“Progress.”
“This means go up.”
She gave a thumbs-up.
“I know that one.”
“No. You know what it means on land. Underwater, thumbs-up does not mean great job or I approve of this turtle. It means we’re going to the surface.”
“What if the turtle deserves approval?”
“Use your face.”
“My face is famous for being difficult to interpret.”
The sentence slipped out before I could stop it.
Ellie glanced at me.
I adjusted the mask in my hands.
“In my family,” I added.
“Ah.”
She watched me for half a second longer.
Then she pointed to the mask.
“Put that on before your family’s facial legacy becomes a safety issue.”
We carried the equipment down to the water.
The beach had begun to wake around us. Two children built a sandcastle with the grim concentration of architects under deadline. A woman in neon workout clothes jogged past with a tiny dog who looked furious about cardio. At the café, Rosa was arranging chairs while issuing instructions to someone inside.
She spotted me and waved.
“Egg sandwich?”
“No,” I called back.
“Smart girl.”
Ellie looked at me.
“You’ve made an impression.”
“I’m memorable.”
The word came with more weight than I intended.
Ellie either did not notice or kindly pretended not to.
We started in water shallow enough for me to stand.
The tank on my back immediately made me feel like a refrigerator learning to walk.
Ellie moved easily beside me, adjusting my mask strap while the water hit her thighs.
