by Zoe Fishman
“No, you never do.”
“I had a nice time today, Ruthala,” she announced with a smile. I reached over and cupped the top of her head with my hand.
10
The next afternoon I stood up on my bike pedals and pumped ferociously up the hill. I was working the afternoon shift, but wanted a cigarette first. At the top of the hill, I swung through my old elementary school’s yard, crisscrossing back and forth from the sidewalk to the grass as I made my way to the back of the main building. I hopped off and parked before digging in my backpack for one.
I lit it and stared at myself in the reflection of a classroom window. I turned to the side, checking for any new flesh. I pinched my stomach, willing it not to grow via physical punishment. The rational me knew I was nuts. But of course, the crazy me would win out. The rational me knew that my arms looked like Barbie arms—the shoulder bone in each of them almost breaking skin—but the crazy me spotted a bit of a waddle when I raised it and waved. My collarbone may have been jutting out like a tree branch, but if I looked closely, I could see a bit of fat blurring the line of my jawbone.
I took a final drag and exhaled before grinding the butt into the ground with my purple flip-flop. Splashes and shrieks from the pool below cut through my thoughts. It was time to go.
I jumped back on my bike and flew down the incline, relishing the warm breeze. I could smell the unmistakable, slightly mildewed odor of my bathing suit, corn chips, and chlorine. Intoxicating.
“Coach Ruth, Coach Ruth!” A school of guppies greeted me before I even reached the snack stand.
“Are you working now, Coach Ruth?” Ali asked, latching on to my leg.
“I am,” I replied.
“It looks like it’s gonna storm,” Crystal informed me somberly. I looked up to survey the sky. While it had been bright blue ten minutes before, now I spotted a gray curtain closing in. Southern storms were legendary: one minute sun, the next minute crackling thunder and lightning with pounding rain, and then ten minutes later sun again, as though nothing ever happened.
“Who’s working with me, do you know?” I asked my minions.
“David!” Tabitha exclaimed excitedly.
“Really?” I patted her on the head and began walking toward the entrance. I never worked with David. Weird.
“Hey, hot stuff,” greeted Jason. He was eating a Whopper inside the snack bar, his tan chest and stomach still wet from the pool.
“When did we start serving Whoppers?” The smell of meat and ketchup made my stomach growl.
“Want a bite?” he asked.
“Um, no.”
“Of course you don’t. Skinny-ass.”
“Hey, is David working with me?” I looked out to the lifeguard stand to find him already there, looking bored underneath the shade of the umbrella.
“Yeah.” He crumpled up the Whopper wrapper and shot it into the trash can.
“Nice, two points,” he mumbled. “David is pulling a double because Kevin is sick.”
“Kevin’s sick?” I echoed. “Hungover or sick?”
“Do I look like a doctor to you? He said he’s sick.” Jason looked at the clock. “Sweet! Time for me to go. Looks like y’all are gonna get a storm.” I retrieved my whistle from my basket and slipped my flip-flops off.
“See ya, Jason.”
“Y’all don’t kill each other today,” he warned. “Be sweet.”
I flipped him the bird behind my back as I walked to the stand. “Is that sweet enough?”
“Perfect.”
“Hello,” I mumbled as I climbed up the ladder to relieve David on the stand. “Are you a vampire or something?” I reached for the umbrella’s lever and rotated it counterclockwise. It collapsed in accordance. David kept his eyes on the pool.
“It’s not like you’re going to get any sun anyway, Snooki,” he replied. “That storm is going to hit in a minute.” I looked up to survey the sky. A gray and purple bruise of clouds now sliced it in half.
“You want me to stay up here until the lightning cracks?” he asked. “Get everybody out?”
“I think I can handle it.”
“All right, whatever you say.” He hopped off the stand. “Keep your eyes on the sky.”
“Keep your eyes on the sky,” I mocked, surveying the pool. Only a few brave souls were holding on to what they knew would be the last five minutes of swimming before the storm hit.
