One Day More (3 page)

Sometimes I wonder if I
want
to get caught. But as much as I'd like to believe that would make them see me, I know it's not true. Having my parents find out what I do wouldn't suddenly turn me back into a person; I'd just be a more well-defined
problem
. A different kind of problem. I'd become my kleptomania. I would be even less Kimberlee than I am now.

My eyes are tearing up again and I can't decide if that's a sign I've had too much vodka or not enough.

I settle on
not enough
and take another swig.

Despite my buzz, I climb into the cave where I keep my stash—where I sort it and put it away with an efficiency born of hours of repetition. The empty boxes are already up here, flat rectangles stacked against the wall waiting to be unfolded into cubes. So are boxes of Ziploc bags in various sizes, waiting to carefully preserve and store the pieces of my shattered life. And Sharpies, of course, to mark everything. To record its history. Something I started doing once when I couldn't remember where a pair of shoes I stole came from.

As I write the date and store of origin on the first bag, I start to wonder how it came to this—when this stupid cave became the most important thing in my world. How pathetic am I, sitting in my wet suit in a shadowy cave, surrounded by stacks of boxes that have become my life? More so than Langdon, or my pointless quest to make the cheer squad, or my parents, or Kyndra, or . . . or Khail. But I push that thought away. He was never really a part of my life. He never will be.

Even if he were, I don't know if I'd have room for him
and
the boxes.

And I'm not sure I can live without the boxes.

In a rare fit of anger, I kick one of the stacks; four boxes topple over and go sliding into the darkest corner of the cave. One of the lids pops off, spilling little baggies all over the floor. I stare at the mess of boxes for . . . minutes, probably, and am half-tempted to do it to the rest of them. To knock them all down, scatter them all over the cave, and then maybe throw them all away.

To just be rid of
everything
.

But a wave of panic starts in my stomach at the thought and, like a dutiful child, I gather the spilled bags, return them to their boxes, and carefully restore the stack.

No more cave time.

I don't bother to climb down—I just jump. I've done it hundreds of times. In spite of the soft sand, the force of my landing sends a shock up my legs, almost buckling my knees. But I manage to stay on my feet.

I always manage to stay on my feet. Somehow.

My black water noodle looks sadly solitary lying in the middle of the swath of white sand, so I go rescue it from its loneliness. We paddle out past where the waves break so I can just wrap the floating rubbery thing under my arms and bob on the gentle waves, with no risk of getting dunked into the chilly water.

I swim a lot. All year round, thanks to my wet suit. Not swim, really—float. Everything feels quieter out on the water. I'm separate from the rest of humanity. But it's
my
choice.
I
decide to sequester myself. To be in my own world.

I finish the vodka, forcing down the last mouthful, and fling the plastic bottle as far as I can. “To hell with the environment!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I watch it fly.

A few minutes later it drifts back over to me. I throw it again, but don't yell this time. I make it a game. Throw, float back, throw, float back. Kinda like my life, over and over again in a spiral I can't escape. I imagine my parents flinging me away and yelling, “To hell with Kimberlee!”

The next time the bottle comes back I throw it in the other direction.

It doesn't come back anymore.

I relax into my black foam cradle and close my eyes as I let the waves lift me up and down until I'm on the verge of feeling dizzy.

And sick.

I drank too much, too fast, on an empty stomach.

Just like I wanted.

But I really am going to hurl if I don't do something, so I open my eyes and an endless gray sky greets me.

That actually doesn't help—just makes me feel even dizzier.

And small.

I roll over so my chest is pressed against the squishy foam. I lift a cupped hand full of seawater and splash it onto my face.

Actually, it feels pretty good.

I do it again. My stomach starts to settle.

Refreshing
, I decide. I slip the noodle out from under my arms and put myself under, letting the waves close over the top of my head.

I burst back up, sputtering.
Damn, that's cold
.

A smile curves at the sides of my mouth. I want to do it again.

Over and over I dunk myself, feeling fresher and more sober each time I emerge, gasping for breath. It feels like some kind of weird baptism. Not that I remember my actual christening or anything. But I totally get it now as I fling my face out of the water, feeling better, purer, cleaner every time I come back up.

Of course it isn't a real baptism. I don't believe in that kind of stuff anyway. And a drunken dip in the ocean is certainly not washing away any of my sins.

Don't I wish
.

The next time I go under, I don't come up so quickly. I'm not sure why—just want to see how it feels. I wait, keeping myself under until my lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and my head aches from the cold.

When I break the surface this time I'm gasping, and my teeth chatter in spite of my wet suit. Brain freeze creeps down my neck and forehead and soon my whole body feels sore and drained.

But it was kind of a rush, too.

I want to do it again.

I try to hold myself longer this time, and only when I can't keep my arms from clutching at the noodle to save myself do I let my face turn back toward the surface.

The sensations are stronger this time. More cold, more pain.

More reckless abandon. Letting go. I never let go. Everything in my life is about control. Even the parts I can't control—I have
something
about them that I am in charge of. Something.

But this—it feels strangely freeing.

I don't go right back down, though. The sun is setting and the air isn't even pretending to feel California-warm anymore. My whole body is shaking and shivering and I wonder how anyone could make themselves do this until . . . well, until they die.

I don't think I could. Don't think I'd have the guts to stay under for as long as it would take.

To end it, I mean.

I shiver more violently and I don't think it's from the cold. Maybe drunk and freezing isn't the best time to make a decision like this, but I want to know.

Could
I do it?

Would my body let me, or would it do its own thing—fighting me like it did when I tried to stop stealing? I don't know if it's the buzz talking, but somehow conquering the need to
breathe
sounds easier than conquering the need to
steal
.

And I guess the one
would
naturally lead to the other.

