smell the Fruit Punch Gatorade on her breath.
I didn’t want to be adorable the way she meant it. “You don’t always have to work so hard to convince me how cool you are,” I said, standing up, grabbing my goggles and cap. “I get it. You’re very, very cool. You’re the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”
A couple of my teammates walked by and told us that they’d just called the hundred free. I started after them, not waiting for Lindsey, even though this was her event too, like always.
She caught up with me over behind the concession stand, where they’d set out the gallon jugs they used to make sun tea—a neat row of fifteen or so, the water inside now various shades of brown. We stepped over them together and she grabbed my arm, just above the elbow, and pulled me to her, her mouth at my ear.
“Don’t be mad at me,” she said, her voice quiet and much less Lindsey than usual. “It’s Gay Pride. That’s what it is.”
It felt like a declaration when it wasn’t. At least not completely. “I kind of got that,” I said. “I mean, I figured it out.” We were weaving through groups of parents, of swimmers, the lawns crowded and loud; and even though we had a kind of anonymity in that, I worried about where this was going, what she’d say next, what I might say if I wasn’t careful.
“If I could take you to Pride, like in a perfect world, if I could private-plane us to Seattle, would you want to go with me?” Lindsey asked, still holding my arm tight.
“Well, is there cotton candy?” I asked, because we were there, the heat benches, and it felt like the right time for a nonanswer.
But that’s not what Lindsey wanted. “Whatever,” she said, taking her card from the lady who was always in charge of time cards at the Roundup meet, the one with red hair in two ponytails and a white safari hat she kept on for the entire day. “Forget it.”
The heat benches were clumped up with nervous swimmers, some stretching, others pulling their tight silicone caps over a heap of hair, leaving a tumorlike protrusion encased in neon purple or metallic silver at the back or top of their heads. A group of girls waved us over, girls we’d been competing against for years, forever. Lindsey was in the heat ahead of mine, but we still had maybe five heats before that.
We found a place at a back bench, close together like you always had to sit on those benches. When our bare knees touched, the way they had to in order to even fit back there, I couldn’t help but remember Irene and the Ferris wheel, just like an allergic reaction. I jerked away, let my other knee collide, instead, with that of the girl on the other side of me.
Lindsey couldn’t not notice this. “God—I didn’t mean to upset you so much,” she said, too loud for me, for where we were.
“I’m not upset. I just don’t want to talk about this two minutes before we have to swim.” I had lowered my voice and was looking around, though there was really no need. Everyone was in their own conversation or prerace zone.
“But you do want to talk about this sometime later?” she asked, sticking her face right up close to mine again, another blast of Gatorade and something else, cinnamon, maybe. Gum.
“You have to spit your gum out before you swim,” I said, thinking again of Irene.
“Ms. Lloyd, did I just hear that you have gum?” Always vigilant, Safari Hat took a couple steps toward us with an outstretched arm, her palm faceup and cupped.
“You want me to spit it in your hand?” Lindsey asked her, though it was obvious that yes, that was exactly what was expected.
“Otherwise I’ll just find it stuck under the heat benches when we put them away. C’mon.” Safari Hat snapped the fingers of her palm before making it a little cup, again. “Whatever you have isn’t going to kill me.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” I said, right as Lindsey spit.
“I’ll take my chances.” Safari Hat examined the little hunk of
I didn’t want to be adorable the way she meant it. “You don’t always have to work so hard to convince me how cool you are,” I said, standing up, grabbing my goggles and cap. “I get it. You’re very, very cool. You’re the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”
A couple of my teammates walked by and told us that they’d just called the hundred free. I started after them, not waiting for Lindsey, even though this was her event too, like always.
She caught up with me over behind the concession stand, where they’d set out the gallon jugs they used to make sun tea—a neat row of fifteen or so, the water inside now various shades of brown. We stepped over them together and she grabbed my arm, just above the elbow, and pulled me to her, her mouth at my ear.
“Don’t be mad at me,” she said, her voice quiet and much less Lindsey than usual. “It’s Gay Pride. That’s what it is.”
It felt like a declaration when it wasn’t. At least not completely. “I kind of got that,” I said. “I mean, I figured it out.” We were weaving through groups of parents, of swimmers, the lawns crowded and loud; and even though we had a kind of anonymity in that, I worried about where this was going, what she’d say next, what I might say if I wasn’t careful.
“If I could take you to Pride, like in a perfect world, if I could private-plane us to Seattle, would you want to go with me?” Lindsey asked, still holding my arm tight.
“Well, is there cotton candy?” I asked, because we were there, the heat benches, and it felt like the right time for a nonanswer.
But that’s not what Lindsey wanted. “Whatever,” she said, taking her card from the lady who was always in charge of time cards at the Roundup meet, the one with red hair in two ponytails and a white safari hat she kept on for the entire day. “Forget it.”
The heat benches were clumped up with nervous swimmers, some stretching, others pulling their tight silicone caps over a heap of hair, leaving a tumorlike protrusion encased in neon purple or metallic silver at the back or top of their heads. A group of girls waved us over, girls we’d been competing against for years, forever. Lindsey was in the heat ahead of mine, but we still had maybe five heats before that.
We found a place at a back bench, close together like you always had to sit on those benches. When our bare knees touched, the way they had to in order to even fit back there, I couldn’t help but remember Irene and the Ferris wheel, just like an allergic reaction. I jerked away, let my other knee collide, instead, with that of the girl on the other side of me.
Lindsey couldn’t not notice this. “God—I didn’t mean to upset you so much,” she said, too loud for me, for where we were.
“I’m not upset. I just don’t want to talk about this two minutes before we have to swim.” I had lowered my voice and was looking around, though there was really no need. Everyone was in their own conversation or prerace zone.
“But you do want to talk about this sometime later?” she asked, sticking her face right up close to mine again, another blast of Gatorade and something else, cinnamon, maybe. Gum.
“You have to spit your gum out before you swim,” I said, thinking again of Irene.
“Ms. Lloyd, did I just hear that you have gum?” Always vigilant, Safari Hat took a couple steps toward us with an outstretched arm, her palm faceup and cupped.
“You want me to spit it in your hand?” Lindsey asked her, though it was obvious that yes, that was exactly what was expected.
“Otherwise I’ll just find it stuck under the heat benches when we put them away. C’mon.” Safari Hat snapped the fingers of her palm before making it a little cup, again. “Whatever you have isn’t going to kill me.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” I said, right as Lindsey spit.
“I’ll take my chances.” Safari Hat examined the little hunk of
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