Work Text:
Your sister has swimming lessons at the local pool, and it’s your job to drive her there and make sure she doesn’t drown. (She’s five.) The pool is an unreal bright blue, encased in this glass greenhouse that means it’s always too hot. You’ve brought your Gameboy before but the screen has fogged over – and, hey, you’re a writer, aren’t you? So you’ve been bringing a journal and writing about all the other five-year-olds at swimming lessons. The chubby kid with the black hair is your personal favorite, just because he seems intent on drowning all the other kids. Makes for a great first novel, you can tell.
Three weeks into swimming lessons, these twins come to the pool. You write about them. (Duh.) They’re not kids, they’re full-grown. One of them has blonde hair and one of them has brown hair, and they don’t dress the same, and the blonde one doesn’t even want to be there. The brunette isn’t wearing a swimsuit, either; she just keeps pointing at the pool. They don’t have a kid with them, so they can’t be here for swimming lessons—
Your mom texts to make sure your sister isn’t drowning. You text back that she’s fine. Then you check: she’s fine. Also, the blonde woman is getting into the pool. She says something mad to the other one, who just rolls her eyes. She sits down next to you in the chairs by the end of the pool. She gives you one of those really cool-people nods, the ones that are like hey. What’s up, fellow cool person.
You try the nod back. It doesn’t work. You write down what the nod was like and then go back to writing about swimming lessons. It’s hard when the brunette is next to you and also really pretty and also thought you were cool, possibly, for a second, but you manage.
In the pool all the five-year-olds are staring with their mouths open at the blonde woman, whose feet touch the bottom of the pool. She and the instructor are talking to each other, but you can’t hear what they’re saying. The instructor sighs. The lesson continues. All the tiny kids are hanging onto the edge of the pool and the blonde woman is too, even though she doesn’t seem to know why. They all let go and flail their way through the water. It’s kind of funny, you think, but when you sneak a glance to your left the brunette isn’t laughing – she just looks sad. So it’s probably sad. You look back over and, yeah, you can see it: on the five-year-olds the fear looks okay, it makes sense that they’re scared, but when you’re a grown woman and you look terrified of lifting your feet off the bottom of the pool it could be really sad.
The lesson ends. The blonde woman trudges out of the water and wraps herself in a towel. She glares at everyone in the room, including you, and it’s really scary so you go back to taking notes. Your sister comes up complaining about it being cold and so you miss the conversation between the twins next to you – it’s something like:
“Don’t want to—”
“Gotta learn sometime, Helena—”
“Ice cream.”
And then they’re gone. You write down HELENA in your notebook and underline it three times. Then you take your sister’s hand and walk her back to your car.
Next week they’re back. Helena gets in the pool. The brunette sits down next to you and starts texting someone. You have been planning this all week, so you lean over and offer her some gum. She takes a piece. You are the master of cool.
“Cheers,” she says. “I’m Sarah, by the way. That your sister?”
You nod.
“Mine too,” she says. “In case you couldn’t tell.” She smirks at you, half of her mouth. The smirk goes. “She didn’t learn,” she says, unwrapping the gum and popping it in. “So. Put her in with the babies, she likes kids.”
Helena seems to be having a good time with the five-year-olds. The instructor is off collecting rings for some swimming game, and it looks like Helena is showing your sister how to karate chop someone in the throat. They’re both treading water. You’re proud, you guess. Maybe. Your sister is probably going to use that karate chop on your throat.
Your sister wins the swimming game this week and she gets a gold star that she sticks on your forehead. You realize you have forgotten to take notes about this, any of this, the smell of chlorine or the way Helena swam way too slow on purpose so all the kids could beat her or the way she and Sarah exchanged little winking smiles at each other when Helena lost or how Helena and your sister are holding hands when they get out of the pool.
“C’mon, meathead,” Sarah says as Helena and your sister come over. “We gotta get to Alison’s, if we miss potluck she’s gonna blow our bloody brains out.”
“I smell like sad water,” Helena says.
“That’s chlorine,” says your sister, who is a brat and is also five.
“Chlorine,” says Helena back.
“Yeah,” says your sister, until you nudge her and give her a Look. She gives you a Look. You have both learned this Look from your mother, and you are so into giving it to each other that you don’t hear whatever Helena and Sarah say until they leave.
“See you next week, yeah?” Sarah says. You nod. The two of them head out, Helena’s hair dripping on the pool tiles.
You hold your sister’s hand, and the two of you go to get ice cream.