Revival Of Stars

2 | The Pool Lesson

CHAPTER 2
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Heavy bricks. A profusion of tiny bubbles. Tightening lungs. The swish of water currents.
With a blurry vision, Lance 'Dailey' hauled a big brick from the ground with great exasperation. Water swirled around him, muting any outside noise, permitting him only to hear his own grunts as he tried to swim back towards the surface.

Up, up, up, he swam urgently—as best anyone could do whilst carrying a heavy object. His lungs were tightening, chest aching, heart burning. But he didn't give up, not wanting to sink to the bottom where the rest of the bricks laid. So, with the last bit of energy bottled inside his system, he surged higher, higher, higher, until he finally broke the surface with a great gasp.

Quickly, he moved the brick under his left arm before paddling his way towards the grass. With one last heave, he arched his arm before throwing the brick onto the ground, where it landed amongst a pile of other wet bricks.

"You're doing great," a voice came from behind an open book.

Lance gave out a long sigh before pulling his legs out of the pool and sprawling out onto the cleanly-mowed lawn. "Don't you think this exercise is a bit too excessive," he mumbled into the grass.

A laugh could be heard from behind the book. "My dad's exercise, not mine."

Located near the Western Mountains was Pleasant Valley—where ostentatious and affluent families resided in their colossal abode. It was a quiet, serene place, where nobody cared about anybody except themselves. The neighbors kept to their own secrets, and vowed to never invade others'. And resting atop acres of land was the Bishop Mansion—where, currently, in the expansive backyard lay Lance by the grand pool, and Oran Bishop, who was relaxing on a reclining chaise lounger, a book about a great warrior lost at sea in his hand.

"But I will admit," Oran began as he set the book in his lap, giving the back of his friend's head a cocky smile, "you're a hero."

"I don't feel like a hero," Lance mumbled into the grass before bracing himself and sliding back into the pool. He shot a dirty look at Oran before diving into the water, his arm splayed out in front of him, fingers grasping for another brick.

Inside of the grand Bishop Mansion, their mother, Navine Bishop, waltzed through the hallways with a glass of champagne in hand. After nearing one of the floor-to-ceiling high windows, she gazed outside where the pool could be clearly seen. The pile of wet bricks resting by the pool's side and the currents rippling in the pool served as sufficient proof for her son, Oran Bishop, doing his swim lessons (in actuality, he was hidden behind a row of bushes reading a book). With a knowing nod, Navine turned her back to the window and brought the champagne glass back to her lips.

As if he had sensed Navine's disappearance, Lance broke the surface and threw the brick onto the grass. A grunt escaped his lips as he rested his arms on the edge of the pool. His breathing was ragged, as the extensive and laborious workout had basically strewn his lungs shut.

Oran, upon seeing his exhausted friend, gave a sigh before throwing a look over the row of bushes he was hiding behind. When he found no signs of his mother lingering at any of the windows, he snuck towards Lance.

"All right, you can stop now," he expressed as he leant out a hand. "My mom's not looking, so now's the best time."

Lance tiredly accepted his brother's out-stretched hand and allowed himself to be pulled out of the pool. However, a string of curses flew from his mouth as soon as Oran gripped onto his wrist.

"What? Again?" Oran questioned as he concernedly observed his friend's anguished face.

Without a response, Lance dragged himself towards the reclining chaise and shook off his wrist, trying desperately to mask his hurt expression nonchalantly. For the past few days he had tried his best to feign composure whenever a Bishop family member had grazed his hand/arm or bumped into it on accident. Unfortunately for him, his mask had slipped when their father, Dray Bishop, had accidentally backed into him while carrying the dishes. Navine and Dray had examined—if they could've, with a microscope—for any injuries on the boy's wrist. But they had found nothing. Just his tan wrist, clear, unscarred, unbroken.