The Other Side of Infinity by Joan F. Smith EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: Joan F. Smith
- Language: English
- Genre: Teen & Young Adult Social Issues eBooks
- Format: PDF / EOUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Nick
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DROWNING WAS QUIET. That was drilled into my head from day one
of certification class, and even though it was hard to believe, I was prepared
for that. Every time I sat on the sunbaked cement across from the lifeguard
chair, breathing in the smell of chlorine, coconutty sunscreen, the
occasional drift of cut grass from the new landscaper, I reminded myself:
Head up, Nick. Some of the kids in my cert class said they listened to
podcasts while on duty, one earbud snaked into their ear, but not me.
I
rotated my position on schedule, keeping my shoulders squared to the pool.
The red rescue tube with its crisp white letters—I always traced the D in
GUARD—balanced on my bathing suit shorts like a foam safety bar on an
amusement park ride. I’d scanned the pool as I’d been trained: Up the trio
of long lanes, the barriers bobbing obediently. Mr. Francis, the biology
teacher at my high school, working his way up and down, as he did every
morning at ten o’clock. A traditional individual medley. Butterfly,
backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle. Each of the sixteen laps ended with
an easy flip turn before he returned to his coffee and sudoku puzzle.
In the water, Mr. Francis didn’t cry out. He didn’t shout, Nick, help me.
He didn’t crash during a flip turn or get caught in the lane line. Instead,
what caught my eye was the most minute motion—or, really, the absence of
motion—of the only other person at the pool that morning, a girl sunbathing
beside the lifeguard chair.
I’d only spotted her around our complex once or twice before. Here, she
shielded herself with a sun hat—one of those mom-looking ones, worn by
girls in the 1950s—propped over her face, instead of on her head. Black and
white, with geometric hexagons, the hat looked like someone had taken a
soccer ball, sliced it clean in half, and dropped it on an oversized Frisbee.
From my vantage point on the dock, all I could see was the hat and her
long, tanned legs, which I determinedly did not stare at even though they
were what my grandma would’ve called a great pair of gams, because I was
not in the business of objectifying people. Her bare feet bobbed in rhythm
to music I couldn’t hear.
People say these things happen in the blink of an eye or a split second,
and I guess clichés are what they are because they’re true. In no time at all,
Mr. Francis wound down lap eight—backstroke; Mrs. O’Malley’s Chevy
Lumina pulled up to the unloading spot, full of pool gear; and the girl’s
foot, tapping to what seemed to be an up-tempo tune, abruptly stopped.
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