Holding onto the girls with one hand, I thrust out the other and managed to grab Josh by – what else? – the short hairs on the back of his neck.

Though this proved highly effective – in that he promptly began thrashing in pain – I'd neglected two things. One was Mark, who continued to swim free. And the other was the ocean, which was still churning waves at me. Any sensible person would have been looking out for these things, but I, in my anger, was not.

Which was why a second later, I was promptly sucked under.

Let me tell you, there are probably pleasanter ways to die than choking on a lungful of saltwater. It burns, you know? I mean, it is, after all, salt.

And I coughed down a lot of it, thanks first to the wave, which bowled me under. And then I swallowed a lot more when Mark grabbed hold of my ankle, and kept me under.

One thing I have to admit about the ocean: it's very quiet down there. I mean, really. No more shrieking gulls, crashing of the waves, shouts from the surfers. No, under the sea, it's just you and the water and the ghosts who are trying to kill you.

Because, of course, I'd held onto the ends of the seaweed I was using to tow the girls. And I hadn't let go of Josh's hair, either.

I kind of liked it, I discovered, under there. It wasn't so bad, really. Except for the cold, and the salt, and the horrible realization that at any moment, a twenty-foot killer shark could swoop under me and bite my leg off, it was, well, almost pleasant.

I suppose I lost consciousness for a few seconds. I mean, I'd have had to, to have held onto those stupid ghosts so tightly, and think being held under tons and tons of salt water was pleasant.

The next thing I knew, something was tugging at me, and it wasn't one of the ghosts. I was being tugged toward the surface, where I could see the last rays of the sun winking across the waves. I looked up, and was surprised to see a flash of orange and a lot of blond hair. Why, I thought, wonderingly, it's that nice lifeguard. What's he doing here?

And then I became greatly concerned for him, because, of course, there were a lot of bloodthirsty ghosts around, and it was entirely possible one of them might try to hurt him.

But when I looked around, I found, to my astonishment, that all of them had disappeared. I was still holding the rope of seaweed, and my other hand was still clenched as if on someone's hair. But there was nothing there. Just seawater.

The chickens, I thought to myself. The lousy chickens. Came up against the mediator and found out you couldn't take it, huh? Well, let that be a lesson to you! You don't mess with the mediator.

And then I did something that will probably live on in mediator infamy for the rest of time:

I blacked out.

C H A P T E R

8

Okay, I don't know if any of you have ever lost consciousness before, so let me just say here real quickly:

Don't do it. Really. If you can avoid situations in which you might lose consciousness, please do so. Whatever else you do, do not pass out. Trust me. It is not fun. It is not fun at all.

Unless, of course, you're guaranteed to wake up having mouth-to-mouth performed on you by a totally hot California lifeguard. Then I say go for it.

That was my experience when I opened my eyes that afternoon on the Carmel Beach. One second I was sucking in lungfuls of saltwater, and the next I was lip-locked with Brad Pitt. Or at least someone who looked very much like him.

Could this, I asked myself, my heart turning over in my chest, be my one true love?

Then the lips left mine, and I saw that it wasn't my true love at all, but the lifeguard, his long blond hair falling wetly around his tanned face. The skin around his blue eyes crinkled with concern – the ravages of sun; he should have used Coppertone – as he asked, "Miss? Miss, can you hear me?"

"Suze," I heard a familiar voice – Gina? but what was Gina doing in California? – say. "Her name is Suze."

"Suze," the lifeguard said, giving my cheeks a couple of rather rough little taps. "Blink if you can understand me."

This, I thought, could not possibly be my one true love. He seems to think I'm a moron. Also, why does he keep hitting me?

"Oh, my God." Cee Cee's voice was more high-pitched than usual. "Is she paralyzed?"

To prove to them I wasn't paralyzed, I started to sit up.

Then promptly realized this had been a bad decision.

I think I only threw up once. To say that I spewed like Mount St. Helens is a gross exaggeration on Dopey's part. It is true that a great deal of seawater came up out of me after I tried to sit up. But fortunately, I avoided throwing it up on both myself and the lifeguard, sending most of it neatly into the sand beside me.

After I was done throwing up, I felt a great deal better.

"Suze!" Gina – who I suddenly remembered was in California visiting me – was on her knees beside me. "Are you all right? I was so worried! You just laid there so still...."

Sleepy was a lot less sympathetic.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded. "Did Pamela Anderson die and leave an opening on the Baywatch rescue squad, or something?"

I looked up at all the anxious faces around me. Really, I'd had no idea so many people cared. But there was Gina and Cee Cee and Adam and Dopey and Sleepy and some of their surfer friends and a few tourists, snapping pictures of the real live drowned girl, and Michael and …

Michael. My gaze snapped back toward him. Michael, who was in so much danger, and hardly seemed aware of it. Michael, who, as he stood dripping over me, seemed unconscious of the fact that around his throat was a great red welt where the seaweed had bit into his skin. It looked painfully inflamed.

"I'm all right," I said, and started to stand up.

"No," the lifeguard said. "There's an ambulance on its way. Stay where you are until the dudes from EMS have checked you out."

"Um," I said. "No, thank you."

Then I stood up and moved toward my towel, which still rested where I'd left it beside Gina's, a little farther up the beach.

"Miss," the lifeguard said, hurrying after me. "You were unconscious. You nearly drowned. You've got to be checked out by EMS. It's procedure."

"You really," Cee Cee said as she jogged along beside me, "should let them check you out, Suze. Rick says he thinks both you and Michael might have been victims of a Portuguese man-of-war."