Except for this.
I find myself searching through the bag. I have sunscreen—albeit unnecessary indoors—bug repellent, bottled water, an extra towel, a set of dry clothes, Band-Aids, a box of raisins, wet wipes, ChapStick, tampons, a hairbrush, some Tylenol, an empty box of Tic-Tacs, but nothing whatsoever that can do anything about that teenage boy.
Trying to remain calm, I set the bag back on the damp, concrete floor of the pool deck and stand up. I have a choice to make, and I’m pretty sure I will make the wrong one, no matter how it plays out. I should be ok with this. It’s totally normal. This is what teenagers do. It’s what I did. That’s what scares me.
I know calling out to Cassie will be embarrassing for us both, so instead I start waving my arms around wildly in the air in an attempt to get her attention. I roll my eyes at myself, but I don’t stop waving my arms around like a fool. It works, to Cassie’s obvious annoyance. I point to my wrist in an exaggerated motion to indicate it’s time to go—even though we just got there. Across the length of the pool, Cassie twists her mouth and shrugs her shoulders. I repeat the “time to go” mime with bigger and more pronounced movements.
Cassie rolls her eyes at me too and says some words that I can’t hear to the boy. I’m being ridiculous. Which is probably what she said to Swimming-Pool Boy. I think of him like that as if it’s a superpower, which I guess it is. Cassie stalks over to me; her feet making angry flapping noises on the wet deck.
“What was that about?” Cassie says and repeats the motion I had done—pointing to her own wrist but in a much more petulant way.
“It means it’s time to go,” I say.
“How does that mean it’s time to go?” Cassie asks. “Besides, we just got here.”
I realize I haven’t actually worn a wristwatch in a decade or more and how the outdated motion doesn’t work in the cell phone age. I feel old, and I hear the tick-ticking of a clock in the distance.
“So what do you want, Mother?” Cassie asks.
“Who is that?” I answer with my own question, trying to gesture nonchalantly at the nightmare at the deep end of the pool.
“A guy,” Cassie answers with the typical and infuriating teenage combination of stating the obvious while being intentionally vague.
I pick up the pool bag. “Well, he’s too old for you.”
“He’s fifteen,” Cassie says, doing that jerky little back-and-forth head bob that they do. “I’m fifteen.”
“Well,” I stammer, but finish confidently, “he’s too tall for you.”
I bob my head back and forth too.
“Too tall for me?” Cassie challenges. “What does that mean?”
I turn to look at the kid who is standing and talking to a group of other boys. I clutch the pool bag to my chest with one hand, and with the other, I gesture toward him, moving my hand up and down trying to think of something to say. Words fail, and I just stand there motioning to the boy. The kid has pecs, biceps, and a six-pack, for crying out loud.
“Yeah,” Cassie says, a little too swoony. “He’s totally hot.”
I clutch the pool bag tighter. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for this.
“Put some clothes on, kid,” I yell across the pool at the boy.
Cassie rolls her eyes and says to me in overly pronounced disgust, “You are so embarrassing.”
Cassie stomps away toward the locker room, leaving me feeling strangely satisfied. When Swimming-Pool Boy looks over at me from the other side of the pool, I point at him sharply. He points at himself in return, and although I know I should quit while I’m ahead—if I am—I can’t help myself.
“Yeah, you,” I yell, like a tough guy, like a thug.
Some of the other parents are looking at me now, and there’s nothing left to do but take my useless polka-dotted bag and run for safety—wherever that is.
I feel like I’m gasping for air, and it reminds me of Dad teaching me how to swim.
“What if I drown?” I had asked. I was in water over my head. Dad was holding me up under my belly, my hands and legs sticking straight out like Superman in a wet sky.
“Life is full of what ifs,” he said, not really answering me as he moved me through the blue-green water.
Up on the shore, Lola was helping Mom set up a picnic lunch. Ray pitched rocks into the lake. It would still be years before one of them would be broken and the other would be lost to his guilt, but in that moment, such things were impossible.
“It’s about time you learned to swim,” Dad said.
He moved one hand out from under me. He smiled, and I wasn’t sure if he thought I didn’t notice the difference or if he was just encouraging me. Either way, I was a little less supported and a little freer to sink or swim. My legs began to lower, and I kicked them out a little harder.
“It’s all in the effort,” he said.
Again my legs lowered. Again I kicked out. Continuous effort. One attempt does not automatically propel you forward. Sinking is still an option.
Leaving the pool, Cassie tries to get in the elevator without me, but I stick my hand between the closing doors and force them to reopen. She sighs at me and takes a call when her phone rings. I can tell that it’s Jack, but I don’t ask her about it. Once we’re back inside our place, she tosses her things on the living room floor and speaks to me.
“That was Dad,” she says. “He wants to know if I can
