“It’s freezing,” I say.
“May I remind you this is Texas in July?” Kale says. “Freezing is a good thing.” She disappears for a while, like an eel.
I get up to my thighs, but it’s torture. All goose bumps.
A cute guy passes, trailed by a group of six kids—a lesson, obviously. I’ve seen him somewhere before, this guy.
Kale resurfaces next to me and squirts a fountain of water from her mouth into my face.
“Nice,” I say. I splash her good. “Very mature. Plays well with others.”
“So try a lap already!”
“Wait, check out that guy over there, the one teaching all the kids.”
“Sawyer Madison,” she announces. “He taught my lessons, too. He’s good. I recommend taking a class, at least one. You learn a huge amount about how to breathe, how to relax, how to let yourself sink until you find your place of buoyancy, just below the surface.”
“Where have I seen him before?”
“He goes to our school. Moved here last year.”
I shake my head. “Wasn’t at school. This is going to drive me crazy.”
Kale is demonstrating buoyancy by floating on her back.
She says, “Did you know women with fake boobs float better?”
“You’re not helping me figure out where I know this Sawyer guy from. I’ve totally seen him, like up close.”
“Are we a wee bit obsessed?” says Kale.
“No. He’s just familiar.”
“Well, you should sign up for a lesson.”
“Or a boob job, apparently,” I say. “Okay, so teach me something. Anything.”
Kale says, “Well, first you need to get all the way wet.”
I suck in a breath and dunk myself.
“SHIT!”
“Now,” says Kale, ignoring me, “swim with me over to that other side. Swim however you’ve been taught or however you’re most comfortable.”
I thrash about for ten strokes or so, unable to do the breathing thing without losing the rhythm and drinking the pool.
“Keep going,” Kale says. “It should get easier. Let yourself get into a flow.”
When I finally arrive at the other side, Kale is there waiting for me, watching.
“You beat me, of course,” I say. I’m gasping. “Damn, there has to be an easier way. That just about killed me. I told you I’m not a natural in the water.”
“The easiest way is to take a formal lesson. I could tell you what I think you’re doing wrong, but I’d be guessing. Sawyer would be better. He even does a class for adults who are phobic, or can’t stay afloat at all. You swim fine, you’re just not graceful about it.”
“Grace would definitely not be a word I’d use to describe what I just did.”
I tell her I’m not about to make a fool of myself by swimming in front of Sawyer. “He’s cute,” I add.
Kale says, “Tate has a crush!”
“I don’t! I’ve just seen him somewhere…”
Kale has had the same boyfriend since 9th grade—Simon—and they are a totally solid couple. She doesn’t have to think about how she acts or how she looks. And maybe because of this, she acts great—always herself, never self-conscious, never trying to impress anyone. And she looks great, because, well, Leafy Green is gorgeous. She couldn’t look bad if she wanted to.
I convince her to get in her mile of swimming without me. I’ll practice. As she glides off she says, “Experiment with your buoyancy.”
“Roger that,” I say.
I watch her for a bit to see if I can learn by imitation. She looks perfectly synchronized—arms beating out a rhythm, feet gently propelling, head up on the left, now the right. When I try to do what she’s doing, my whole body twists to get the breath. I need a more swivel-y neck. And then it happens. Every time I have any thought about my head or neck, I hear it. My brain conjures up the sound it must’ve made. Blunt object to her skull, not once, but sixteen times. The first one would’ve sounded very different from the last one. These thoughts take over. They torture me. I get out, get some money, and head to the concession for a lemonade. I drink it all at once, like it’s medicine. And then I go back to our big old sheet spread out on the hillside, our four flip-flops holding down the corners. I plop down and close my eyes. If I can fall asleep, the sound of bludgeoning will go away. Sixteen times. One for each year I’ve been alive.
Next thing I know, swim teacher guy is standing over me.
“Tate,” he’s saying. I don’t know how many times he’s said it.
“Yes?” I prop up on one elbow, adjusting my bathing suit top.
“Kale said I should come talk to you?” He ends it in a question, like he’s followed her orders, but he’s uncertain what to say next.
“Oh did she? Leafy Green said that?”
“She said you have questions about lessons?”
“Not really. She was going to teach me to swim better, so I could do laps like she does, but our first lesson proved me to be a spaz of the highest order.”
“But you can stay afloat?” he says. The sun blinds me when I look up at him.
“Sorry,” he says. He moves to the left and his body blocks the sun.
“Yes, technically, I swim. I mean, I won’t drown. But there’s nothing fluid or efficient about it.”
“Lessons would help,” he says. “Everyone can learn what Kale learned. She wasn’t that good either at first.”
“She’s good now,” I say.
“She got the hang of it.” Teacher boy looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know how to say this…” he continues. “Can I sit down?”
“Sure.” I sit up, to meet him halfway. I was horizontal, he was vertical; now we’re both sitting on the sheet, face to face.
“I guess I’m just sorry for all you must be going through.”
Here it comes. I nod. This is always awkward. I want to receive sympathy graciously, but I also don’t want pity. I can’t exactly say, “Oh, no biggie,” because it’s huge and everyone knows it.
“Thanks,” is all I say.
“And I’m sure you feel confident about this already, but I think your dad’s going to be acquitted.”
“Oh, he’s definitely innocent,” I say.
“I agree,” says Swimmer Boy. “Pretty much everyone thinks so, except the prosecution of course. But then that’s their job.”
“That’s where I’ve seen you before! At the trial! It was driving me crazy—you looked so familiar.”
“I can explain that,” he says. “Journalism project.”
I take in Sawyer Madison, with this new knowledge of him. “I only went to court twice,” I say, “but you were there both times. You took notes.”
“Right. The newspaper advisor at school thought it would be good practice for me, since I want to be an editor of a college paper. He suggested I attend the trial this summer and report on it. He thought it would be stupid not to, as a journalist living in this town when this thing happens. He thinks if I