“Good Monday morning. It’s seven-forty-five,” the DJ bellows from the radio. “Hal’s here with a quick look at the forecast. Is it another scorcher in the valley?”
“Let’s just say the local pools will be busy today,” Hal confirms.
Yeah, to play and cool off. Not swim laps.
Mom parks in the narrow parking lot of the city swim complex.
“Okay, you two, head inside. I’m going to sit under a tree and read.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
On the seat beside me is the latest copy of Good Housekeeping. Underneath it, Cosmopolitan. Mom’s clearly in for a lovely morning.
Unlike us.
Trying to stall, I fumble with my beach towel.
Scott opens the front passenger door, “Let’s go!”
“Don’t forget your towels,” she calls.
Mom has signed us up for the highest-level swim class the city offers.
We step over the chain barrier, trudge across the wet lawn, and head toward the pool house, blades of wet grass clinging to our flip flops.
Just like we did when we were little and actually needed swim lessons so we didn’t sink.
Back when we’d stand on the edge of the pool like mannequins, our arms out while Mom tugged swimmies onto us one inch at a time.
“I can’t believe we have to do this,” I complain.
We already know how to swim. We swim every single day. For fun.
Diving for coins. Playing Marco Polo. Racing across the deep end.
“I know. Lame.”
“All because she used to be a junior life guard.”
“She wants us to be strong swimmers,” he adds.
At the front entry of the pool house, we stand in line with a dozen other kids. They’re younger. Most cling to their moms.
“I don’t see anyone we know,” I say.
“So?”
“So, it’d be embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in swim lessons.”
“They’d be in lessons too. Duh.”
“What class are you here for?” the lady at the window asks.
“Sharks,” I say.
“Dolphins,” my brother says.
“I thought Dolphins was the swim team.”
Scott shrugs.
The lady finds our names on the list. “It’s Dolphins. You’re both in the advanced strokes and lifesaving class. You’ll enter the pool area through the changing rooms.” She points to either side of her. “Leave your shoes and sweatshirts on a bench but take your towels and head to the main pool. Your instructors will meet you there.”
The concrete is still cool as we walk past the wading pool. A chaotic zone of little kids blowing bubbles and putting their faces in the water while gripping the side of the pool. Some cry. Some scream.
I’d been one of those kids.
Once, I yanked the hood string out of the swim teacher’s red sweatshirt as I tried to escape his grip and get back to Mom, who stood by the fence with an awkward look on her face.
We weren’t a family that caused scenes. But apparently I had my limits.
Nobody is in the big pool. The water is like glass. The smell of chlorine hangs in the air. So does the distant hum of pool pumps and filters. The morning sun warms my shoulders.
It is intoxicating.
Except for the crummy fact that we’re here for lessons.
A handful of kids our age waits awkwardly by the diving board. Unwilling recruits. Victims of mothers who’d insisted they become stronger swimmers even though they had no desire to be on a swim team or stand watch from a lifeguard tower.
Kids like us who knew the rules of summer: sleep late, eat cereal, watch reruns, ride bikes, and swim when you feel like it.
It’s early June. Everyone’s swimsuits are still bright. One kid has thick black glasses on but holds a pair of blue goggles. Another sits down, picking his toenails. His hair is bleach-blond, almost white. Identical twin sisters huddle together like they’re cold, their braids messy like they just rolled out of bed. On the far side, another brother and sister stand together.
“That kid was on one of my soccer teams,” Scott mumbles.
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t remember.”
Two teenagers in red lifeguard swimsuits stand in front of the gigantic clock on the pool house wall, their noses covered in white zinc, whistles around necks.
“No, I couldn’t go last night. Had to babysit,” the girl says.
“You missed it. Tom’s party was huge,” the guy says.
“Where was it?”
“His family’s orchard.”
What are they waiting for? Let’s get this over with so we can go home and eat breakfast. An actual breakfast, not the pre-swim snack Mom insisted would prevent stomach cramps.
