The People We Keep(77)

My mother taught me how to swim in the river in late summer when the water was low and calm. She’d hold me with both arms under my belly. She’d say, “Kick your legs, baby,” and I’d get mad at her for calling me baby when I was a big girl.

The next summer, when we went, she sat on the rocks on the shore, humming to herself, twisting her hair with her index finger and watching it uncurl. I swam alone, under the water, pretending I was a mermaid, testing my lungs to see how far I could get on one breath. I wonder if she ever panicked when I disappeared into the yellow-brown water. Or maybe she wished I’d never come back up.

The summer after that, she was gone.

I don’t follow Justin out to the big, rolling distant waves. Swimming like a mermaid is silly in the face of his perfect, metered strokes. I never learned to really swim, with my head above the surface. I shed my skirt, walk in shoulder-deep, and float on my back until the waves push me to shore.



* * *



“Shit,” Justin says, tilting his head to shake water from his ear. “We didn’t grab towels from the house.”

“Here,” I say, handing him my skirt. He looks at me funny but uses it to wipe his face. He’s not used to making the most of what’s in front of him.

“We’ll dry fast in the sun,” I say.

He hands the skirt back to me and I spread it on the sand so we can sit down.

“Don’t you want to put it back on?” he asks, eyeing my tank top and underwear. He seems embarrassed, but they’re black. It’s not like they’re see-through. Everything’s covered. Bathing suits are expensive.

“I’m good,” I say, but I hate watching him take in the frayed strap of my tank top and the outline of my nipples in wet cotton. I hate the way he looks around to see if anyone is watching us. I try to ignore the twinge of shame creeping up from my chest, like when all the other kids in my class had big packs of pristine crayons in September and I had the same old sandwich bag of broken ones from a rummage sale.

Once he’s sure no one is paying any particular attention to us, he sits on my skirt next to me.

“Not a big swimmer?” he asks.

“Nah,” I say, “not really.” But I do love the water. It makes me feel better. If Justin weren’t here, I’d have stayed in, swimming under waves until my fingers pruned up and salt burned my nose. We’re all small at the ocean; none of us have control. I like being reminded of that.

We stare out at the waves. We’re waterlogged and sun-touched. It makes us quiet.

Once we’re mostly dry, we get hot dogs at a snack bar across the street from the beach. I hate hot dogs, but they’re cheap. Justin orders three and a soda. He has no understanding of money, or the fact that everything always costs so much more than it seems like it will. I try not to be the kind of person who’s always running calculations, but I can’t shut my brain off. We won’t get back to Binghamton on what I have left.

I grab a free tourist newspaper from a plastic stand by the register. We shoo seagulls off the only empty table. Justin eats his first hot dog in two bites and is on to the second before I even start mine. I thumb through the paper to the “Happenings!” page and check the music listings while I eat. Ollie’s—the bar where I play when I’m here—has shows listed for the rest of the week. A cover band, some girl I’ve never heard of, a reggae band, and this guy who plays Beatles covers on the ukulele. I saw the ukulele guy play the last time I was here. He’s awful. But he’s booked. If they didn’t have anyone, I’m sure I could play. They’re always nice to me. But there’s no point in asking now. I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable and ruin a chance in the future.

“Was your hot dog bad?” Justin says when he finishes his third. He crumples his paper plate and tosses it into the garbage can.

“It was fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

“You had a look on your face like—” Justin exaggerates a pout.

“Just thinking,” I say, shaking my head. “We need funds. I’m going to have to play.”

“Oh, cool,” he says, smile full of hot dog bits. He reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “I like hearing you play.” And it’s nice, the way he likes me. It is nice.



* * *



“I thought you meant like at a bar or something,” Justin says when I stop to get my guitar from the car on the way back to the beach.

“Getting a gig takes time,” I say. “The places I know here are booked. You can’t just walk in someplace and play.”

“You do at Arnie’s.”

“But that’s Arnie. I don’t have that here.”

“Is it legal?” he asks. He looks truly worried. I wonder if he’s imagining a phone call to his dad from jail.

“I’m not killing anyone.”

“I mean, do you need a permit or something?”

“Not unless someone complains.”

“But what if they do?”

“They’re not going to arrest us. At worst, someone will ask us to leave.”

He looks at me like I’m suggesting we knock off a liquor store or throw water balloons at babies.

“It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t have other options.”