Breathe and Count Back from Ten Read online

  Author’s Note

  When I started writing this book, I saw it as a story about a disabled immigrant teen’s dreams and wishes, and the joys of encountering first love as she navigates her own relationship with her body. And while it is about all those things, they don’t exist in a vacuum. There are parts of Vero’s story that involve instances of bullying, ableism, slut shaming, and lack of consent, both medical and sexual. Processing them looks different for all of us, and there’s no right or wrong way to do it. There’s only what feels right for you, when and how you decide.

  With love,

  Natalia

  Dedication

  To all the HIPpies who’ve ever felt out of place:

  together we are always home.

  To Ceci y Ramón: por todo y por siempre.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Natalia Sylvester

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Anesthesia: an·es·the·sia

  (n.) a controlled, temporary loss of sensation or pain induced for medical purposes

  (n. VR) a dreamless state; a nothingness in which you have no control

  Chapter 1

  WHEN YOU’RE ABOUT TO GO UNDER, the doctors tell you to breathe and count back from ten. Or they’ll ask who the president is and what year we’re in, the kind of things a time traveler would want to know. It feels like losing all sense of time, because I don’t remember ever getting past nine or eight before the anesthesia numbs me and everything disappears. Everything switches. I blink and I wake, and I’m in another bed, another room, wrapped in a cast in another time. Six hours later, and I never even felt the emptiness.

  Being underwater is the opposite. The faster I swim, the more time seems to slow down. I feel every ounce of breath inside of me. It’s loud and it’s quiet. It becomes a rhythm inside my body. Every four strokes, I tilt my head above the surface, long enough to fill my lungs, and not a millisecond or inch more. I practice twists, flips, and choreography if no one’s watching, mimicking all the moves I’ve memorized over years of following Mermaid Cove’s videos online. I hear my thoughts for once, clear as water.

  It’s the most awake I ever feel, and it’s like I’m dreaming.

  Except today there’s a beeping. It’s somewhere far away, but it’s getting louder and more insistent. I swim to the edge of the pool and lift my head just enough for my eyes to clear the top.

  It’s not the construction truck I expected, but a moving truck, backing into a spot painfully slowly. A guy about my age stands by the curb, signaling to whoever’s driving to come closer. Closer. Closer.

  He waves both arms very suddenly for them to stop.

  Too close, I guess.

  The truck comes to a screeching halt and goes silent. I try to get a good look at the guy’s profile, but it’s hard from so far away. There’s a whole tennis court between us, and it’s old and cordoned off by a sky-high chain-link fence. Through the crisscross view, all I can read is his body language: hands on hips, shoulders drooping, chin up. Like he’s tired of trying not to let his exhaustion show.

  He disappears somewhere in front of the truck, and I go back to my swimming. I still have twenty laps to go, and if I hurry I’ll finish before anyone else gets here. Now that it’s summer, every parent in our apartment complex has decided this will be the year their kid learns to swim. Except they rarely use the kiddie pool like they’re supposed to. They swarm into the lap pool with their noodles and flotation devices, splashing along the perimeter as they grasp at the pool’s edges like they’re support beams at a skating rink. I’ve been waking up two hours early every morning just to avoid the rush.

  I finish my last stretch of laps in under six minutes, tugging off my goggles by the deep end. A pair of dusty brown boots collapse off the side of the lounge chair a few feet in front of me. The feet they belong to are still in socks, crossed at the ankles as the toes wiggle around.

  Gross.

  The guy from the moving truck sits up, legs straddling the long seat, looking startled, as if I wasn’t here first. He’s in jeans and a dark beige and white baseball shirt. The sleeves are bunched up around his elbows, but he tilts his head to the side and pushes them up further for no apparent reason. I feel sticky just looking at him. Sweaty, wearing-too-many-clothes-for-this-weather sticky.

  “Can I help you?” I say.

  “What? No. I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to make you stop swimming. Please, pretend I’m not even here.”

  That’s going to be near impossible, considering there’s no one else on the pool deck right now, and of all the places he could’ve sat, he chose the chair where I left my things.

  “My towel. It’s on the back of your chair.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He twists and grabs my turquoise and purple beach towel. It’s now a bundled wad that he passes distractedly from one hand to the other. “I just needed a quiet place to close my eyes for a bit. I wasn’t watching you or anything,” he adds hurriedly.

  “I wasn’t . . . thinking that. Until now.” I dip my head back in the water to smooth my hair. When I come back up, he’s leaning closer to the pool’s edge. “Anyway you didn’t make me stop,” I say.

  “How many laps did you do?”

  “Fifty.” I rest my arms over the edge and place my chin on my forearm. From this angle the sun’s directly behind him, and all I can see is his dark silhouette, carved out by light. “This isn’t exactly a quiet place, with all the splashing.”

