“All right, kiddies,” says Agnes. “Let’s motor.”
“Shotgun,” I call, trying my best to act normal.
Freddie walks himself to the backseat.
“Not gonna fight me for it?” I ask.
“I think that’d be a losing battle.” He half smiles, but his voice is flat.
A little twinge of disappointment settles in my belly.
We drive with the windows down as Agnes listens to her talk radio show.
At the YMCA, the only car in the parking lot belongs to Carter, the old man who works the front desk in the mornings.
The three of us drop our bags in the locker rooms and change into our suits before heading out to the pool. Agnes takes her usual end lane and Freddie beside her and me beside him. We all dive in and begin to swim our laps, each hitting our rhythm.
I love the way my body reacts to water. I know that I’ll pay for pushing myself as hard as I am this morning, but in this moment I can’t feel my muscles burn. I amweightless, and my brain is on autopilot as my body does exactly what it is supposed to do. I can hardly remember that I’m exhausted and frustrated and confused. I barely let myself blink, though, because every time I do, I see Freddie’s freckles.
I swim back and forth and back and forth. The only thing that stops me is Freddie as I’m about to do a flip-turn to make another lap.
“It’s gettin’ late,” he shouts, his voice muffled as I shake the water out of my ears. “We better hit the showers.”
I nod into my heaving chest. “Right.”
Freddie pulls himself out of the pool and then turns to offer me a hand, but I pull myself up. It takes me a minute to find my balance after swimming so furiously for almost an hour, and he timidly steadies me by my elbow.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
The woman in the black Speedo, who is always coming as we’re going, sits on the bleachers, stretching her arms over her head. “You didn’t look like a mess out there,” she says.
Freddie turns to me, a question in his expression, but I motion for him to go ahead without me and he obliges.
After weeks of unsolicited comments, the woman finally extends a hand to me and says, “Prudence Whitmire.”
I shake her hand. “Ramona.”
“You ever swim on a team?”
“No, ma’am.”
She nods. “Figured as much.”
A dead quiet sinks between us as I realize that’s all shewas going to say. “Well, it was nice to meet you.” My voice is too perky, but it’s the best I can do to hide my disappointment at her criticizing my swimming skills.
But she hasn’t dismissed me yet. She stands and walks the two steps down the bleachers to me. Standing on level ground, I can see that she’s quite petite and barely even comes as high as my chest. “Listen,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re some kind of prodigy or anything, but I just retired as head swim coach over at Delgado Community College in Slidell. If you ever decide you want to swim for more than fun, and maybe learn a thing or two while you’re at it, maybe I could help you get a foot in the door there.” She shrugs and walks off toward the diving blocks.
“Thanks?” But she doesn’t hear me over the music from the early-morning water aerobics class.
As I walk to the locker room, I file her offer away in my permanent memory bank. It’s a nice gesture that unfortunately doesn’t mean much to me. I can’t imagine there’s much scholarship money for community college swim teams. Still, there’s a little hiccup in my rib cage from being flattered, even if it was in the most bizarre way.
Steam billows out from the stall where Agnes is already showering.
Thankful for the privacy, I strip out of my swimsuit and hang the towel from my bag on the hook outside my shower stall.
The water heats up quickly and opens my chest, forcing me to breathe clearly. I use the shampoo and conditioner in the dispensers, even though I know Hattie would killme for not using the color-safe stuff she buys at the beauty shop.
The faucet in Agnes’s stall stops, and a few minutes later she says, “I’ll be waiting in the car, dear.”