At exactly eight o’clock, the chit-chat about last night’s party ends. They’re all business as they come over to the group to take roll.
“We’ll be working on advanced swimming skills the next two weeks,” the guy says, swinging his whistle.
Everyone listens intently, eager to find out what we’ll be forced to do.
“We’re starting with all four competitive strokes, then we’ll move on to diving. At the end of each week, you’ll be tested.”
Squinting into the sunlight, I notice I’m not the only one relieved. Shoulders relax. A few kids even smile.
Strokes and dives. Totally doable. Review work. Like the first month of a new school year.
“We’ll also focus on endurance and water safety,” the girl adds, more sharply.
What the heck is that?
“You’ll learn basic lifesaving skills. By the end of the course, you’ll be fully clothed and practicing rescues.”
The twins frown at each other in confusion.
Goggles raises his hand and smiles, showing a mouth full of silver braces, “Um, excuse me. What clothes?”
“Your own. Jeans and shirts. Shoes too.”
A murmur ripples through the group. Had we heard right?
“Our clothes will get wet?”
We know the answer, but we still need to hear it.
“That’s right. You’ll jump in with your clothes on to rescue someone pretending to drown.” She turns and points.
The twins clutch hands. Toenails drops his foot and sits up straight.
“Are we tested on it?”
“Yes, you’ll be tested on everything—your strokes, treading water for three minutes, and the mock rescue,” she adds.
“Cool,” Goggles says.
The other sister groans and glares at her brother, who just shrugs.
Rescues? Fully clothed?
I glance over at Mom. Is she hearing this crazy talk? She’s setting up her lawn chair, her back to us. Did she know we’d have to do this?
I bet she did.
I shoot Scott a side glance. He shrugs. Whatever.
Nobody looks as excited as they did a minute ago.
“Questions?” the guy asks.
Nobody says a word.
Then a whistle blows.
“Okay, let’s hit the water!”
People switch feet, shuffle a few inches closer to the pool. But nobody knows what to do.
Except Goggles. He swiftly hands his glasses to the instructor girl, slips his goggles over his head, and jumps in.
I regret not sticking my toes in the water a few minutes ago to check the temperature.
The whistle blows again.
“Let’s go! Everybody in! Pick a lane.”
“Come on,” Scott says. “Just do it.”
One by one, everyone jumps in, splashing water on the concrete.
I take a deep breath and crouch down, then hop into the pool.
“What the heck was that?” he frowns.
“Thought it would be cold.”
But it’s not bad. It’s actually kind of warm.
Lined up, we hold the side of the pool and look up at the instructors.
“Okay, we’re starting with a warm up. On the whistle. Breaststroke.” She motions with her arms like a frog. “There and back.”
The whistle blows.
Before I can process what’s happening, everyone takes off, including Scott.
I scramble to catch up.
As we swim, the teenagers walk the length of the long pool, calling out lane numbers and yelling tips and corrections.
Lane number? How am I supposed to know what lane I’m in?
“What’s my lane?” I blurt out as soon as I touch the wall.
“Three,” Scott yells, then pushes off.
Partway through, we climb out and stand dripping on the deck while the instructors demonstrate proper arm form.
Just beyond the chain link fence, Mom sits in the shade, reading her magazine. I glare at her, trying to psychically get her attention. Then I can give her a look that lets her know how much this stinks.
But no luck. She keeps reading and sipping her coffee.
“I can’t see the clock,” I say. “The life jacket rack is blocking it.”
Scott bends down. “Thirty more.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
Several laps later, the whistle blows again.
“Okay, everyone out. Time’s up.”
Glorious.
Better even than the sound of the morning recess bell.
Goggles reaches the ladder first, sprinting up and hustling over to the teacher holding out his glasses. He offers her an enormous smile, revealing every single silver bracket.
The rest of us clamber up and shuffle over to the towels, careful not to slip.
“So what’d you think?” Other Sister asks as we put our sweatshirts on in the changing room.