  “I guess not. But you did me a favor.” He turns his attention back to the moving truck. A man lifts the back open, and the door rumbles like a trash bin being dragged across uneven pavement. It’s huge, one of those trucks people hire to move across state, and definitely bigger than any I’ve ever seen pull into Palmview Lakes. When my family and I moved from our one-bedroom across town into this bigger apartment eight years ago, Papi borrowed a pickup from a friend at work, and it only took two trips to bring over all our furniture. Mami packed all our other things into boxes she’d gotten from the loading dock at Publix.

  “We brought way too much stuff,” he mumbles, turning away from the truck. He runs his fingers over his hair in a dipping motion, like he’s trying to hide his face behind his arm. Like maybe me seeing all his boxes is the same as being caught undressed. I look down and stare at my legs quietly flapping beneath the water.

  “Where’d you move from?”
r />   “Are you getting out?”

  We break the silence at the same exact time, then both wait for the other one to answer. The quiet drags, and we let the questions drop like an overinflated dodgeball no one wants to touch.

  I start growing cold in the water, but if I get out now, he’ll see me in my bathing suit, and I know how this part of introductions will go. Eyes like a magnet to my scars. Silence stretching up my thigh and pelvic bone as he stares down every inch of them. Inevitably, the question, What happened there? Before he’s even asked my name.

  Sometimes I lie to people. I give them a story about a bizarre accident instead of the boring truth they’re never comfortable hearing anyways. But this guy looks so sad and tired, I don’t have the heart to mess with him. I contemplate asking him to pass me my towel, but now he’s hugging it over his stomach like a security blanket and I’m not entirely sure he’s noticed he still has it.

  “Don’t you need to go unpack?” It comes out sounding ruder than I meant it, and it seems to catch him off guard, because his jawline and temple pop. His face is all sharp angles and smoothness, and his long lashes move like butterflies as he blinks several times.

  “The movers won’t let me help. Apparently it’s some kind of liability thing.”

  “Must be nice.” Most people in our apartment complex don’t exactly hire movers.

  He lets out a half laugh. “Yeah. It’s just that management—”

  A deep Southern voice cuts him off. “There you are.”

  I don’t have to turn to know it’s Bob, our apartment’s security guard, who is always nowhere he’s needed and everywhere he’s not invited. My best friend, Leslie, and I have spent nearly every summer begging Bob to let us drive his golf cart. He usually gives us rides around the complex instead.

  “What’d I do now?” I say. There’s always some new pool rule he teases me about breaking, though it’s never actually enforced.

  “Not you, Verónica. Him. I’m supposed to give this young man the grand tour today.”

  The young man finally releases my poor towel from his clutches and leaves it on the lounge chair as he gets up to shake Bob’s hand. While they chat I take the opportunity to dart out of the pool and wrap the towel around my waist, forming a nice V dip just below my belly button. Bob calls for me to come over.

  “Verónica, this here’s Alex.” So the young man has a name. “Alex’s mom is our new property manager. How ’bout while she gets their things sorted in their new apartment, you show him around?” Bob slaps him on the shoulder with all the awkwardness of a drunk uncle. Alex raises his eyebrows into a look of quiet embarrassment.

  “It’s okay. You really don’t have to,” he says.

  “It’s just there’s really not much to show . . .”

  “Then it shouldn’t take much of your time at all,” Bob says.

  Before either of us can respond, he’s already rushing back to his cart. We watch him putter away until our eyes meet and redirect to the ground.

  “That was really awkward. I’m sorry. It’s just that management’s set on giving us the VIP treatment, apparently.”

  “Must be nice,” I say again, walking back to where I left my bag and change of clothes. I slip on a pair of jean cutoff shorts under my towel and pull on a yellow tank, then drape the towel back over the lounge chair for it to dry.

  “It goes without saying, you don’t have to listen to him,” he says.

  “Sure I don’t.” I grin and roll my eyes. It’s not like I really have a choice. As much as Leslie and I like to make fun of him, Bob calls the shots around here, in a strange behind-the-scenes type of way. Draping my bag over my shoulder, I take another look at Alex and try to assess the risk factor. When my parents said they better never catch me at the pool with another boy or else, they meant it. Never mind that this would be completely different—my parents were so furious the night they caught me making out with Jeremy Bradley they haven’t been able to see past their rage ever since. And they definitely don’t see me. Not the way they used to, anyways.

  I check the time on my phone. Mami and Papi will be at work by now, and besides, I’m just doing what I was told. Being nice, welcoming. Doing everything I can to not to be “desagradable.” The second worst word in my family’s dictionary, right after “promiscua.” Heaven forbid an unpleasant or promiscuous daughter.

  A tired sigh escapes me. I wrap it up with my most convincing smile. “Come on. I’ll show you your kingdom, Mr. VIP.”

