“Yep.” Even though I basically already am on my own.
She spoons noodles into three separate bowls and pours us each a glass of milk.
“I don’t drink milk with dinner anymore,” I tell her. “Neither does Hattie. We haven’t since we were kids.”
Mom opens her mouth to respond.
“It’s fine,” says Hattie as she drinks down a giant gulp.
I can already tell that all that dairy is going to have her puking her guts out in the morning.
“You datin’ anyone right now?”
I feel my sister’s eyes on me. “Sort of,” I say. “But she’s not from here.”
Mom chuckles. “This too shall pass.” Without even pausing, she asks Hattie, “How’s Tyler?”
I may not be a loud person, but I’m not timid. And yet something about my mom makes me feel so completely unheard, because no matter how many times I tell her that this—my life—is not a phase, she never listens to me.
Hattie wiggles in her chair a little. “He’s good. We’re...”
I wait for it.Pregnant. Knocked up. Havin’ a baby.
“Good,” she finishes.
“Well, I’m glad,” Mom says. “You gotta find the good ones and nail ’em down quick, or else you’ll get stuck with the discards.”
I stifle a low groan.
We eat the rest of our dinner in near silence, talking back and forth about little things that mean nothing at all until Hattie breaks the quiet with a loud burp.
“Excuse—” Her face goes white as chalk. “Oh, I’m gonna be sick.” She runs around to the other side of the table and into the bathroom, barely making it, before I hear vomit splatter against the inside of the toilet.
I’m right behind her, hovering like a protector. “Are you okay?” I whisper as I pull her hair wavy hair into a ponytail.
She nods as she throws up some more.
The smell wafts past me, and I have to duck my nose under the collar of my shirt to stop myself from puking right alongside her.
Mom stands in the doorway, like a clueless bystander watching a car accident.
Me taking care of Hattie. Her taking of care of me. I feel my future in Eulogy falling securely into place. “We’re fine,” I tell her.
And we are. We’re going to be fine.
NINE
The next morning at the YMCA there’s only one car in the parking lot. Forget butterflies. I feel like I’ve got a handful of bees buzzing around in my stomach.
When I showed up earlier with the paper in hand, Agnes was waiting in her yellow swimsuit and terry-cloth zip-up cover-up with an old shoulder bag with the logo of an airline that no longer exists.
An older gentleman in a velour tracksuit sits at the front counter. His filmy white skin is covered in age spots while his long hair is gathered into a thin white ponytail at the back of his neck, and the name tag pinned to his jacket readsCarter. We each hand him our cards—Agnes added me as a guest to their membership—and he files them into a small recipe box for us to pick up on our way out.
Agnes, Freddie, and I visit the locker rooms, where we leave our bags before heading out to the pool. I brought my comfiest swimsuit, a navy-blue two-piece with a sports-bra-style top. Being over six feet tall can make swimwear shopping—or just shopping in general—a challenge. Ithink the last time I wore a one-piece was around the time Hattie and I stopped bathing together. A one-piece on a girl as tall as me... well, that kind of camel toe might be a threat to national security.
Agnes fits a swimming cap over her hair and then places goggles around her head as she takes the steps into the pool. Freddie is quick to dive in with his goggles already on. After shaking the water out of his hair, he looks up to find me standing there in front of my lane.
I’m actually a decent swimmer, but I’ve never gone to a pool and just swum laps. I’m scared I might somehow do it wrong. I’m embarrassed that it never even occurred to me to bring goggles.
