WHEN YOUāRE ABOUT TO GO UNDER, the doctors tell you to breathe and count back from ten. Or theyāll ask who the president is and what year weāre in, the kind of things a time traveler would want to know. It feels like losing all sense of time, because I donāt remember ever getting past nine or eight before the anesthesia numbs me and everything disappears. Everything switches. I blink and I wake, and Iām in another bed, another room, wrapped in a cast in another time. Six hours later, and I never even felt the emptiness.
Being underwater is the opposite. The faster I swim, the more time seems to slow down. I feel every ounce of breath inside of me. Itās loud and itās quiet. It becomes a rhythm inside my body. Every four strokes, I tilt my head above the surface, long enough to fill my lungs, and not a millisecond or inch more. I practice twists, flips, and choreography if no oneās watching, mimicking all the moves Iāve memorized over years of following Mermaid Coveās videos online. I hear my thoughts for once, clear as water.
Itās the most awake I ever feel, and itās like Iām dreaming.
Except today thereās a beeping. Itās somewhere far away, but itās getting louder and more insistent. I swim to the edge of the pool and lift my head just enough for my eyes to clear the top.
Itās not the construction truck I expected, but a moving truck, backing into a spot painfully slowly. A guy about my age stands by the curb, signaling to whoeverās driving to come closer. Closer. Closer.
He waves both arms very suddenly for them to stop.
Too close, I guess.
The truck comes to a screeching halt and goes silent. I try to get a good look at the guyās profile, but itās hard from so far away. Thereās a whole tennis court between us, and itās old and cordoned off by a sky-high chain-link fence. Through the crisscross view, all I can read is his body language: hands on hips, shoulders drooping, chin up. Like heās tired of trying not to let his exhaustion show.
He disappears somewhere in front of the truck, and I go back to my swimming. I still have twenty laps to go, and if I hurry Iāll finish before anyone else gets here. Now that itās summer, every parent in our apartment complex has decided this will be the year their kid learns to swim. Except they rarely use the kiddie pool like theyāre supposed to. They swarm into the lap pool with their noodles and flotation devices, splashing along the perimeter as they grasp at the poolās edges like theyāre support beams at a skating rink. Iāve been waking up two hours early every morning just to avoid the rush.
I finish my last stretch of laps in under six minutes, tugging off my goggles by the deep end. A pair of dusty brown boots collapse off the side of the lounge chair a few feet in front of me. The feet they belong to are still in socks, crossed at the ankles as the toes wiggle around.
Gross.
The guy from the moving truck sits up, legs straddling the long seat, looking startled, as if I wasnāt here first. Heās in jeans and a dark beige and white baseball shirt. The sleeves are bunched up around his elbows, but he tilts his head to the side and pushes them up further for no apparent reason. I feel sticky just looking at him. Sweaty, wearing-too-many-clothes-for-this-weather sticky.
āCan I help you?ā I say.
āWhat? No. I didnātĀ .Ā .Ā . I didnāt mean to make you stop swimming. Please, pretend Iām not even here.ā
Thatās going to be near impossible, considering thereās no one else on the pool deck right now, and of all the places he couldāve sat, he chose the chair where I left my things.
āMy towel. Itās on the back of your chair.ā
āOh. Sorry.ā He twists and grabs my turquoise and purple beach towel. Itās now a bundled wad that he passes distractedly from one hand to the other. āI just needed a quiet place to close my eyes for a bit. I wasnāt watching you or anything,ā he adds hurriedly.
āI wasnātĀ .Ā .Ā . thinking that. Until now.ā I dip my head back in the water to smooth my hair. When I come back up, heās leaning closer to the poolās edge. āAnyway you didnāt make me stop,ā I say.
āHow many laps did you do?ā
āFifty.ā I rest my arms over the edge and place my chin on my forearm. From this angle the sunās directly behind him, and all I can see is his dark silhouette, carved out by light. āThis isnāt exactly a quiet place, with all the splashing.ā
āI guess not. But you did me a favor.ā He turns his attention back to the moving truck. A man lifts the back open, and the door rumbles like a trash bin being dragged across uneven pavement. Itās huge, one of those trucks people hire to move across state, and definitely bigger than any Iāve ever seen pull into Palmview Lakes. When my family and I moved from our one-bedroom across town into this bigger apartment eight years ago, Papi borrowed a pickup from a friend at work, and it only took two trips to bring over all our furniture. Mami packed all our other things into boxes sheād gotten from the loading dock at Publix.