“Not as bad as I thought.”
“Me neither.”
“But I don’t know about the whole rescue thing...”
“Totally. Swimming with clothes?”
“Yikes.”
“See ya tomorrow.”
By mid-week, everyone knows the drill-- drop shoes and sweatshirts in the changing room, stand in front of your lane—the same lane we stumbled into the first day—and then wait for the whistle. Waiting for class to start isn’t awkward anymore.
Scott’s to my left. Toenails’ to my right, fidgeting with the ties on his swimsuit.
“What’s the stroke today?” one of the twins asks.
“Butterfly,” Goggles immediately responds. “The hardest!”
“I hate that one!” she says, grabbing her sister.
“Me too,” the other twin agrees. “Every time I try it, I look like a lopsided whale.”
We all laugh.
“Alright, guys. In the water. Time for warm ups.” One of the teachers says, pulling her stopwatch out of her sweatshirt pocket.
“On the whistle, tread water. We’re adding another thirty seconds today. Then the final thirty seconds next week.”
Everyone groans.
It’s basically forever.
The whistle screeches. We all jump in.
I move my hands back and forth and kick my legs.
Figure eight hands. Eggbeater kicks. Eights. Eggbeaters. Eights. Eggbeaters.
“Forty-five seconds down. Keep those hands moving. Keep kicking,” the guy says.
“Don’t sink. Keep treading.”
I stare at the wall. Relief. If only I could grab it for one second.
“One down,” the teacher says.
Figure eights. Eggbeaters.
I turn toward Scott. He stares straight ahead, completely unbothered. He could probably tread water for a week. Then I turn toward the other end of the pool. Mistake. The pool stretches out forever, making me feel small. Beyond it, the giant clock mocks me—fifty-five more minutes of class.
“Come on guys. Keep it up.”
I turn to Toenails. He faces away from me. All I see is the back of his white hair. Did he get the knot out of his ties?
Beyond him, Other Brother and Other Sister tread. She looks at me and we both roll our eyes. The craziness of this.
“You’re almost there. Thirty seconds.”
Think. Think of something else. Taco Bell. Mm. Could we talk Mom into taking us for lunch?
“Time!”
We all reach for the wall like castaways reaching land. Goggles looks disappointed it’s over. Toenails immediately starts fiddling with his suit strings again.
So it goes. Every morning. The instructors talk about high school parties. The enormous clock crawls. We kick. We tread. We complain. We improve. Somehow, we pass. Toenails fidgets. Goggles answers all the questions. The twins huddle in their matching swimsuits. Mom reads in the shade.
Then the day we dreaded most arrives. We get out of the car, step over the chain link, and walk across the wet lawn. This time in our jeans, long sleeved shirts, and tennies.
“This is insane,” I complain.
“Just get it done.”
“What’s it going to feel like?”
“Wet. Like sitting in front on the log ride. But worse.”
Everyone’s in regular clothes. It’s like seeing each other for the first time, only in a pizza parlor or at school instead of standing barefoot on a pool deck.
The twins wear the same sweatshirts but in different colors, and both have white Keds. Do they always match?
Toenails wears a Billy Idol concert T-shirt. Who knew?
Goggles has a Polo tucked in to dark rinse jeans, like he’s ready to teach a math class.
Then the clock strikes eight.
“Alright guys, final test. Take a seat at the edge of the pool.”
We’re each assigned a number.
“We’ll call numbers in pairs. When yours is called, stand up. Remember what we practiced. Use your skills. Be efficient. Questions?”
Goggles immediately raises his hand.
“Does it matter which side of the pool we take them to?”
“Well, if you were really saving a drowning person, where would you take them?”
“The closest place.”
“That’s right. So, do that here too.”
“Alright, numbers one and three. You’re up first.”
Goggles stands, a big grin on his face. Then, one of the twins.
“Okay, Sam and Erika. Ready?”
