The Best American Short Stories 2015 by T.C. Boyle Read Free Book Online

“Celia’s been going for hours now.”
    â€œHer body knows what to do,” Joe said, lighting a cigarette.
    Joe and Marlene smoked. Georgie poured herself another glass of wine, finding the silence excruciating. Nearby a pea hen screamed from a roost in one of the small trees that flanked the balcony. The island had been a bird sanctuary before Joe bought it, and exotic birds still fished from the shore.
    â€œGrab a sweater,” Joe instructed, standing up, stamping out her cigarette. “I want to take you girls racing.”
    The water was shiny and black as Joe pulled Marlene and Georgie onto a small boat shaped like a torpedo. It sat low on the water and had room for only two, but Georgie and Marlene were thin and the three women pressed together across the leather bench seat.
    â€œLeave your drinks on the dock,” Joe warned. “It’s not that kind of joy ride.”
    Not five minutes later they were ripping through the water, Georgie’s hair blown straight back, spit flying from her mouth, her blue eyes watering. At first she was petrified. She felt as if the wind was exploring her body, inflating the fabric of her dress, tunneling through her nostrils, throat, and chest. A small sound escaped her mouth but was thrown backward, lost, muted. She looked down and saw Marlene’s jaw set into a tight line, her knuckles white as her long fingers gripped the edge of the seat. Joe pressed on, speeding through the blackness until it looked like nothingness, and Georgie’s fear became a rush.
    The bottom of the boat slapped the water, skipped over it, cut through it, and it felt as though it might capsize, flip over, skid across the surface, dumping them, breaking their bodies. Georgie’s teeth began to hurt and she bit her tongue by mistake. The taste of blood filled her mouth but she felt nothing but bliss, jarred into another state of being, of forgetting, a kind of high.
    â€œEnough,” Marlene yelled, grabbing Joe’s shoulder. “Enough! Stop.”
    â€œKeep going,” Georgie yelled. “Don’t stop.”
    Joe laughed and slowed the boat, cutting the engine until there was silence, only the liquid sound of the water lapping against the side of the craft.
    â€œTake me back to the island,” Marlene snapped.
    Georgie stood up, nearly losing her balance.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Joe demanded.
    â€œGoing for a swim,” Georgie said.
    Georgie kicked off her sandals, unbuttoned her sundress, leaving it in a pool on the deck of the boat. She dove into the black water, felt her body cut through it like a missile.
    â€œWe’re a mile off shore! Get back in the boat!” Joe shouted.
    Joe cranked the engine and circled the boat, looking for Georgie, but everything was dark and Georgie stayed still so as not to be found, swimming underwater, splashless, until Joe gave up and headed for shore.
    Georgie oriented herself, looking up occasionally at the faint lights on the island, the only thing that kept her from swimming out into the open sea. It felt good to scare Joe. To do what she wanted to do. To scare herself. To risk death. To do the one thing she was good at, to dull all of her thoughts with the mechanics of swimming, the motion of kicking her feet, rotating her arms, cutting through the water, dipping her face into the warm sea and coming up for air, exerting herself, exhausting her body, giving everything over to heart, blood, muscle, bone.
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    That night, Georgie crept into the bedroom, feeling a little less helpless than she had the night before. The bed was empty, as she expected it might be. Even if Joe was with Marlene, she would still be worried, and Georgie liked the idea of keeping Joe up at night.
    She went to the bathroom to comb her hair before bed. She stared at herself in the mirror. The overhead light was too bright. Her eyes looked hollow. She should eat more, drink less, she thought. As she reached for the comb,