"Beneath the Surface" by Dinamarie Isola

Beneath the Surface

Jacqueline slips in, barely disturbing the calm blue surface above my head, as if a secret door from heaven opened, depositing her below.
Even under the water, her swan-dive performance continues — legs together, toes pointed, arms arcing overhead. A plume of bubbles surrounds her like a halo, crowning her aquatic angel. She flutter-kicks her way to the ladder, her ankle bracelet glimmering with every movement like a wink.
Sitting on the bottom of the pool, I press my back against the wall. She glides past me as if I’m not here. When she reaches the ladder, she grips either side, arches her back, and tilts her chin to the sky like she is having a spiritual conversion of sorts. Before she surfaces, she lets the water sweep back her golden hair, exposing carved cheekbones and bee-stung lips. I’m tempted to step on her head and hold her under water indefinitely or at least until she turns nice, whichever comes first. But that would land me in jail for murder.
There’s the strange moment when she is partially submerged yet beginning to penetrate the water’s surface. Starting with her head and shoulders, she disappears, body part by body part, as if being plucked out and devoured as she hits the air. Finally, only her legs remain. With every step up the ladder, she points her toes, like everyone can see the beauty of her calf muscles beneath the water. There’s a brief ripple in the water as her right foot, followed by her left, hits the pool deck, and then its surface smooths, removing all traces of her presence.
Does anyone realize I haven’t come up yet? By my estimation it has been close to two-and-a-half minutes. And while it is nowhere near the Guinness World Record of twenty-two minutes, twenty-two seconds, it is my personal best.
One more entry. I think I can handle that.
And, as if on cue, the water’s surface caves in, shattering like a glass floor under an elephant’s weight. A heavy rump and boar-like legs plummet to the bottom. Ron Duga clearly opted for his cannonball, probably to show everyone that being morbidly obese has its benefits; every snickering onlooker must need a towel right now.
Even in the weightlessness of water, Ron’s movements are labored. His thick legs pump but fail to propel him with any speed. As he nears the ladder, he whips his head, glares, and flips me the bird. I return the gesture.
I have better things to do than watch you, dumb ass.
But do I really?
Pinpricks dance across the back of my neck. I should find my way to the surface.
If only I could take this with me: peaceful blue calmness, muffled sounds, freedom from gravity. Maybe I should become an astronaut? That would give my parents a rabbit hole to disappear into as they map my college future. Their pride in my ninety-five average in AP Physics would do little to impress a rigorous STEM program worthy of NASA. I certainly don’t have Jacqueline’s beauty on my side, so batting my eyelashes in an interview isn’t an option.
My temples throb, not as much of a signal that it is time to reenter the world of land dwellers but more of an omen of what awaits me. Under water, the silence — my invisibility — is peaceful, not something to bear.
Even though I need to breathe, my legs are heavy with dread. The water surrounds me with warmth and protection, like amniotic fluid. It’s hard to leave that for the sting of cool air, but I can’t hold out any longer. I push off the wall and shoot straight up, gasping as I stab the water’s surface. The air cuts into my lungs like glass, making me wish my needs didn’t hurt so much.
I roll onto my side, dragging my arms through the water in a half-hearted sidestroke. My ears fill with the sound of my heartbeats and pants. Reaching the ladder, I press my feet against the rungs to kill the tingle of pins and needles in my legs. Slowly I hoist myself out, as if bags of wet cement were tied to my waist.
“I was wondering when you were going to join us,” a voice from above calls. Perched in the lifeguard chair sits Lucas Flynn, Jacqueline’s older brother. “I know it’s cool to sit down there, but you could pass out and drown. Besides, the action’s up here.” He flashes the bright smile of a guy with no shortage of “action.”
I turn my head, certain that he’s talking to someone else.
Jacqueline stands with her posse at the pool’s edge. Leaning on her hip, she stretches her arms overhead languidly before piling her wet hair into a high bun, mesmerizing every boy watching. And there are plenty of those.
“I’m teaching a lifesaving class next month; you should take it. You have impressive lung capacity.” His mirrored sunglasses give me an unfortunate view of myself looking like a drowned waif.
“Can I put that on my college entrance applications? Great lung capacity? Or is that just something a guy would want to know if he was into marathon make-out sessions?”
He laughs. “Think about it. Sign-up is this week.”
“I want to get a job this summer. I probably won’t have time. Thanks, though.” I walk away, wondering if he knows Jaqueline and I are classmates and hoping he doesn’t.
“Hey, wait a sec,” he calls. “If you want to make a little money, you can be my apprentice for beginner lessons. But I need someone who isn’t going to flake out.”
I turn back. “Seriously?”
“You have to be a lifesaving student. It doesn’t pay a lot but you’ll make tips. My shift is up in five minutes. Meet me at the Lifeguard Office, and I’ll get you signed up. Okay, Darcy?”
Darcy.
Heat floods my system — embarrassment, shock, I’m not sure which. If I was under water, my body wouldn’t register a temperature change like this.
“Sure,” is all I manage.
I walk away on trembling legs. Fetching my towel, I wrap myself tightly and imagine being tucked into a cocoon, where the mysteries of change work deep from within, beneath the surface — out of the sight and reach of anyone or anything that might harm it.
Sitting, I force myself to take in the view from up here. Jaqueline and her friends saunter off toward the concession stand, tossing their heads and laughing in that exaggerated way they always do.
The eyes that follow them don’t notice me.
Not even when I stand and shed my towel.
Not even when Lucas waves me over, nor when I press on, past those first shaky steps toward the red-and-white First Aid cross beckoning me forward.

Dinamarie Isola

Dinamarie Isola is actively engaged in exploring the craft of storytelling. Through poetry and prose, she strives to tear down the isolation that comes from silently bearing internal struggles. She received her BA in English/Writing and Communications from Fairfield University. In addition to her work as an investment advisor, Dinamarie has a blog, “RealSmartica,” to help others better understand personal finance. She is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Appalachian Review, Apricity, Avalon Literary Review, borrowed solace, Coachella Review, Courtship of Winds, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Evening Street Review, Five on the Fifth, Mixed Mag, Nixes Mate Review, No Distance Between Us, Penumbra Literary and Art Journal, Perceptions Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, Remington Review, Summerset Review, and Tulsa Review. Visit www.DinamarieIsola.com to view her portfolio.

Headshot: Dinamarie Isola

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