Read Breathing Underwater for Free Online

likely to be out on the fishing rock below Wind Down. That’s where he’ll come to me, if he’s going to.
    I don’t exactly think this out, not as clearly as this, because if I did I’d see how really mad it sounds. It’s more a feeling, pushing me to do things I wouldn’t normally. I don’t really like fishing much. It’s Joe’s thing, for starters, and you have to stay still and quiet for ages, just hanging around, and then if you do catch anything it’s all rather horrible: the hook stuck in flesh, and the goggling eyes, and the flapping about and everything. Seeing a fish in air is like how I imagine drowning, for a person. Gasping for breath.
    That’s three good reasons not to do it, but here I am, already brushing cobwebs and dust off the two fishing rods. I try winding the reels. One’s rusted up. I take the other one outside into the garden, and the box. I haven’t much of a clue how to do it, since I’ve never done it by myself before, but I reckon I can always ask someone. That boy, even.
    Or Matt.
    Why do I keep thinking about him?
    I’m feeling braver today, so I risk going the quick way via the campsite to get to Wind Down. There aren’t many people around as it’s nearly midday and quite sunny, so people are at the beach already or off on boats or whatever. There’s no sign of anyone I know from other years. Nor the boy.
    Outside a big, hexagonal orange tent someone’s propped a board pinned with home-made jewellery against a camping chair. I stop to look. The earrings, necklaces and bracelets are made from bits of shell and pebble and tiny feathers strung on silver wire.
    The tent door unzips. Izzy pokes her head out. ‘Hi, Freya!’
    â€˜Hi!’ I know I’m blushing. Stupid. Again.
    â€˜Like them?’ Izzy asks.
    I nod. ‘Are they yours? You made them?’
    â€˜Yep. Necklaces seven pounds. Earrings two pounds fifty. Real silver. Bargains.’
    â€˜They’re lovely,’ I say. They really are. The colours, the delicate designs.
    â€˜Thanks,’ Izzy says.
    There’s an awkward moment: her half in, half out of the tent, me standing there.
    â€˜Is this where you’re living?’ I ask.
    â€˜Yes. Third tent since April. Two got ripped, in storms, but this one’s extra good. It’s my mum’s.’
    â€˜Since April ? In a tent ?’
    Izzy laughs. ‘Mad, yes? I came over soon as we got study leave for A levels. My mum went mental! I went back to do the actual exams. Then I got the summer job here. But this tent’s properly waterproof and really cosy inside. See?’ Izzy holds open the flap so I can see inside.
    And it is amazing. Like a Bedouin tent or a yurt or something exotic like that: Indian bedspreads and rugs and cushions, everything bathed in a pinky-gold light from the sun filtering through the fabric.
    A head sticks up from under an orange blanket and stares, bleary-eyed, at Izzy and me. It’s Matt.
    â€˜What’s the time?’ he mumbles.
    â€˜Twelve? One? Time you got up,’ Izzy says.
    For a second I’m confused. Haven’t I already seen Matt, up at the farmhouse, earlier this morning? He must have to get up early for milking, and the first boat . . . So maybe that’s why he’s gone back to bed. And then I see the look he gives Izzy, and I go hot all over. Duh! Izzy and Matt haven’t been just sleeping . . .
    I duck back out of the tent. Izzy whispers something to Matt, and he laughs. There’s the soft thud of someone lying down, and I don’t stay to hear anything more. I know they’re not laughing at me. I know that. They won’t give me another thought. I start to run, the rod and the box banging against my legs. All the way, I keep thinking of Mum and Dad, the way they used to be. Izzy, in her bright, silly clothes with that big happy smile. Matt’s soft mouth, finding hers.
    I want to cry. I