There was something about the way she answered that felt evasive. I pressed her.
“Nothing else you can think of?” I said.
Hunter shrugged.
“Hunter Morgan,” her mother said sternly.
Hunter looked plaintively at her mother, who prodded her with a nod.
“Well, sometimes Tinsley would say she’s coming over, but then she’d decide to hang out with Chopper instead of coming here.”
“And who is Chopper?” I asked.
“Tinsley’s boyfriend,” Hunter said, raising her eyebrows with a smirk.
“You don’t approve.”
“Chopper isn’t exactly someone who Tinsley could bring home,” Hunter said, looking down at her hands.
“Why is that?”
“Because Chopper comes from the West Side.”
Which I knew right away was code for “He’s black.”
3
THE DREAM WAS BACK. I stood in the shallow end of the empty pool, staring at the shimmering reflection of my face in the cold water. My neck was curved forward beyond horizontal, and I could feel the burn of the hot sun on my skin. I tried lifting my head, but the pressure was too strong. I couldn’t see Marco’s fingers, but I could feel their strength, and my mind drifted to thoughts of what they must’ve looked like. They were long and forceful, their grip on my head firm and controlling, like an athlete palming a basketball before going up for a dunk. Every time I struggled to move my head to the side to avoid the water hitting my face, those fingers tightened and brought me back, bending my neck even farther, my nose now wet from the small waves dancing along the water’s surface. Was Marco going to kill me? He was my favorite counselor at camp. I admired him so much. Didn’t he know that?
The chlorine. Its caustic scent traveled up my flared nostrils and permeated my brain, the intensity causing my stomach to tighten and the back of my throat to convulse. I could hear voices and yelling. There were many of them, but I couldn’t make out their words—only Marco’s. “You better fuckin’ listen to me from now on! I’m gonna teach you a lesson.” He kept screaming the words, each time his voice getting louder and angrier, my heart racing faster.
My legs, thin but strong for a boy my age, were growing tired under his weight on my back. I had lost track of how long he’d had me in the water as my focus abruptly shifted from my reflection in its surface to thoughts of drowning and the fact that no one who was watching was brave enough to jump in and help me.
Then it happened. He pushed me under. He caught me off guard, so I wasn’t able to close my lips fast enough. As the water rushed into my mouth, its coldness shocked my teeth. Water surged up into my nose, and I reflexively thrashed my head from side to side, desperate to clear my airways. My muscles tightened and my entire body felt reinvigorated. I was to learn only as I got older about the fight-or-flight response the body immediately goes through when faced with an acute stressor. Sudden biochemical changes occur at the cellular level that prepare you to either fight or run away from danger. You don’t think; rather, your body just jumps into action.
I tried to wiggle him off my back, but he was too heavy. I tried lifting my head out of the water, but the grip of his hand was too strong to break. I tore at his arm pressed against my chest in a wrestler’s hold, but my wet hands were no match for his muscular, hairy forearms. I was a strong swimmer even as a twelve-year-old, stronger than kids much older; in the water I found comfort and joy, not fear.
But now above me, the voices and screams were gone. Under the water, I was in total silence. I saw my mother’s face in front of me and heard her cheering me on to fight. I searched for my father but couldn’t find him. It was her voice that spoke to me, calmly and confidently. “You are strong. You are a terrific swimmer. Do what you’ve been taught how to do.”
I reached up and raked my fingers across Marco’s hand gripping the back of my head. At the same time, I rolled my right shoulder up to shift his weight and throw off his balance. His legs were wrapped around my waist, but this left him vulnerable to any torque I could generate from what strength remained in my legs and the quickness of the movement in my shoulders. The maneuver worked. He reacted to regain his dominance, but he released the pressure of his lock on my chest and head just long enough for me to bring my head above the water.
I lurched up in my bed, staring into the darkness. My breathing was heavy. Tears fell down the side of my face. I felt relieved and lost at the same time. The rush of oxygen filled my lungs as I took in deep inhalations. My attacker was no longer there. Finally, I was safe.
“WHAT THE HELL DO you want?”
The reliably gruff commander Rory Burke pulled up a chair, cleaned off the seat with the back of his cap, and sat down. He was a big, middle-aged man, his muscles a little more rounded than they’d been during his bodybuilding heyday some twenty years ago, but they were still big enough to fill out his eternally crisp white shirt. He never suited up in a protective vest like other, reasonable police officers and wore a jacket only when the temperatures plunged well south of freezing. Even then, he didn’t wear gloves. He was the son of immigrants, tough as they came and a man of his word. Burke had been my direct supervisor when I was on the force. Since then, he had worked his way up through the ranks and was now running the