There was Tyler, his giant goggles covering up half of his face. He was playing alone in the shallow end, tossing rings and making a dramatic show of sucking in his breath before submerging.
Crystal held court in the deep end, practicing her backstroke start off the blocks. Her friend Melissa acted as the stand-in starter, clinging to the side of the pool and telling her to “take your mark” with about as much enthusiasm as a CVS checkout girl. Crystal’s brown arms clenched the starting block with impressive force; her face was set and determined. As Melissa yelled, “Go!” Crystal’s arms swung back in an arc, and she disappeared beneath the surface, pulsing her legs in a butterfly kick for speed.
Crack!
I shot up, startled by the sudden bolt of lightning across the sky. It extended its menacing fingers toward me and then disappeared, leaving a faint outline of smoke in its wake.
I began to count in my head. The rule was that if you reached fifteen before thunder rumbled after a lightning strike, the storm wasn’t coming toward you. But if thunder rumbled at any point before then, it was on its way, and fast.
Five, six, seven . . .
A roar filled the sky, seeming to shake the rickety wood beneath me. I put the whistle to my lips.
“Everybody out! Hit the bricks!”
Crystal, Melissa, and Tyler looked up, wide-eyed, before making a break for it. They quickly swam to the ladders and hauled themselves out of the water, pie-eyed with fright. I hopped down from the stand.
The kids dried themselves off quickly and then either mounted their bikes or ran to the phone, calling their parents for rides home. Faster than they could even wrap themselves in their giant Sponge-Bob towels, the cars pulled up, their honks piercing the humid, now almost pitch-black air.
“Bye, Coach Ruth! Bye, Coach David!” they yelled as they trudged up the hill to safety. They would be back as soon as the sun came out again, their parents more than happy to drop them back off until suppertime. We may have been called lifeguards, but really we were tan babysitters in swimsuits.
“Well, looks like it’s just you and me,” David said. He was inside the concession stand, leaning back on the chair precariously with his feet propped on the ledge.
The first heavy drops of rain fell, splattering on the hot sidewalk. I opened the refrigerator to survey its contents of sugary junk. Skittles, Snickers, and individual corndogs wrapped in plastic stared back at me. I shut the door with a sigh and sat next to David. We watched the sky together in silence, its facade pierced by ferocious bolts of lightning.
“How’s it going?” I asked after a few minutes. It was odd, making small talk with someone who used to arrange your dolls in compromising positions every time you left the house.
“Okay,” he answered.
“That storm came in quick, huh?”
“They always do.” Great, we were commiserating about the weather.
“You want to smoke?” David asked.
“Smoke what?”
“Smoke weed, Einstein.” Smoking weed with David was something I never thought I’d do. Not in a million years. I’d never seen him touch the stuff.
“You smoke weed? What about soccer?”
“What about it?” He reached into his bag.
“They don’t test you?” He didn’t answer and began to pack his bowl, not looking at me.
“David? Hello?”
“What?” He looked up at me angrily wi
th a glint of defiance in his eyes. “Shit, I don’t go back to play for, like, two months. What are you, a narc?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me for being even the slightest bit taken aback. My brother is suddenly Willie Nelson, not to mention he’s on the job, and I have the audacity to express disbelief.”
“Ruth, take it easy. You’re all riled up.” He put his hand on my knee. “First of all, this weed is about as potent as a cigarette, and second of all, did you really think I didn’t smoke weed just because you’d never seen me smoke weed? It’s not a big deal, I swear. We’ll be fine.” He smiled at me.
“It’s just weird to me, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well. I suppose it is.” He got up and wrapped himself in his towel. “You want yours? Speaking of weird, it’s actually cold.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He tossed my towel to me, and I covered myself with it.
“Hey, remember when we would dress up Maddie and pretend that she was a human?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Oh wow. Yeah, I remember. That poor dog.”
