Page 6 of All the Ways You Save Me
I followed her to her parking space because I had to know who she was. I can’t believe I said the part about how I would have remembered seeing her around. It’s true. I absolutely would have. But it’s not like me to use a line like that. It’s the sort of thing Jason would say, and maybe for once, I wanted to be like Jason.
But maybe Madeline doesn’t want Jason. She slides her chair a little closer to mine.
“You’d better watch out,” she warns. “Or I might not miss next time.”
Maybe I’m just imagining Jason’s mood because he seems to shrug off the weird vibes he was channeling a minute ago. “I like this new girl, especially the way she gives you shit. It’s good for you.” He shoots me a pointed look. “So, you better make sure she sticks around.”
I lean back in my chair, a new lightness taking over my limbs. I don’t need Jason’s approval, but he’s my best friend and the one constant in my life for the past decade. Inviting Madeline in could change our dynamic. But I’m probably getting ahead of myself. She sought me out for lunch, but that doesn’t mean she’s interested in dating a guy like me.
Still, this might be the happiest I’ve felt in a really long time.
THREE
PRESENT DAY
Madeline
Another school year in the books.
I sort through the papers on my desk, tossing notes and lesson plans into a storage bin for my future self to unearth when I’m back here in August. I don’t want to think about any of that on June 10thwhen summer break stretches ahead of me. My plans are simple: sit by the pool and read a book for fun. Maybe I’ll visit my sister Josie in the Bay Area.
Oh, and I guess I should be thinking about planning my wedding.
It’s funny to think I’m still here working in the school where I first met Jason. And, of course, Adam…
I shake off the thoughts of Adam as I always try to do.
For some reason, the prospect of wedding planning doesn’t get me as excited as my other summer activities, a fact that I want to bury in a box like those lesson plans.
I’m interrupted by one of my students popping her head into my classroom. Though classes ended earlier today, I’mworking late to clean up my classroom, and some of the seniors have been stopping by to say goodbye.
“Hi!” Eighteen-year-old Brooklyn steps through the doorway, her wide smile a contrast against her dark skin. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite English teacher!” Every word is punctuated with an exclamation point, and she bounces on the balls of her feet as if she’s ready to take off flying at any moment. The seniors are always full of unrestrained energy this time of year. Always full of joy and excitement. High school is over, college is on the horizon, and they have their whole futures ahead of them, bright and full of possibility, with no sense that anything could ever go wrong.
Fleetingly, my gaze drifts to the photo on my desk. A seventeen-year-old version of me stands between Adam and Jason, our arms intertwined, our grins as wide as Brooklyn’s. That photo was taken on New Year’s Eve of our senior year, back when we’d felt a similar sense of anticipation, hope, and invincibility. But the three of us never made it to summer break. Two months later, Adam was dead, and Jason and I…
Well, let’s just say we were a little more somber for our high school graduation.
It took me a long time to move past those terrible days.Maybe too long, I sometimes wonder when the memories press down on my heart with the same weight they did a decade ago. But Jason stuck with me through it all. He was the most supportive friend I could have asked for in those first few years, always showing up, even when I pushed him away. And somewhere along the way, so gradually I almost couldn’t pinpoint the moment it happened, he became more. This past winter, he proposed at our annual Christmas party in front of all of our family and friends.
So, just like my soon-to-be former students with their whole lives in front of them, this summer is meant to be a new beginningfor me too. I just need to stop dragging my feet over the wedding planning.
I shove that thought away and focus on the student in front of me. Brooklyn hops up onto my desk, swinging her feet and chattering about her plans for the summer, her new roommate for college in the fall, and then about the dance videos she and her friends have been posting on social media for fun. She hands me her phone to show me one, and I smile as I watch three of my favorite students perform a coordinated dance to a recent pop song. As the music fades, they pose for a moment before they collapse in a giggling heap.
I laugh along with the girls in the video, and I’m about to hand the phone back when the app automatically flips to another video. Something about it draws my attention, and I pull it back. A shaky phone camera zooms in on two kids floating in the ocean, just off the shore of a sandy beach. Somewhere in the background, I hear voices screaming and calling for help. My heart flips in my chest. Those kids are caught in a rip current. I’ve seen it before, on the beach where I grew up. We were always told not to fight the current, and swim sideways instead of toward the shore. But nobody told these kids what to do because they’re thrashing around, clearly in distress.
“Oh no, that doesn’t look good.” Brooklyn leans over my shoulder to watch the video play out.
I stare at the kids in the water, willing someone to help. When I witnessed this happen to a kid on Sandy Harbor Island, a lifeguard made it out to them in less than a minute.Where is the lifeguard?
My heart pounds and I press a hand there. Maybe this is all staged for likes and clicks, just like Brooklyn’s dance video, but I don’t think so. It feels too real to me. Those kids are too young to fake the panic on their faces as they struggle to stay above water. I clutch the phone tighter, helplessness rising in my chest.Somebody do something.The camera-holder moves closer to thewater’s edge just as a tall, fit man in a black wetsuit appears in the frame, his feet kicking up sand as he runs into the ocean. He dives and then swims with swift, strong strokes, out past the breakers to where the kids are still bobbing and flailing. I silently urge him on.
Go faster.Go faster.
The man grabs the kids, tucking one under each arm, holding their heads above water. My shoulders slowly relax as he pulls them toward the shore. The camera follows as he emerges from the swell, setting the kids on their feet in the sand where a woman—their mother, I imagine—is crying and running toward them. She grabs the children and hugs them against her chest. All three are crying now. My heart still pounds, now with relief, and I watch as the woman turns to the man, thanking him profusely. A crowd has gathered around them now.
“Whew. That was close,” Brooklyn mutters next to me.
I murmur my agreement and keep watching, riveted, as the camera zooms in on the man. He’s a genuine hero, but he doesn’t seem to welcome the praise. Instead, he shrugs it off and quickly turns and heads along the water’s edge away from the crowd. Seemingly unaware of the phone camera trained on him, he stops to pick up a surfboard from the sand and tuck it under one arm. He takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly.
