Underwater(14)

Proof that I stopped swimming.

Proof that I’m not the person I was before.

I used to have long, lean muscles under tanned skin. Now I’m pale white, almost see-through, and I have a ring of fat around my middle that shitty boys on reality TV shows call a muffin top. I used to be able to feel the power in my arms and legs as I sliced through the water of the swimming pool. I used to know the strength of my chest. Of my lungs. Of my heart. I’d probably get winded walking up a flight of stairs now.

I pinch the fat between my fingers because I want to feel it. I want to make myself aware of how far this has gone. I want to look in the mirror and be mad. Disappointed. Maybe I’ll get so fat that someday the fire department will have to remove me through my bedroom window with a crane. I’ll scratch and scream. I’ll cry and say no. Evan will stand in the courtyard and watch. I’ll beg for everyone to leave me here, among the junk and the mess that is my life. These are the scenarios I play in my mind when I’m feeling extra disgusted with myself.

I’ve admitted out loud to Brenda that I don’t like the way I look. She tried to reassure me. She said I don’t look as bad as I think I do. “You’re more different on the inside than the outside,” she insisted. “And that’s why you’re being so hard on yourself.”

My mom says I look softer but not unhealthy. “You’re not swimming right now. That’s all.” She says this in that no-nonsense way she has.

Ben says he likes my hair better like this. I’ve lost the chlorine damage. I call it frizzy. He calls it curly. “You still look like a mermaid,” he tells me, squeezing my cheeks between his sticky hands.

I go to my room to get dressed. I pull on jeans. They’re tight. I strain to zip the zipper and button the button, but I’m determined to get them on. I need to feel how tight they are. When I’m finally wearing them, I’m instantly uncomfortable. I long for my pajamas. But I want to wear jeans for Brenda. She wants me to go outside.

*

My mom stops short when she walks into the kitchen. I’m standing at the counter, packing Ben’s lunch while he sits on a stool shoveling cereal into his mouth with an oversize spoon.

“You look nice,” she says. It’s a small thing to say, but it means a lot, maybe even more to her than to me.

She pours a cup of coffee, then sits down on the stool next to Ben to sift through the pile of mail on our counter. I fill reusable containers with carrots, cheese, and apple slices, then arrange them inside Ben’s lunch box.

“Too much healthy stuff,” Ben says.

“I want you to live forever,” I tell him.

Ben gets up and goes to the sink. He dumps out his leftover milk and rinses his cereal bowl and spoon.

Everything about us feels very productive at the moment. We all have a role. Like each of us is an integral part of a team. I like this feeling. It’s how we should be all the time. But then Ben and my mom leave, and I’m back to working solo again.





chapter eight

I sit at the computer in my too-tight jeans. I have to do a live session for my US history class before Brenda gets here. I hate live sessions, but my online high school requires that I participate in them twice a month for most of my classes. And by “participate,” they mean actually interact with other students and a teacher in a real-time chat session. My non-live lessons are recorded and I can log in any time of day to watch them. At the end of the year, I will have to take finals with a proctor.

I try not to think about that.

I log on to my school website and wait for my teacher to start typing. Since my school only exists online, I sometimes wonder if my teachers are hanging out in their living rooms wearing pajamas the same way I usually do.

There are six other people in my session today. Their names are there in the bottom corner of my screen: Luke, Zhang Min, Amanda, Roberto, Blue, and Victor. I don’t know anything about them besides their names. I don’t know if they do school online for the reasons most people do—they’re famous or super religious or have a medical condition—or because they’re like me and too afraid of real school.

My teacher, Mr. Chase, types out a few lines to summarize what we read about the Cold War.

Mr. Chase: During the Cold War years, we had an America in an elevated state of tension with the Soviet Union. Entire generations were raised with the constant threat of nuclear attack. What do you make of that? How can you compare or contrast it with today’s America?

There is a little red hand icon that we’re supposed to click on to chat, like we’re raising our hand. There is also a thumbs-up icon if we want to let someone know we liked something they said. And there’s another icon of two hands clapping if we’re falling all over ourselves about someone’s brilliance. I never tap them.

Victor: It’s scarier now.

Mr. Chase: How so?

Zhang Min: There’s actually been an attack. On 9/11.

Amanda: Yeah. That makes us similar to the kids from the Cold War generations. We’re all waiting for something bad to happen, too.

Blue: That’s stupid. What a waste of time.

Mr. Chase: Blue, I’m all for thoughtful debate here, but remember to be respectful of your fellow students.

Blue: Sorry, Mr. Chase. But honestly, what’s the point of wasting all your time worrying about something that might never happen?