“Yep.” He sat back down and lit the bowl. “We would come home from swim practice, eat Pop-Tarts, and watch The Price Is Right.” He exhaled.
“Remember to spay and neuter your pets!”
“Yep, and then we would dress her up in your doll clothes. Man, I was such a little girl!” He passed me the lit bowl, and I shook my head no. He looked at me for a minute as if to ask, You sure? and I waved it away. He shrugged his shoulders and took another hit.
“You were a little, er, sensitive,” I agreed. “Speaking of dolls, remember Judy?”
“Oh man,” he said, coughing a little as he exhaled. My great-aunt had found Judy at a yard sale and given her to me on my sixth birthday. Her hair had been either ripped or cut out—it wasn’t entirely clear—and her face was one only a mother could love. My aunt’s motive may have been to make sure that I loved all babies regardless of their attractiveness, but it didn’t work. I had felt a little bit guilty over hating the gift outright, but I had dealt with said guilt by shoving Judy in the back of my closet. Out of sight, out of mind.
David, however, getting wind of my cruelty, had rescued Judy, unbeknownst to me. It was only when I went charging into David’s room months later to ask him about a missing pair of goggles that lo and behold, there she was. David had set up a high chair and a makeshift bed for her.
“Talk about issues,” said David in a cloud of smoke.
“It was sweet. You were what, eight? A little strange maybe, but sweet.” The rain continued to pound the pavement. “Are you high?” I asked.
“Yeah, a little.” I could hear the saliva crackling in his mouth. “I’m thirsty.”
He pulled four quarters from the cash box. “Whaddya want?” he asked as he walked to the drink machine.
“Diet Coke, thanks.”
“Yech,” said David. He dropped the quarters in the slots. “How do you drink that shit?”
“Oh, like that Sunkist is so much better. Do you know how many calories are in that thing? You’re, like, drinking lunch.” He handed me my can, and I popped it open.
“I don’t think you need to worry so much about calories.”
“Oh shut up.”
“We don’t say shut up in this house!” he yelled, mocking our dad’s famous saying.
“Give me a swig of that,” I demanded. He handed the orange can to me, and I gulped from it, relishing the sticky sweetness. I handed it back.
“Oh no, looks like the rain is letting up.” The storm had been reduced to a drizzle, and the sun was breaking back through the clouds.
“Shit,” said David, noticing it too. “How come you’re not smoking? Don’t you smoke at school?”
“I do. And I smoke here too. The other day I smoked with M.K. and Jill, and Dad busted me.”
“No! How?”
“I mean, we smoked and I had to come home before work to eat, you know? He just happened to be on his lunch break, so I was pretty much caught red-handed.”
“You had the munchies?” He laughed. “What did you do, eat frosting out of the can or something? Dip Cheetos in barbecue sauce?”
“Ew! Nasty! Who does that?”
He shrugged sheepishly. “It is pretty gross. But don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. There’s something strangely satisfying about it.”
“Can you imagine me dipping Cheetos in barbecue sauce across the table from Dad like it was no big deal?” We laughed together.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I continued, “but I guess I was pretty obvious. I ripped into a bag of marshmallows and went to town.”
“Oh no! You might as well have been wearing one of those pot leaf T-shirts and a hemp necklace.”
“How dare you!” I was full on laughing now. “A hemp necklace!? Never.” Our giggles petered out.
“Anyway, he got upset with me. I had to go into work that afternoon, you know?”
“Yeah, I mean, of course he has a valid point. But c’mon. By the time you went up on the stand it would have been a couple of hours already, right?”
“Yeah.”
“God, they’re so rigid, our parents.” He shook his head. “I bet neither one of them ever smoked a joint in their lives. I bet they’d be a lot less miserable if they had.”
“Since when do you think they’re miserable?”
“Maybe ‘miserable’ is the wrong word. But I don’t think they’re happy. I never realized how high-strung or judgmental I was until I smoked weed. They could probably use a little relaxation, don’t you think?” asked David.
