Saving Ruth (6 page)

7

I
opened my eyes tentatively. I had set my alarm clock for 7:30, and it was 7:28. I switched it off before its shriek sounded. My head felt like rubber.

I had been dreaming of fountain soda and crushed ice—I was so dehydrated even my subconscious was thirsty. I sat up slowly. What a night. Nothing had happened really, but I had gotten pretty wasted. So much for “nothing stupid.” I touched my growling stomach, checking for bloat. Later cereal, but first, I would hurl myself through a sweat-soaked run. I winced, thinking about it.
Too bad, Ruth
, I whispered. I hadn't exercised since I'd been home, and I could feel my thighs growing. I rolled out of bed and into the bathroom.

Minutes later I was in my running gear and guzzling a giant glass of water in preparation at the kitchen sink. Through the window, heat ribbons bounced off the driveway.

“You're going running in this?” I turned to find my dad behind me, his hair askew from sleep.

“Yeah.” I sighed, still a little nauseous. “Gotta do it.”

He nodded. “Be careful, please.” The combination of just waking up and having to engage in conversation seemed to perplex him.

“When did you get home last night?”

“I think around one?”

“I thought I heard you come in. How was the party?”

“It was okay. Saw a lot of people I hadn't seen in a while.”

“Any good gossip?” he asked, yawning.

“Dad!”

“So? I need some sort of news to jazz things up around here.” He rubbed his eyes.

“Hey, how come you were sleeping in your office?” I had noticed him splayed out on the daybed in there when I got home.

“Oh, I just fell asleep there, I guess.” He stood up suddenly, seeming uncomfortable.

“Okay, well, see you in a little,” I said.

“See you.” He opened the refrigerator and stared into it instead of making eye contact with me.

Outside, I switched on my iPod and slid it into the tiny interior pocket of my shorts. I took off slowly—testing my legs. They felt wobbly and unsure. I dug deep into myself with a giant inhale. My lungs creaked in response. My body was angry at me. Who could blame her? I pushed the old girl to the limit every day.

I made a right on Price Street, glancing down to acknowledge the drain that had taken my kindergarten lunch box after an unfortunate slip on the icy street. I pictured it floating down there still—101 Dalmations banished forever to the suburban underworld. I began a slow climb up what felt like Mount Everest and tried to distract myself from my burning lungs.

As I ran I thought about David. I'd never seen him alone at a party. Ever. He was the person who was constantly surrounded by groupies hanging on his every word—guys and girls alike. Last night he'd been a ghost.

At the edge of our neighborhood was a giant church, and I crossed its front yard at a decent clip. The South loved it some churches. And banks. Giant structures of money and Jesus worship were a dime a dozen.

David had taken me, Jill, and M.K. to our first high school party. Oh, the weeks, the hours, the minutes we had spent laboring over the most minute details of what we would wear and how we would talk and who we would emulate. Walking in with David, though, it was clear that our time had been wasted. Because I was David's sister, we were okay. I'd lingered in every corner of that house, too self-conscious to make conversation, sipping Schnapps and observing him. He was the King, and I was in awe. It seemed so effortless for him.
Your brother is the shit
, M.K. had whispered, her beer breath hot in my ear.

In the driveway of Heather Garby's old house, a little black boy and girl diligently tossed a tennis ball back and forth. The ball went over the girl's head and rolled to a stop at my feet. I stopped to toss it back to her before running on. Where had Heather Garby gone? One day we had been painting eye shadow on each other and the next day she was gone. To Arkansas maybe? That rang a bell.

It seemed like a lot of people had left the neighborhood in the past five years or so, and in their place, black families had moved in. The pool had been slow to reflect the change—we had only two black families as of last summer—but already you could feel the tension brewing. Most of the parents exchanged nervous glances anytime they showed up.

I was at the end of my run, headed downhill. I could see my house on the corner, the yard already sprouting weeds. Finally finished, I walked it off gratefully.

Good work, Ruth
, I whispered to myself. This skinny thing wasn't easy.

A
n hour later, slathered in sunscreen and my stomach at long last filled with cereal, I coasted down the hill to the pool. Kevin was already there, opening up the snack bar.

“Hey, Ruth.”

