Free The American Girl by Kate Horsley Page B

again—someone watching. Looking up, I see him staring straight at me. He even misses the ball because of it.
    I drop the phone and walk to the water to hide my blushes. In the shallows, my feet slap angrily on the soft, sucking sand under the blue, walking faster, harder against the weight of water. It pushes me towards the beach. I push back, fingers skimming the playful licks of wavelets angrily. And when I’m deep enough, I dive, swim hard and fast for the aqueduct, wanting to get away from all of them, have some space for once.
    I swim butterfly, half underwater. As it deepens, it changes from the color of pale sea glass to a murky, dark green. One time I surface inches from the orange fiberglass prow of a canoe that speeds past my head, the canoeist never seeing me at all. Today, I don’t give a fuck. I just plunge back into the cool green murk and head for the aqueduct, coming up for air at the rocky base of the middle foot. Rolling on my back, I scull idly between clumps ofwhite rock, watching water shadows dance on the concave belly of the bridge. My sulk ebbs away. Everything falls away. I am nothing more than the fierce blood in my ears.
    Something touches my hand. Not just touches. Grabs hold of. I panic, lurching upright, swallowing about a pint of water, choking. Through the red haze, I see Freddie’s pale face, smirking.
    â€œI gave you a shock, hein ?”
    â€œFuck!” I splutter.
    â€œIt is time pour manger. ”
    He scoops his hand to his mouth, miming eating. “Émilie she has made le petit déjeuner .”
    He keeps grinning widely. I’ve decided that his face annoys me. “Couldn’t you just have called me instead of . . . creeping up on me?” The last words come out with a splutter of river bile. My chest burns. I don’t even bother trying to hide my annoyance. It’s the imbecile way he keeps smiling. It’s the fact that he came to get me for lunch instead of Raphael.
    As we swim back, I keep my distance, but he keeps swimming into me. It’s like he’s bumping into me on purpose. And there’s no reason for it, because he’s a strong swimmer, a swim-team-type swimmer. He can only be doing it on purpose, the big stalker. The more I try to wriggle away from him, the more he torpedoes me, knocking into my ribs one time so hard I know I’ll bruise.
    â€œStop it!” I hiss.
    He just grins wider than ever until all I can see is the gap in his teeth and the gleaming wet pallor of his high forehead,his bony nose. And then when we’re just near enough to shore to stand, he grabs my waist.
    â€œGet off!” I shriek, slapping him, kicking him.
    â€œI know you like me because you check my phone. Are you stalking me a bit, Quinn?”
    â€œAre you fucking serious? Put me down,” I say in the voice I use on bad dogs and pollsters.
    â€œIf you say so.” He does, but in the same movement, he whips me around to face him and kisses me, his tongue squirming between my lips.
    I push him away and run to shore. My face pulses. I want to be sick. I expect everyone to be staring, to look horrified and tell Freddie off. But no one seems to care. Noémie’s just lying with her sunglasses on, plugged into her iPod. Émilie is fanning flies from her sunbaked picnic. Only Raphael is looking at the water, his arms crossed over his sinewy chest, eyes studiously unfocused.
    I’ve begun to think Freddie is some kind of sociopath, who kissed me for no other reason than to humiliate me. Who tried to drown me. Who’s definitely the person text-stalking me. When he walks up and kneels in front of me and pinches my cheek, I slap his face, hard.
    He falls back into the sand with a surprised little cry.
    â€œMon Dieu!” says Émilie. “Quinn, what have you done?” She stands up suddenly, glaring down at me.
    Her anger is shocking. I’ve only seen her face look passive and happy. Now it is dark.