“Yeah.” What did David have to be anxious about? People swooned everywhere he went. I guess I could see how that came with its own set of issues, but certainly none that I could relate to.
“Do you think Mom and Dad made us that way?” he asked.
“Made us what way?”
“You know, anxious. Do you acquire it on your own, or is it something that’s programmed from birth?”
“Good question. I don’t know. Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“How come you’re anxious? I mean, people worship you. You own a room before you even set foot in it.”
“Ruth, nobody worships me in Atlanta. Nobody worships me here either for that matter. You’ve got a warped vision of reality.”
“Are you kidding me? You were a high school soccer star! You’re good-looking, popular, smart—the whole deal.”
“Notice the key word you used. Were. Those days are over. I rode the bench all year. Guys like me are a dime a dozen.” He slipped the bowl back into his backpack.
“I thought you got a lot of playing time. You were all over the field your freshman year when Mom and Dad dragged me out there for your games.”
“They dragged you, huh?” He coughed again. “Freshman year, yeah, I played. This year—that was a different story.”
“How come?”
“New talent came in, and mine was waning, I guess. And to be honest with you, I’d kind of lost my thrill for the game.”
“Really? But you’re so good. I’ve never seen anyone as effortlessly athletic in my life.”
He covered his face with his towel. “Thanks, I guess. But I’ve been playing since I was in diapers, you know? I think I got kind of tired. And curious.”
“Curious about what?”
“What else there was to me, I guess.”
“I get that.”
“But let’s talk about something else, Ruthie. This conversation is getting a little too heavy for my taste.” The rain had practically stopped, and the sun’s rays were slicing through the mist.
David stood up and walked out from under the snack bar area. “Oh shit! Ruth, c’mere.” I got up and walked over to him.
“Check ’er out,” he said, pointi
ng to the rainbow arching over the elementary school up the hill in front of us.
11
Like Batman’s visage against the sky, the sun summoned every kid in the neighborhood back to the pool as soon as it returned. No sooner had David tossed his empty can in the trash than the parking lot gravel crunched with the wheels of myriad minivans and SUVs.
“Hey, I’ll go up first. Are you okay?” I asked.
“Ruth, I’m fine. Take it easy.” He put his arm around my shoulder and shook me gently.
“Okay, if you say so.” I walked toward the stand as at least ten pairs of eyeballs bored holes in my back. They couldn’t get in until I assumed the position and blew my whistle.
“Hey, Ruth, wait.” David jogged back. “I forgot to tell you. Jason told me that we have a Kiddy Kare bus coming this afternoon.”
“Kiddy Kare as in a group of kids in floaties with Kool-Aid mouths who can’t swim?”
“You got it. They’re paying a ton for the time, so the board okayed it.”
“Oy.” I nodded and took the stand. As I blew the whistle, I wondered just how many kids we were talking about.
Van Halen’s “Love Comes Walking In” wafted over the loudspeakers, and my thoughts drifted to Chris. Would we make out? Could it be possible that he would try to have sex with me? My lack of southern dating experience made me unsure. At school, the guy’s hand would be down your pants before you could even say hello, but here, in the South . . . one would think that the approach was at least a little more gentlemanly. Then again, depending on your company, a trip to the Krystal drive-thru could qualify as a date, so who knew.
A white van pulled into the parking lot, the words KIDDY KARE emblazoned in red on its side. That was a pet peeve of mine—words misspelled for the sake of cuteness. What kind of example was that setting for the kids at the Kiddy Kare? They would grow up thinking that the “c” was obsolete. I braced myself as the kids began to spill out of the van. One, two . . . twelve, thirteen? Damn. That was a lot of kids.
Their teacher and what I assumed to be her assistant lined them up single file, but even from a distance I could see the excitement vibrating through them. They looked to be in the five-to-seven age range, a mix of white, black, and Latino. They grabbed each other’s hands and snaked down the hill.