This isn't something I've ever really contemplated before. It's . . . sobering. Is my life so bad that I don't want to live anymore? That doesn't seem quite right. My life is . . . well, it's perfect.

So perfect I could scream.

My arms sag as I realize that I haven't got any reason to
go
.

I just have no reason to stay.

A lifetime of insipid perfection—that's what my future holds. That, or a lifetime in and out of prison. I know—I've known for a long time—that someone has to catch me stealing eventually. And my dad will only be able to protect me for so long. It's not something I like to think about, but I have an odd sort of resignation to it.

Especially after I couldn't stop, and
that
future became ever-so-slightly more likely than the other.

My arms are shaking and I don't try to convince myself it's from anything but fear. Fear of myself, fear of what I'm contemplating. Maybe even the fear of never being able to take anything again.

Yes, definitely fear of that.

“I can't,” I whisper through shivering lips. And then something else comes over me. A simmering anger. No one tells me I
can't
do something. Even my parents haven't really said no to me in years.

Who the hell says I can't?

Still, it takes me a long time to work up the courage to even try.

It won't work
, I tell myself,
so you might as well get it over with
.

But what if it did? Who would even care? Who would miss me? Langdon? He'd find someone else to party with. Kyndra? She hasn't had much time for me lately, either.

Khail?

I bet Khail would be glad.

And that's when I decide to try.

Should I take a deep breath? Empty my lungs first? Does it even matter? Before I can let myself analyze it too much I suck in some air and plunge once more into the water.

When I feel myself drifting toward the surface, I scream into the sea, exhaling until I feel my depth stabilize—though with my eyes squeezed shut I guess I can't be sure. I reach the point where my lungs begin to ache and I feel my elbows tremble, but I keep my limbs straight. If I let them move, I know, I'll flail back to the surface. My whole body is shaking, though somehow I don't feel as cold. It's like getting drunk all over again, but fast. My thoughts are slipping away and my body is growing numb.

Straight
, I tell my elbows.
Just stay straight
, and the fact that they do makes me feel like I'm winning an imaginary contest even though there are no winners in this game.

I start to feel woozy beneath the water and my lungs use that moment to try to force me to take in a breath. I fight it, but the water is starting to feel warm and my body is relaxing and almost without realizing it, my lungs rebel and make me take a breath.

And it destroys everything.

I suck in water and my nose burns like fire and my fingers are scrambling upward without permission, pushing my face out of the water, where I gag and retch and cough and do anything I can to get the fire out of my nose, my lungs, my eyes. My foam noodle didn't drift very far, but I barely reach it and fling my arms over it—my muscles completely useless. Everything hurts, and not in the calming, almost pleasant way it did before. No, I'm weak and trembling like an infant. Snot is running down my face and I barely have the energy to lift a quivering arm to wipe it away.

I've failed at yet another thing and now I'm a shivering, wet loser in the middle of the ocean.

And I realize I just want to go home. Not really to my parents, just to my house. Where things are warm, and soft, and safe.

When I have the strength to do more than just drape my limp arms over the noodle to keep myself afloat—and it takes a surprisingly long time before I do—I adjust it and pull myself up to look over it for the shore. At first I don't see anything, but when I remember to use the setting sun to get my bearings, I'm able to face the right direction and realize I do see my house.

Very far away. I've really drifted out.

That's when I start to cry. I'm so tired that even the thought of paddling makes me want to give up. At least I have the noodle to keep me afloat.

I swim with my arms for a while—keeping the noodle under my chest—then I hold on to it and kick with my legs instead. Switch, switch, switch again. After doing that a couple times I have to just drape myself over the noodle and rest.

The third time I have to stop to rest I look up at the lights of my house—my own personal beacon—and I realize they don't look any closer. If anything, they actually look farther away. Desperation clutches at my throat and I slip back into the water, forcing myself to kick harder and somehow finding the strength. The sunlight is almost completely gone and I have got to get back to shore before it disappears entirely. I kick until my legs burn and then switch to swimming with my arms. When I can barely move any of my limbs, I peek over the edge again.

My heart sinks. The lights are definitely farther away now. Despite my frantic swimming, I'm actually being pulled farther out to sea.

Riptide
.

I didn't check for the signs before I headed out on the noodle. I didn't care enough to check for the signs. Didn't care much about anything.

But I do now.

There's something you're supposed to do if you're caught in a riptide, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is. How many times have I heard the rules? The ocean is dangerous. The ocean can kill you. If you're going to play in the ocean, you have to follow the rules. But I can only remember two: never swim drunk, and never swim alone.

Stupid, useless rules.

I start kicking again and hot tears are now streaming down my face. I gulp for air between sobs and water keeps getting in my mouth and choking me. My wet suit is heavy and part of me wonders if I could swim better if I stripped it off. But the rational part of my brain worms its way through the vodka—I'll be too cold without it.

Kick, reach, stroke, kick, reach, stroke—it's a pounding rhythm in my head that slows even as I fight to keep going. My chest convulses as I clutch the noodle, but there's nothing to grip and my fingers are already trembling from the strain of clinging to its slippery foam surface.

The waves are growing stronger as the tide comes in, and I feel the ocean pull at me, fighting to tear me away from my lifesaving bit of plastic. I try to keep my chin out of the water, then just my mouth. But soon the water is creeping up to my nose and every breath includes stinging droplets of salt water.

I can't cough because my mouth is underwater, but my lungs don't seem to know that. I hack out some water, but I don't have the strength to lift my head, so all I do is breathe more in. The burning is back—the excruciating pain. My body rebels against the invading water and I retch and gag, but all its efforts just fill me with even more of the burning, murderous ocean. It's as bad as that first burning breath that brought me out of the water when I wanted to die. But this time it makes me realize that I want to live. Not just go home and not die, but
live
.