She types it and hits return.
“There. It’s a start,” she says.
“Great, four words down. Seven-hundred-ninety-six to go.” An eight-hundred-word feature, that’s what Abby wants. Minimum. I can’t imagine being in such a groove that I squeeze out more than that.
“Why don’t you interview us? Ask us for comments you can put it in the story. You need outside perspectives, right?” She twists my laptop toward me, and I chew at my lips, giving it thought.
“Okay, that might help.” I sit up and take over the computer, turning and facing Brooklyn.
“What do you think about me swimming on Wednesday?” I stare at her with a blank face, hands poised to type. Brooklyn scowls.
“That’s your question? I thought you wanted to be a sports journalist. Lily, that’s not probing or introspective. You aren’t going to get great sound bites with a question like that.”
I sigh and snap my laptop shut.
“That’s the problem. I know! You’re right! But I don’t want to ask probing questions to you. To Morgan. To anyone! I don’t want to ask myself the probing questions. I don’t want to capitalize off your trauma,” I bark.
“Ourtrauma,” Morgan pipes in.
Brooklyn and I both look to her. She puts her homework to the side and scoots to the edge of her bed, folding her legs up and holding her ankles.
“We all went through this together. And what you did that night, Lily, was heroic. I know you hate that word. It’s half the reason I never bombard you with my gratitude, because you have a lot of mixed emotions about that term. But you saved my life, Lily. You saved Brooklyn’s. We were not getting out of those seat belts without you. We were not getting to the riverbank without your strength pulling us to the surface.”
Brooklyn stretches out her legs and rolls up the right pant leg of her sweats, showing the scar on the side of her knee.
“I have two pins in there. It hurts when I stand longer than fifteen minutes. I’m supposed to wear the brace until the first of the year, but I can’t stand the sight of it. It reminds me, and I hate that I feel weak. But Lily, I couldn’t move. I tore tendons with names I’ve never heard. And while I am working through constant feelings of inadequacy and failure—work I know will require years of attention—what you did for me was the most selfless thing I’ve ever seen. You were human to your core. You acted out of love. And like Morgan said, if I didn’t know how much you hate hearing it, I’d tell you every day—thank you. Thank you, Lily.”
Brooklyn’s eyes glisten and she wipes them dry with her sleeve.
My mouth feels heavy on the corners, and I swear my frown is dragging my cheeks down to my shoulders. I’m not a hero. I was terrified. They don’t understand.
“Whatever you’re thinking right now, write that.” Brooklyn reaches over and pulls up my laptop screen.
I look at the headline she retyped for me.
FISH OUT OF WATER.
There has never been a truer statement. That is what I am, what I’ve always been.
My hands hover over the keys for a few seconds and I start to type. I type my last thoughts. And then I type more, capturing the things Brooklyn said. Before too long, I’m asking better questions and sharing thoughts and feelings with my friends. And the longer we talk, the more things come back to Anika and how, though she’s gone physically, she is the nucleus of all we do.
Then it hits me. My eyes jet up from the screen and my typing halts.
“It’s Anika,” I announce. “That’s the story. I mean, it’s about me getting in the pool again and yadda, yadda, but Anika—she’s the reason. This story, it needs to be a tribute to Anika.” I’m grinning. I feel the strange stretch on my face. And Brooklyn and Morgan’s smiles are just as bright.
Brooklyn rushes to her dresser and pulls a box out from the bottom drawer, dumping the contents on my comforter and spreading them out. Dozens of photos, even one that I’m in. It was from that night; a selfie Anika took of the four of us before we headed out to the abandoned barn. Four young girls, vibrant and full of possibility. We were talking about boys then—I was talking about Theo.
I pick up that photo and hold it between my thumb and finger.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“Theo’s mom emailed me the photos in Anika’s cloud. She thought I might want them. My mom had them printed at one of those online photo places, and she put them in this box. I decided to put all my Anika things in here in case I ever needed to remember her.”
We spend the next two hours sorting through photos, most of them Brooklyn’s and some of them Morgan’s. I find things on my phone that fit the story, and by the time we’re done, we’ve painted a picture of our friend with our snapshots and text strings. She almost feels alive. It feels as though she’s here with us.
I start to write at midnight, and I lose Brooklyn and Morgan to sleep at about two in the morning. I don’t stop until my phone alarm rings, and my eyes sting with the need for sleep. But I’m done. It’s my story, but it’s more than that. It’s Anika’s story. It’s the lessons she taught us all. I wrote it as if someone were interviewing me along with my friends. I wrote it with two purposes. One, to honor my friend. And two, for Theo.
I type the byline at the top.