“Hey, Kevin.” I joined him inside and took off my backpack.

“Here we go, right?” I pulled out my towel and hung it on the back of a plastic chair.

“Whaddya mean?” he asked.

“You know, the official start of summer and all.” I slipped my whistle over my neck as he looked at me blankly.

“I guess so. How was Boston this year?”

“Michigan. I was in Michigan.”

“Oh yeah, shit. Sorry. What's it like up there?”

“It's cool. I had a good time. Just different from the South, you know? Are you at Tech? I can't remember.” He took off his T-shirt, revealing a taut stomach and those little hip divots that only the genetically blessed could claim.

“Naw, college ain't for me.”

“Oh.”

“I was workin' for my dad, doin' some real estate stuff, but then summer rolled around. This job is easy as shit, you know?”

“Yeah, it is a pretty sweet deal.” This was the longest conversation we had ever had. “Hey, have you heard from Jason?”

“He just called me. He'll be here in a few.”

“Okay. I guess I'll check the chlorine.”

“Already did that. Gonna burn the shit out of some eyeballs since it's the first day, but you know—just the way it is.”

“Yikes. I'll check the bathrooms then. Make sure no one is living in a stall or anything.” He looked at me blankly. “Right, well—be right back.”

The bathroom looked just as it had the summer before, and the summer before that—dark and dingy with the faint smell of Lysol and mold. There were two showers and two stalls. I had spent a good thirty minutes trying to insert my first tampon in one of those stalls, at a swim meet long ago. I checked it for toilet paper now. All set.

“Y'all ready?” asked Jason, who had arrived to shepherd us into the new summer season.

“Ready as we'll ever be,” I replied. “I guess I'll go up on the stand first, Kevin, if that's cool with you.”

The pitter-patter of flip-flopped and Croc-ed feet came storming down the hill. They had arrived. In no time at all, the entire snack bar area was filled with children, as though they were multiplying like rabbits.

The sun began to broil my translucent, Michigan-winterized skin as I made my way to the stand. I climbed the wooden rungs slowly. All eyes were on me, waiting for the inaugural whistle that meant the pool was open for business. That meant I had to take off my shirt and shorts in front of what was essentially a live studio audience.
Jesus, Ruth, don't make such a big deal about it. Just do it.
One, two, three, and they were both off. I looked down at my red midriff with a sigh of disgust. No matter how many crunches I did, my stomach still refused to be flat. When I sat, my belly button disappeared beneath a generous swell of flesh. I adjusted my suit in an attempt to disguise it.

I blew the whistle and on cue the pool was filled in an instant. I watched nervously as kids splashed around and screamed, dove for tossed rings, shot baskets at the water hoop, and threw themselves off the diving board. For the thirty-minute intervals during which I was on the stand, it was up to me to make sure no one was running, peeing, roughhousing, or drowning. The stimulation had my brain firing on all cylinders. Parents waved to me as they set up shop on their lawn chairs and lubed themselves up with tanning oil. As the minutes passed and I found my surveillance rhythm—shallow end, deep end, diving board, basketball hoop, and back—I began to relax. It was all so familiar, after all. I'd either been part of the mayhem myself as a pool member or watching it from above as a lifeguard for my entire life.

Jason canvassed the deck, hugging hello with various moms and parents. Kids attached themselves to his legs, and he carried them around until they were giggled out and ready to go back into the pool. Kevin manned the snack bar—handing out corndogs and popsicles begrudgingly.

As the day wore on I watched my skin turn pink and the fingers and toes of everyone around me turn into prunes. Kevin and I exchanged places on the stand every thirty minutes, and the shade of the snack bar provided welcome refuge from the blazing sun. I wrote the kids' names on their hot dogs with squirtable mustard, much to their delight. I might as well have been Van Gogh the way they watched their names emerge from the depths of that yellow bottle. Meanwhile, I kept my own hunger at bay with Lemonheads and Skittles.

“Well, hey there, Miss Skinny Minnie!” I turned around to find Mrs. Moorehouse standing at the counter, her fuschia manicured hands on her flat brown hips. She was a fixture at the pool, with the kind of commitment to tanning that you had to admire, even if facing her head-on made you grimace.

