a note stuck to it— For you.

None of this seems real to me. For a moment, I’m afraid that River isn’t real, just imaginary. Are there illnesses that make you imagine other people so realistically? But then I wouldn’t be sitting in this tent right now. Or would I?

Since I don’t have any appetite after the nightmare, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket.

The battery icon flashes yellow, showing only thirty percent left.

Damn. I’ll need to use my last dollars to buy a charging cable today.

Besides, it’s already nine o’clock, so hopefully, the school hasn’t called Dad yet.

I quickly check my new messages.

James, yesterday: There’s no Samantha at your school, damn it.

Arizona and I thought it was strange since you’ve never mentioned a friend, so we investigated.

Tell me where you are now or I’ll tell Dad!

Are you with some guy? Just because you don’t have any friends doesn’t mean you have to jump into bed with every guy.

They’re just taking advantage of you. Believe me, I know!

Even if I had words, I would be speechless right now. So, Arizona and James did some research? Thanks. I thought I was more irrelevant to Arizona than winter clothes in the desert.

What makes you think I’d jump into bed with anyone? I write back angrily. Who says something like that? And since when are you even interested in what I do or don’t do?

I click on the next message from Mr. Spock: Kansas? Hey, are you okay? Get in touch! Mister X broke my arm yesterday. Elbow and radial bone straight through. I told Mom I fell off my bike, which they demolished too.

Mr. Spock calls his tormentor Mister X because he doesn’t dare name him in a chat; they might check his phone. I immediately feel guilty because I didn’t contact him.

You can’t go on like this , I text back . Did you have to go to school today? Your mom worked double shifts for a long time to get you that bike. I hope her insurance will pay for it. I think for a moment, then type, You have to report them. I’m serious. Please! I’m doing fine.

According to Mr. Spock, his school is in a socially disadvantaged area, and so much revolves around money.

Now they’re extorting cash from him. If Spock doesn’t deliver, he gets beaten.

At one point, Spock’s mother was suspected of abusing him, so he just kept saying he was clumsy and constantly hurting himself.

I know his mom is seriously ill with a tumor in her lungs, but she had surgery.

Maybe she still has a chance. Of course, he doesn’t want to burden her, but at least his mom would believe him if he told her the truth. His mom loves him.

I wrap my arms around myself for a moment, but I let go when I feel all the bruises.

I would love to know if Arizona is turning James against me! Maybe she told him that crap. My gaze falls on the newspaper next to the sleeping bag.

I scan the headlines again and look at the photo of Asher Blackwell in dark clothes and scary makeup.

It’s a snapshot from a concert where he’s kneeling at the edge of the stage, one arm stretched out toward the audience, who are feverishly cheering.

The singer’s fingers are open invitingly as if he wants to reach out to the whole world.

He’s a fixed star to them like Arizona is.

He’s their sun. The exact opposite of me and Mr. Spock.

There’s no picture of Ben Adams on the front page or Meredith Fox, or the star witness Taylor Harden. Well, I guess there are no more photos of Taylor at all, because that would probably put him in danger. Maybe they’ve already given him a new look.

I know it’s about a motorcycle club drug syndicate. His testimony could lead to the arrest of legendary drug lord Al Ripani. But apparently, someone sent him a letter with a four-inch-long Kalashnikov cartridge as a warning shortly before his testimony. I think that would have made anyone flee.

When I crawl out of the tent, I’m hit by humid heat and the buzz of a hundred mosquitoes hovering over the ground. I don’t see River, just the black Porsche with the scratch, still parked in a hikers’ parking area.

I look around curiously. There are tall conifers everywhere, and the sweet smell of pine fills the air.

I stroll toward the road to find out where we are when River suddenly emerges from the thicket, barefoot with his jeans rolled up. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and his chin-length hair is messy and sticking up like the Demons ’N Saints singer.

“Tonight, we’re going to a motel so we can at least take a shower.” He ruffles his hair, looking like a sexy movie star. Way too attractive. Way too wild. Way too masculine.

I nod with a feeling of unease in my stomach, unable to take my eyes off his eyes.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

I ate two bites of a cookie but drank all of the iced coffee. When I nod again, he waves me over. “I want to show you something. Follow me!” And of course, I do as he says. Just like when I threw my bag off Old Sheriff yesterday, I have no idea why I listen now.

Why did he even involve himself with me? With me, the silent, boring Kansas Montgomery? The Kensington freak?

I don’t have time to think about it because River winds his way through the undergrowth.

I have trouble keeping up because the stones and fallen branches prick my bare soles.

River doesn’t seem to mind. Every now and then, he intentionally brushes against tree bark and slides the pine branches gently through his fingers.

At some point, he hops over a few roots and lands cleverly on a rope that I only see when I reach him. That’s why he’s barefoot and has his jeans rolled halfway up his calves.

“This is a slackline, a beginner’s line.” Nimble-footed, he walks a few steps without faltering.

“I want you to try it.” The line is about thirty feet long, stretched between two pine trees and made of some elastic material that’s about two inches wide.

I point to myself in disbelief when he turns around, grins defiantly, and lights a cigarette while standing on the line.

I shake my head. That’s not for me , I type, holding the cell phone under his nose.

As I walk a few feet next to the slackline, only one question circles in my mind: Who are you, River McFarley? You save girls and look broken yourself. You smoke and traverse lines?

I don’t know anything about you! I write now and hold out my phone to him.

He sighs. “Okay, once more!” On the line, he bows mockingly. “Let me introduce myself. I am River McFarley, humanitarian and misanthrope, actually a real misanthrope. A fool but an enlightened one. Longing for death and loving life, desperate and hopeful.”

I type, Are you a paradox?

“I’m afraid so.”

Can you actually be serious? Who are you?

“You’ll find out! We have about three months.”

Does it make sense to get to know someone if you’re planning to jump off a rock in Yosemite in three months?

“No!” He grins crookedly, something I’m already familiar with. “Then again, what makes sense?”

Are you an axe murderer?

“Would you feel better if I said no?”

Yes.

“Okay, then, no, I’m not an axe murderer.”

Would you have said yes if you were one?

“Of course not.”

Did you escape from somewhere? A psychiatric ward, for example? After all, he was also on the bridge.

“Jesus, Kentucky. Those are very personal questions. Why don’t you ask about my age or where I’m from?” He holds the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, rocking up and down on the slackline while watching me through the smoke. Okay, he doesn’t seem to lack self-esteem.

How old are you, and where are you from? Guys like him usually intimidate me, but it’s different with him because he’s not completely normal himself, and yet he seems to care about me.

“Twenty-one, almost twenty-two, and I was born in San Francisco.” He flicks the butt away.

West Coast, I knew it! You have that accent.

I know from all the Hills in Cottage Grove. Many rich families come from California.

River’s gaze darkens briefly. “You have an accent too, Kentucky,” he says darkly.

I don’t talk. I can’t have an accent.

“If you spoke, you’d have one. Probably some nasty, nasal Texas slang. That’s probably why you don’t speak.” He laughs, only to become serious again the next moment. “Are you coming up now?”

He didn’t ask why I don’t speak; he just accepted it. But I still have one question, and maybe I’ve read too many headlines.

Wait. Stop. Are you on the run from the police or whoever?