Every kid tries it. Facedown in the water, arms drooping. After thirty seconds, a minute, your chest begins to burn but you don’t move: You hold out, staring at the blue cement of the pool floor, letting the waves rock your body like a rudderless raft. The shouting voices above mute to a low roar, and your ears tune to odd clicks and thumps, the whoosh of your pulse in your ear. Oh, how your mother will wail when they find your waterlogged body. Your father will fall to his knees, wondering why he didn’t appreciate you more. Imagine the funeral! And then almost against your will your feet come down and you pull your face out of the water. You gasp and ask your best friend, How long was that? Or so I’ve been told; I’ve never tried it. Neither had Stony. He’d never learned to swim, and he wasn’t much good at floating—he kept listing to the side like a ship taking on water. But he was very good at being a dead man. He could drift for hours in the crystal clear waters of the island as huge tropical fish, bright as cartoons, coasted beneath him.