“Hey, Miss Laney,” I replied, adhering to the southern code of Miss First-Name-No-Last-Name. It drove me nuts.

“Honey, just call me Laney. You're makin' me feel old, and Lord knows I don't need any more of that.”

“Okay, sure. Sorry. How've you been?”

“Well, fine, I guess. Another year down the tubes.”

“How's Khaki?” I asked. “I haven't seen her yet today. Is she here?”

“Oh, Khaki's doin' just fiiine.” She fidgeted with her swimsuit top. “She didn't feel like comin' down today. She . . . well, she wasn't feelin' well.”

“Ugh, summer colds are the worst. I hope she feels better soon.” Khaki was Laney's only daughter. She seemed like a sweet girl—quiet and reserved despite (or more likely because of) her mother's over-the-toppish-ness. I didn't know her that well; she was probably around eight or nine, but had never swum on the team or taken swim lessons. I had a soft spot for her nevertheless. She was plump, and I could see a lot of me in the apologetic way she carried herself.

“Listen, Ruth, can I be frank with you?” Laney beckoned to me to lean in closer. Up close her wrinkled chest folded like an accordion.

“Sure.”

“Let me get right to it. You look wonderful. The whole pool has noticed. I'd like you to help my Khaki this summer. She just will not listen to me about anything diet- or exercise-related, and I know she's miserable. Bless her heart, she just keeps gettin' pudgier and pudgier.”

“I'm not sure I'm following you, Laney. How can I help her?”

“I was thankin' y'all could exercise together a few times a week or so. You know, you could come over and y'all could ride bikes or go for a walk, or maybe jog or somethin'. I'd pay you well, and we could work around your work schedule.” She gazed at me expectantly.

“Well, I . . . I guess that could work. Khaki's a sweet girl, and I could use the money, but. . . .”

“Oh, wonderful! That is the best news ever, sweetie. I am so thrilled. And Khaki will be too—eventually. Oh, I just love it! So, we'll start next week or somethin'? I'll give you a call to set it all up.”

“But I don't have to help her with her diet or anything, right? Just exercise?”

“Well, no, not outright. But maybe you could mention the healthy foods that you love or somethin'. You know, just get her thinkin'.” I nodded warily. Employing me as a diet guru could be classified as child abuse. I would stay mum on that topic.

“All right, I'll talk to you soon, darlin'. I am just over the moon about this! Toodles!” She waved daintily, as though she were playing air piano, and walked away. I took a gulp of water from my bottle. This qualified as the strangest job opportunity I'd ever been offered.

Finally, the sun began to make its slow descent. At 2:30, the shift changed, meaning that Kevin and I could leave and two new lifeguards would stay on until closing time at 8:00 PM. As I was gathering my bag from the snack bar, David walked in.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“How was the day?”

“This place never changes.”

“Yeah.” He looked at me wistfully for a minute, as if he wanted to say something. “Did you bust out your mustard trick?”

“Yeah, still a crowd pleaser.” I wiggled into my backpack.

“Hey, did you have soccer this morning?” I hadn't seen his car when I left, and he always trained with the Tech team during the summers to get ready for his fall season at Mercer.

“Huh?” He looked at me like I was speaking Swahili.

“Uh, soccer? You know, that thing you got a scholarship for?”

“Oh yeah.” He nodded. “I was at practice.”

“Was it tough?”

“What is this, twenty questions?”

“Take it easy. I was just making conversation.”

“Yeah, well, don't bother if you're going to grill me. You're as bad as Mom.”

“Great. See ya, sunshine.” I didn't understand why he hated me so much. What had I done? We were supposed to be on the same side here. I got to my bike, knocked the kickstand up, and walked it angrily up the hill.

The gravel crunched, signaling the arrival of a car. I looked up to find Chris pulling into the lot in his black Jeep. It was a little ridiculous how good-looking he was in his Ray-Bans and white V-neck shirt—like a movie star on his day off. I blushed, remembering our run-in at Bootsie's.

He smiled at me shyly, as though he was just as surprised by the fact that he was sitting there. I realized that I was wearing giant, ripped athletic shorts and a tank top that had seen better days. I was also pushing my bike. If he flirted with me now, it would be a miracle.