As soon as Erika flails her arms and yells “help”, Goggles dives in, disappearing underwater for a moment before surfacing beside her.
“Go, Sam!” Other Sister yells.
“You can do it!” I follow.
Everyone joins in, cheering Goggles on as he wraps an arm around Erika and kicks back to the side. It’s a successful rescue. So is the next one.
Then, “Next up. Three and—”
Three. That’s me. My heart pounds.
“Um, Eight. Who’s eight?”
I look around.
Toenails is twirling a lock of hair over and over. He raises his hand.
Toenails. Of course.
As we walk to the side of the pool together, he whispers, “Lefty or righty?”
“What?”
“Lefty or righty? I’ll turn that way to make it easier for you to hook my shoulder.”
“Lefty,” I say. “Thanks.”
I glance at Scott. Same calm expression as always. Other Sister gives me a thumbs-up.
The second I see arms splashing, I dive in. My tennies fill up with water. My Levis drag like anchors. Every kick takes twice the effort. Finally, I reach Toenails. Sure enough, he’s facing the perfect direction and I easily slip my arm over his shoulder. Cheers from above spur me on, and I kick as hard as I can.
We reach the side, both breathing hard. I catch my breath, then whisper, “Lefty or righty?”
Toenails smiles, “Righty.”
The next day is the last.
We all stand on the deck, talking about the rescues from the day before.
“I can’t believe this is our last day,” Erika says.
“Don’t we have one more week?” Goggles says, grinning.
“No!” we all say and laugh.
“What are we doing today?” Other Sister asks.
We all look at Goggles. For the first time, he just shrugs.
“Come on, tell us.”
“I swear. I have no idea.”
“We’ve already done everything,” Other Brother says.
“Maybe they’ll teach us a fancy flip off the diving board,” Erika says.
“Why would you say that? You know I’m terrified of that thing,” her sister says.
“Maybe we’ll have to dive deep and get something heavy from the bottom,” Toenails suggests.
We all nod. He’s probably right.
“But that wasn’t part of the class description,” Goggles adds, pushing his glasses up.
Then, at exactly eight, the teachers walk over.
“Okay, listen up, guys. You did a great job yesterday. Everyone passed, and we have your certificates. After we hand them out, you’ll have the rest of the hour for free swim.”
“You mean we can do whatever we want?” Goggles asks.
“Yep. You can jump from the diving board, play Marco Polo, use the kick boards—whatever you want.”
Toenails is already heading to the diving board. “What are we waiting for! Come on!”
The boys follow him, Goggles handing his glasses to the teacher.
The huge pool is no longer intimidating. It’s ours. Eight kids. One enormous pool. When will we ever have the whole pool to ourselves again?
“Let’s do synchronized swimming!” Other Sister suggests.
“Yes!”
We practice handstands with straight legs and graceful underwater somersaults. We hold hands in a circle and put our toes together in the middle.
I glimpse the clock on the wall.
“Thirty minutes left, guys!”
“Yay! Still time for the diving board,” Erika says.
“No, not the diving board,” her sister responds.
“Come on, it’s not that high,” we plead.
We take turns doing cannon balls, can openers, and corkscrews. Except for the twin who stands on the deck laughing but refusing to jump.
“Just go to the end and step off. You don’t have to run or bounce,” Goggles suggests as we all try to convince her to try it.
Reluctantly, she agrees. She curls her toes on the end of the diving board, then closes her eyes and steps off. Her body looks like a spaghetti noodle dropping into water. There’s barely even a splash but when she pops back up, she’s got a huge smile on her face.
“Fifteen minutes,” the instructor calls.
We make our way to the shallow end. Of course Goggles is “it” first. We all shuffle around escaping his tag.
“Marco,” he calls.
“Polo,” we all respond.
Too soon, the whistle blows.
Everyone groans.
What? Already?
How did it go by so fast?
Wrapped in towels, we head for the locker rooms. I glance back. Mom’s folding her chair up. The pool is like glass again.