āWe brought way too much stuff,ā he mumbles, turning away from the truck. He runs his fingers over his hair in a dipping motion, like heās trying to hide his face behind his arm. Like maybe me seeing all his boxes is the same as being caught undressed. I look down and stare at my legs quietly flapping beneath the water.
āWhereād you move from?ā
āAre you getting out?ā
We break the silence at the same exact time, then both wait for the other one to answer. The quiet drags, and we let the questions drop like an overinflated dodgeball no one wants to touch.
I start growing cold in the water, but if I get out now, heāll see me in my bathing suit, and I know how this part of introductions will go. Eyes like a magnet to my scars. Silence stretching up my thigh and pelvic bone as he stares down every inch of them. Inevitably, the question, What happened there? Before heās even asked my name.
Sometimes I lie to people. I give them a story about a bizarre accident instead of the boring truth theyāre never comfortable hearing anyways. But this guy looks so sad and tired, I donāt have the heart to mess with him. I contemplate asking him to pass me my towel, but now heās hugging it over his stomach like a security blanket and Iām not entirely sure heās noticed he still has it.
āDonāt you need to go unpack?ā It comes out sounding ruder than I meant it, and it seems to catch him off guard, because his jawline and temple pop. His face is all sharp angles and smoothness, and his long lashes move like butterflies as he blinks several times.
āThe movers wonāt let me help. Apparently itās some kind of liability thing.ā
āMust be nice.ā Most people in our apartment complex donāt exactly hire movers.
He lets out a half laugh. āYeah. Itās just that managementāā
A deep Southern voice cuts him off. āThere you are.ā
I donāt have to turn to know itās Bob, our apartmentās security guard, who is always nowhere heās needed and everywhere heās not invited. My best friend, Leslie, and I have spent nearly every summer begging Bob to let us drive his golf cart. He usually gives us rides around the complex instead.
āWhatād I do now?ā I say. Thereās always some new pool rule he teases me about breaking, though itās never actually enforced.
āNot you, VerĆ³nica. Him. Iām supposed to give this young man the grand tour today.ā
The young man finally releases my poor towel from his clutches and leaves it on the lounge chair as he gets up to shake Bobās hand. While they chat I take the opportunity to dart out of the pool and wrap the towel around my waist, forming a nice V dip just below my belly button. Bob calls for me to come over.
āVerĆ³nica, this hereās Alex.ā So the young man has a name. āAlexās mom is our new property manager. How ābout while she gets their things sorted in their new apartment, you show him around?ā Bob slaps him on the shoulder with all the awkwardness of a drunk uncle. Alex raises his eyebrows into a look of quiet embarrassment.
āItās okay. You really donāt have to,ā he says.
āItās just thereās really not much to showĀ .Ā .Ā .ā
āThen it shouldnāt take much of your time at all,ā Bob says.
Before either of us can respond, heās already rushing back to his cart. We watch him putter away until our eyes meet and redirect to the ground.
āThat was really awkward. Iām sorry. Itās just that managementās set on giving us the VIP treatment, apparently.ā
āMust be nice,ā I say again, walking back to where I left my bag and change of clothes. I slip on a pair of jean cutoff shorts under my towel and pull on a yellow tank, then drape the towel back over the lounge chair for it to dry.
āIt goes without saying, you donāt have to listen to him,ā he says.
āSure I donāt.ā I grin and roll my eyes. Itās not like I really have a choice. As much as Leslie and I like to make fun of him, Bob calls the shots around here, in a strange behind-the-scenes type of way. Draping my bag over my shoulder, I take another look at Alex and try to assess the risk factor. When my parents said they better never catch me at the pool with another boy or else, they meant it. Never mind that this would be completely differentāmy parents were so furious the night they caught me making out with Jeremy Bradley they havenāt been able to see past their rage ever since. And they definitely donāt see me. Not the way they used to, anyways.
I check the time on my phone. Mami and Papi will be at work by now, and besides, Iām just doing what I was told. Being nice, welcoming. Doing everything I can to not to be ādesagradable.ā The second worst word in my familyās dictionary, right after āpromiscua.ā Heaven forbid an unpleasant or promiscuous daughter.
A tired sigh escapes me. I wrap it up with my most convincing smile. āCome on. Iāll show you your kingdom, Mr. VIP.ā
