“Hey,” Brian said. He spoke to Amber but looked at me.
Amber started talking with some of the other guys. I think they were more interested in the bikini than anything she said.
Brian yanked my elbow and pulled me a few steps back. “Can’t you just leave us alone?”
“I’m trying,” I said. “Amber wants to mingle.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” he said. This time he was louder. Danny darted his eyes away, like he hadn’t heard.
“Brian!” I hated when he used those words.
“Not now,” Mom whisper-scolded. She appeared out of nowhere, standing behind us in that way mothers do. As usual, she arrived in time to witness my rebuttal without hearing Brian’s inciting remarks. “Time for games.”
She pushed us forward and made louder, cheerier announcements to the other kids at the pool. I didn’t much like being labeled a kid, and Brian liked it even less. Danny and some of the other neighborhood boys joined us, but Amber stayed back. Mom didn’t pressure her to participate.
Mom roped the younger children into a relay race. Then, she threw various items into the pool and offered a prize to whoever collected the most from the bottom. When it was time for our age category, we had another race. My team won, although it wasn’t because of me.
“Our last activity will be the Watermelon Wrestle,” Mom announced to the crowd.
Dad sat at a nearby picnic table slathering the fruit with petroleum jelly.
“Mom,” I said under my breath. “I don’t want to do this one.”
“Come on, Della,” she said. “Be a good sport.”
The Watermelon Wrestle was when a group of swimmers fought to get the slippery fruit out of the pool. Whoever successfully pulled the watermelon away from the other contestants won the prize. Year after year, people got too rough, and everyone left the competition winded.
I looked around the crowded pool. All the adults stood around, drinks in hand, watching. All the younger swimmers were pulled from the water for safety purposes. To everyone else, this was an entertaining tradition. I worried maybe I was being a whiny teenager about the whole thing, so I reluctantly entered the water.
I waded waist-deep in the pool. It wasn’t fair that Amber and other middle schoolers could stand on the sidelines and watch. As I looked up at them, I envied them. Amber’s face pitied me. It was humiliating to participate in something so juvenile.
Dad carried the watermelon to the edge of the pool. Mom stood beside him, lifting a whistle to her lips. “One, two, three… Go,” she shouted, tooting the whistle. Dad threw it into the water and the older boys pounced.
I waited, allowing them to fight for it. One person would get a hold on it, then their palms would slip, and the fruit would plop back into the water, signaling it was someone else’s turn to try.
“Come on, guys,” Mom cheered. “Come on, Della.”
I moved closer to the rumble, never actively trying to get involved. Water splashed at my chest and hair due to the boys’ chaos nearby. Danny and Brian locked arms, each with an equal grasp on the watermelon. They pulled back and forth, neither person giving up their hold. Between their conflicting pulls and the water beneath, something gave, and the watermelon leapt into the sky and splash-landed in front of me.
“Grab it, Della. Grab it,” Mom shouted. “Get it to the side.”
All the boys were still huddled around each other, unaware of where the fruit had landed. My fingers slid across the greasy shell. It was too heavy and slick to maneuver with one hand. I put both arms around it, hugged it to my body like I was carrying a load of warm laundry, and tiptoed toward the edge of the pool.
Within seconds, the boys were back. They jumped after me, Brian leading the pack. He pounced, landing directly on top of the watermelon and pushing me under the water. I was in no mood to fight. If he wanted the stupid fruit, he could have it. I let go, allowing it to pierce the surface of the water yet again.
“Calm down,” I said.
“Fucking loser,” Brian said, his volume so low only I could hear.
I splashed him, then lunged forward to grab the fruit again. I was more than happy to let him have the stupid watermelon, but if he wanted to make a big challenge about it, I would fight. He effortlessly pulled it from my arms, pushing me down in the process. I went under again, swallowing a gulp of chlorinated water.
By this point, the other boys in the pool had joined our struggle. I could feel their bony shins bump against my body as I flailed underwater. My head left the water, and I took an interrupted breath before I was pushed under again. I was such a scrawny thing; the boys didn’t even realize I was beneath them. They were after the fruit. After the prize. I could only get my arm above water, and it was lost in the thicket of adolescent limbs. Suddenly, I felt fingers graze my scalp. At least, it felt like fingers. Someone pulling me out? Instead, the fingers pushed. They pushed and held still, forcing my body deeper.
My heart pumped harder and I squirmed maddeningly. No one seemed to notice. I tried to fight against the strength of the hand, but there was still a barrier of bodies blocking me. The more I struggled, the weaker I became.
At last, the bodies moved away, no doubt chasing the watermelon. I heard the familiar sound of a splash underwater. Dad lifted me out of the pool as though I weighed nothing and dropped me on the cement. The hit made me cough, and a large gush of water came out of my mouth.
“My God, Della,” Dad said, his breath hurried. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I said. There was a storm of people around
