Page 3 of Maybe You

A boy whose fingers move to Remy’s foot and scrape over the side of it, futilely scrabbling for purchase.

A boy who opens and closes his mouth over and over again while blood paints the white T-shirt he’s wearing a macabre red.

A boy whose life Remy is going to save tonight.

PRESENT DAY

ONE

These days, I’m a keeper. I keep to myself, keep busy, and keep my head down. It’s why I could never live in a small town or any type of close-knit community. People all up in your business, lives linked, doing things together, taking interest in each other? Bleurgh. Shoot me now.

Big cities, though? Overpopulated, loud, crowded, grimy, dirty? Here I’m as close to invisible as I can get.

Here, I fit.

Of course, there are a few downsides. Mainly the part where you achieve such a high level of invisibility that you blend in so well you almost get run over by a food truck on your way to work. Once that happens, it’s safe to say you’ve gone a step too far and should probably reassess. My invisibility doesn’t come with invincibility included.

My bike’s fucked. It rattles and the bell gives a dull clunking sound as I tug the bike roughly over the pavement, the front tire broken and the fork bent. My palms and parts of my arms are covered in road rash, blood, and dirt. The pinky finger is swelling up rapidly and has turned a nice, unnatural shade of purple. The throbbing that accompanies it is pretty fucking annoying.

I put the bike away and sourly study my hands for another second before I unlock the front door and go inside, careful not to get blood anywhere. The building is empty and dark, the lessons done for the day.

Five nights a week, from eight p.m. to eleven p.m., I sweep, mop, scrub, wipe, disinfect, pressure clean, and dry the changing rooms and the pool area at a swim school in Brooklyn Heights.

It’s a good job, pays decently well for a janitorial position, and leaves my days free for school.

The guy who owns the place is nice. He has a calm air about him that, as a result, settles all over the place. Not that I see him much. Usually, by the time I get here everybody else is long gone, which suits me just fine.

I grab the first aid kit from the cupboard on the wall and go to the bathroom, where I rinse my hands with tepid water before I examine the damage.

It could be worse.

I put bandages on the heels of my palms and then stare sourly at the pinky finger. Still throbbing. Now with extra swelling.

That’s just going to slow me down.

I get out of the bathroom and rummage around in the front desk for a little while until I find a roll of painter’s tape. I use that to tape the pinky to the finger next to it and call it good.

Once that’s done, I put my earbuds in and get to work. I’ve had this job for a year and a half already, so I’ve settled into a routine. Changing rooms get cleaned first, and then I head to the pool area.

The broken finger does slow me down, which is not ideal, but there’s not much I can do about it other than suck it up. It’s already well past midnight when I finally make my way to the pool with the pressure washer in tow. Usually, I’m at home by now, heading to bed, so every now and then a yawn escapes.

I tighten my hold on the handle of the pressure washer and pull it after me. I’ve barely rounded the corner when I freeze in place.

There’s somebody here.

My heart picks up speed courtesy of a combination of adrenaline and my overactive imagination, which immediately jumps to picturing an outcome that sees me getting violently murdered. Only, if somebody is here with the intent of murder, they’re not doing a very good job since they’re currently in the pool, doing laps, instead of trying to find the best way to stab me.

I blink and stare. Option number two, the more logical one, says it’s Quinn—the man who owns the place. Sometimes he’s still around when I start working, jokingly complaining about paperwork. Offering me bottles of water from the fridge. Rolling his eyes when I forget and call him Mr. Henris.

The longer I look at the man in the pool, the clearer it becomes that this isn’t Quinn. I’ve seen Quinn swim. He treats every lap like he’s trying to break a record. Every stroke is disciplined, determined, and executed with precision.

This guy? He’s clearly in it for the fun of it. There’s an almost lazy quality to the way he moves. Like he’s not really even bothered and is just doing this to pass the time until something more interesting comes along.

Clearly that’s not me, seeing as he’s unaware anybody else is here.

I consider my options for a moment before I come to a decision: I’ll provide him with some excitement because whoever it is, he’s not supposed to be here.

I put the pressure washer down and walk to the corner of the room, where there’s a shelf with the equipment. Kick boards, diving toys, and pool noodles are neatly organized, not only by size but also by color and weight.