Free The Lifeguard by Deborah Blumenthal Page A

more stuff?
    What’s strange is that there’s been nothing in the local paper. There isn’t much crime here, but when there is, the paper writes about it—drunk driving, speeding, or the theft of a lawn mower or bike. Since it was a painting in a gallery, maybe it wasn’t considered a huge deal. Either that, or the gallery owner didn’t realize it was gone, or didn’t care. It wasn’t a Picasso, but still…I was a thief.
    I swim for part of the afternoon and it’s a welcome distraction. I can go farther now without getting winded. After I get back to the blanket, I dry off, then bike home along the beach. I slow down suddenly, confused. Antonio. Guilt washes over me. Why is he not in his regular spot?
    Then I see.
    “Sirena,” he calls. “Come work with me. We have a model.”
    My stomach tightens.
    Pilot. It couldn’t be more embarrassing if he were nude. I hesitate.
    “Sirena,” he waves me over, impatiently. Sweat eats into my suntanned skin. I work at acting relaxed. “I don’t have my sketchbook, Antonio.”
    Pilot turns to me, taking me in.
    “I have another,” Antonio says. “Come, he’s such a good model.”
    I take the pad and pencil from Antonio. “You know each other, yes?” he says to both of us.
    A hum of acknowledgement escapes my lips.
    “How are you?” Pilot says, softly, his voice as calm and lyrical as music. I swear, his eyes are laughing.
    I work at taking a breath and slide into the sand close to Antonio. “Good,” I murmur.
    The space cadet begins to sketch.
    He’s a kick-ass model. Perfect repose. There’s not a nervous bone in his body, he holds that still. I get down as much as I can, reasonably happy with the outline of his head, the angle of his jaw, the strong curve of his shoulders and the banded muscles of his arms. It must be the nearness of Antonio that helps, if that’s possible. He looks down at my picture after a few minutes, studying it.
    “Maybe the face now?” Antonio says. We both start a new page.
    Pilot shifts from leaning back on his elbows to sitting up, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. He tilts his head back, his eyes focused on me, without blinking.
    Whose character study is this?
    My eyes meet his, then flit back to the paper, my safety zone, a respite from the tension between what’s real and physical, which for me seems to smoke like a live current.
    “Ten minutes,” Pilot says, suddenly dousing the flame. He has to go back to work, this is his lunch hour, I realize. My heart sinks. No, I want to insist. How can I stop? My hand works faster, racing the clock.
    He glances down to check his watch, and finally stands to go, squeezing his eyes, shaking his head as if he’s waking from a trance. He reaches overhead to stretch and I look away.
    Antonio puts his hands together as if in prayer. “My dear Pilot, thank you.” I murmur in agreement. As he walks away, his eyes glance down at my sketch. What does he think?
    He saunters off without giving me as much as a hint.
    Antonio puts his pencil down and turns to look at me. Involuntarily, I yawn.
    “Sleepy, Sirena?”
    I nod.
    “All the concentration, it can be tiring, no?” He smiles as if he understands more than he says.

sixteen
    I bike to the hospital to see how Cody is doing, even though I’m off for the weekend. I stop at the library to pick out books for him and then make my way along the corridor to his room.
    The walls of the children’s wing are decorated with crayon drawings done by the kids. I love the spontaneous way they express themselves and the exuberance in their work. The pictures of happy kids are oversized, filling the paper with images of themselves and their families with zany ear-to-ear smiles. In one, the sun is the size of a basketball with straight lines like spokes of a wheel jutting out in all directions. The colors are bright and bold, the strokes free and open.
    Then there are the sad kids, the troubled ones. Their figures are small