  Suelta: suel·ta

  (adj.) loose; often used to describe a promiscuous girl

  (v.—imperative VR) what I wish I could tell my parents to do—let go

  Chapter 2

  WE WALK TO THE RUSTED MONKEY bars and swing sets on the opposite side of the tennis courts. To the clustered mailbox unit that Mami constantly asks me to check, with its dried tiki hut roof that rustles at the lightest breeze, and then the faded hammock strung between two trees further down the road. Our apartment complex is, according to Leslie, a dinosaur—a giant, sprawling relic—but when we first moved in, my parents said we were lucky and we shouldn’t complain. They said our apartment in Peru was a tiny box in a four-story building, no recreational facilities or pools, like here. I wasn’t old enough to remember, but we lived right on a busy street that is practically a highway now. It’s why Mami always says “At least it’s not like Avenida Benavides” every time someone speeds through the main entrance. To which I usually respond that we should move to a unit closer to Leslie’s. It’s quieter, and those apartments have three bedrooms, which is the natural next step in our migration pattern: studio in Lima, one-bedroom across town, two-bedroom here. So far, they’re not exactly enthused.

  Alex and I walk down the sidewalks and occasionally take a shortcut through the back of one of the buildings. There are eighteen total, lettered A through R, and the complex is bordered on one side by a canal and shaped like a snake, so we slowly make our way through its curves, meandering in one direction and then another. We end up talking this way, too, never staying on any one subject for long.

  “So where’d you move from?” I ask, stepping onto the mosaic wall that lines the property. It grows from a few inches off the grass to several feet the further we walk, and I can tell he’s nervous, watching me tower over him, stretching my arms out for balance.

  “Texas. You sure you’re all right up there?” He places his hand on the wall like it’s a ladder he’s trying to hold still for me, his palms resting against a row of seashell accents that line the edge.

  I shrug and keep going. “It’s not really that high.”

  “You walk like you’ve done this a million times.”

  I slow down, aware of his eyes on my steps. It makes everything feel less steady. “Definitely enough times to know my way.” I try to think of where to take him next. “Do you play sports?”

  “I was on the baseball team sophomore year.” He looks away from me, and I pick up the pace again. My hip socket cracks like Pop Rocks in an open mouth, sharp but soft enough that I’m sure he doesn’t hear it.

  “So you’re a junior now?” I ask.

  “Incoming senior.”

  “Same as me.” I can’t imagine transferring to a new school senior year, right before college applications are due. My parents would never uproot me and my sister like that. They’re always talking about how leaving one country for another was hard enough, and now this—here, the four of us—is our home. It’s why I’m only applying to the state schools closest to us. None of them are more than a three-hour drive away, and they’re less expensive than if I went to college outside of Florida. It’s lucky that I want to major in marine biology, though, and not, like, deserts or something.

  I jump off the wall, landing on a soft patch of grass. My sudden dismount seems to surprise him, and for half a second, Alex hovers his hands over my sides like he was trying to catch me. We lock eyes for a beat past casual. Technically, I’m not supposed to be doing any of this—the doc
tors have always said no high-impact movements on my joints, and Mami would for sure kill me—¡aquí y al toque!—if she saw me practically leap into a boy’s arms. They treat me like a fragile package no one should ever dare touch or open. All these rules, left and right, when I’m the one who knows what my body can and can’t handle.

  What my ego can handle is another story. It’s still bruised by Jeremy. Sometimes I swear his touch is a soapy residue on my skin that refuses to wash away. Even worse, I think my parents see it, too. They look at me like I’m sucia, impossible to scrub clean. They say they’re just so worried about the kind of young woman I’m becoming.

  “You good there?” Alex says. His concern for me, on the other hand, is kind of sweet.

  “Million times, remember? This way, please.” Ignoring the slight stiffness in my hip socket, I point both hands straight ahead in my best impression of an airline attendant.

  As soon as we get to the beach volleyball court, Alex takes off his shoes and socks (this boy is in desperate need of a pair of flip-flops, the official footwear of Floridians) and dips his toes into the sand. He does a twisty thing with his hips, like he’s trying to wedge himself in deeper.

  “The sand is kind of shallow, actually. Maintenance hasn’t refilled it in years,” I say. “Every summer another tropical storm or hurricane depletes it more.” Mami’s tried to get them to fix it—she was captain of her high school’s volleyball team in Peru, and my sister Dani’s planning on trying out for ours this summer—but her requests go completely ignored. “You can’t even dive for the ball. Look.” I dig my foot in, exposing the concrete just a few inches deep. “I tried it last time my family and I played and practically scraped my whole knee off.”

  “Ouch. That sounds painful.” He looks at my legs, and I want to kick myself for bringing attention to them again. I can never tell if I’ve been limping, because it’s usually really subtle until it’s not. But if I have been and Alex has noticed, right about now would be the moment he asks why. I hold my breath, trying to think of a way to change the subject.