Page 4 of Beach Reads
Pressing down on their chest; pretending to breathe into their mouth. Then rocking back on my heels when the extra miraculously splutters to life, shaking my head and peering out past the camera like it really was a close one this time.
Listen, I’m not being a dick. I know that a lot of good people love this show.Iloved it too, for a long time, but I’m wellpast thirty now and still trotting out the same lines. Still going through the same plot arcs, over and over and over.
How did I get here?
Or more like: how did Istayhere? And how do I move on?
When I broached the topic with my agent in the spring, she wheezed out a throaty laugh. Told me I’d be killing my own career, leaving this sure thing.Jesse Hendry, the star of Riptide.
I’m grateful, okay?
But can’t I be more? Can’t I at least try?
Someone barks a warning. The other actors go still, their shoulders settling, getting themselves in the zone. I used to do that too, used to have all these little tricks and routines to center me and help me focus.
Now I could do this job with earbuds in.
“Action!”
We tear off as a pack, sprinting across the hot sand, the steadythump, thump, thumpof my steps rattling my shin bones. Turquoise water sparkles on one side; loungers and crew stations dot the sand on the other. I clench my jaw, frowning at the waves with fierce concentration, just the way Franklin likes it.
Steady breaths in, steady breaths out.
When I first landed this role, Ilivedin the gym—practically camped out there for six months, pounding away at a treadmill and pushing weights, desperate to get my cardio up to scratch. On my left, one of the other lifeguards is wheezing. He could use more cardio too.
“Help!” One of the extras wails, throwing her arms in the air, jumping around thigh-deep in the sea. She’s playing the kid’s mom. “Help, please! My baby!”
We shoot past her, foamy salt water flying up in our wake. I’m at the front now, taking point, diving into the water with an exaggerated arc.
Sometimes the other guys make me jostle for it. Try to sneakily get in my way and slow me down.
I don’t even care. At least it makes things interesting.
The ocean is cool, nice and soothing against my flushed cheeks, but nowhere near as cold as the takes we did earlier this morning. The sun’s been beating down on it all day, warming up the water.
A tendril of seaweed tangles around my forearm. I jerk it off, cutting through the waves with powerful strokes, and that seaweed might be enough to ruin the take, but I keep going anyway. Gotta see this through.
Salt stings my eyes and my heart races in my chest, and when I break the surface next to the ‘drowning’ boy, I make sure to toss my hair back just like Franklin likes. Like I’m a goddamn mermaid.
“I’ve got you.” His body is small and light in my arms, his head flopping back. My stomach lurches.
It’s always kind of eerie on the episodes when I save kids. Like if I screw up, they might actually get hurt.
Bullshit, obviously.
But my temples throb as I wade back to the sand and lay the kid out next to his wailing mother. His chest is so narrow as I knot my fingers together and push down gently, rhythmically; as I grip his chin and bend down, pretending to breathe air into his lungs, my mouthactuallypressing against my own thumbs.
It’s an old stage trick, kissing your own thumbs. This wouldn’t fly in a movie or with a close up shot, but forRiptide? Yeah, it’ll do.
The other lifeguards yell at each other, breaking into a fight above me. This is the subplot of the episode: one of them kissed the other’s sister, and now they’re all riled up and scrapping over it. Meanwhile my character Hanson is down here, saving the day. Same old, same old.
“Oh god,” the mom sobs. “Oh please, oh god.”
My gut twists again.
Not real. Not real.
The kid really milks his survival gasp. He jackknifes up like a tiny zombie, coughing and spluttering, his teary eyes wide. His two little fists are clenched in the sand. “M-mom?”
