Page 27 of The Chaperones

Chapter Four

Friday afternoon, 2:02 p.m., twelve hours earlier

Mona, the PTA mom

I sit on the ground, rolling my foot to inspect my ankle. Each rotation sends a searing pain through the joint and up my calf. Already, it’s swollen. Fleshy.

“You all right?” I hear someone call to me. It’s one of the college boys from the boat, whose friend sold me his spot. They’re jogging toward me.

“It’s nothing,” I say through the throbbing pain. “A light sprain.”

The boys reach me, and one skeptically eyes my swollen foot. “That looks bad.”

“Really,” I say standing on my good ankle. “I’ll be fine.”

I take a step on my left foot, and my ankle immediately buckles.

“I don’t think the boat has left,” one of the other boys says. “I can run back, ask them to wait for you. You should probably head back to the mainland and get that checked out.”

“I have to find my family,” I say more desperately than I mean to. The boys turn to each other, debating whether they actually want to be involved in whatever this is.

“Can I at least wrap it for you?” one of the boys asks. He explains that he’s a premed student at USC.

“That’s where I went,” I tell him.

“Fight on,” one of the other boys says, casting me a peace sign.

As my aspiring doctor winds a bandage around my ankle, we talk about prospects for the upcoming football season, whether we’ll beat Stanford this year. You can’t go to USC and not love football. They won’t let you in. Even the fine arts students and the LARPers bleed red and gold. It’s the way of life.

“Sorry I don’t have a splint,” he says as he secures the bandage with clips.

“Please. When I was your age, there’s no way I would have thought to bring a first aid kit on a backpacking trip.” Just some wine coolers and a couple of electrolyte pouches for the following morning.

The irony’s not lost on me: The first aid kit I’d invented as an excuse to go home is one I could use now. And if Brady had packed my tote in the trunk with the other bags, I’d be drinking a glass of cold rosé with Yoo-Jin, since I graduated from wine coolers in my twenties. I’d be biding my time with Cassie rather than collecting the strength to walk across an island on a twisted ankle to confront her.

My young doctor surveys the area. “I’d feel better if you had a walking stick.”

There are no branches here, no trees to pluck them from.

“Really, I’ll be fine.”

Two of the boys help me up, and I notice that one of them lets his eyes travel down where my bra is showing beneath the scoop neck of my Beyond Yoga shirt. I’ve still got it, even at forty-two. Then I wince as I put weight on my left foot.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you back to the boat?” my young doctor asks again.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” I force myself to walk as normally as possible, which is somewhere between a hobble and a strut. The boys watch me for a minute and then forge ahead.

“Stay safe.” My young doctor flashes me another peace sign. As quickly as they came to my rescue, they’re off. I lose sight of them on the undulating path ahead.

After a few steps, I manage to find a cadence that puts as little weight on my left ankle as possible. It’s too slow but not quite painful. I keep limping along, determined to get to my family before nightfall.