Page 12 of Breathing Under Water

When I was Parker’s age, I never would have wanted a pool party even if we could have afforded it. For better or for worse, I had very quickly come to view pools as places of work, not play.

I’ve almost reached the swim shed when I notice Kathleen has somehow snuck up behind me. I slow down so we’re walking in tandem, and she says, “Must be a foreign concept to you, not knowing how to swim.”

She’s right. I can’t imagine how crippling that must be, having to fear the water.

“I feel bad for the kid Parker was talking about,” I say.

Back when my mom died, during my second year of high school, I worried that I’d be the one getting left out—that people wouldn’t want the “sad girl” around even after I was ready to stop grieving. It wasn’t like I’d been Miss Popularity before that, not after I’d spent years declining invitations to parties and movies because I was so busy training. But I’d been relatively well-liked and included in most big events, even if I didn’t have a specific group of kids I was especially close to. I guess I was lucky to have swimming in that regard. It gave me a bit of cache, some sort of street cred, because people knew I was good at something and seemed to respect me for it.

“That’s not even the half of it,” Kathleen says. “The boy they’re talking about is Elias Rollins.” She says it as though the name should mean something to me, but I shake my head. “They’re members, so I’m sure you’ll meet them soon. The other parents do try to beinclusive. They invite him to things, try to make playdates, but the boy’s got some behavioral challenges. It’s hard getting seven-year-olds to accept a child like that.”

I pull a clipboard off the hook outside the pool shed to double-check the timing of my next lesson. As I’m looking over the names, something occurs to me.

“Wait, the kid is a member here? Why hasn’t someone taught him how to swim?”

“He never wants to go near the water. I guess that can be common for kids on the spectrum?” She asks the question as if I might know the answer, but I just shrug.

“That’s too bad,” I say, opening the door to the shed so I can get myself organized before the next lesson.

Kathleen follows me inside. “Maybe the private lessons were the problem,” she says. “Maybe he would have been more comfortable learning alongside other kids.”

“Maybe,” I say, my attention catching on the pile of lesson request forms on the wooden countertop.

“Actually...” She steps farther into the shed, excitement creeping into her tone. “Here’s an idea for you. Maybe I can help you solve your community service problem.”

I look up from the papers in my hand. “What? Teaching that boy? But you just said he didn’t like the private lessons.”

“No, I mean teaching a group including Elias, if he’s willing. A small group of kids with autism. So none of them feels singled out.”

“I’m not trained for anything like that. I wouldn’t know the first thing about teaching those kids.” I reach for the three-hole puncher and position a stack of papers in its teeth.

“Sure you’re trained for giving lessons like that,” Kathleensays. “You’ve been swimming forever, and you’re an excellent teacher with the other kids. What else would you need?”

“Like, I don’t even know the answer to that, which is part of the problem.” I laugh lightly and shake my head. “I don’t think it’s for me.”

I remember when I was a little kid swimming at the Y, I’d often pass by the classrooms where the special-needs kids did activities. Sometimes one of the kids would be out in the hall with a teacher, and my first reaction was to worry they’d talk to me and I wouldn’t know what to say. I think I was nervous about being embarrassed—like I’d screw up somehow and other people would see. Maybe it means I’m just a shitty person because my main concern was how it would reflect on me. But I was taught from a young age that athletes are role models, always needing to set a good example; screwing up isn’t an option.

“No, think about it,” Kathleen pushes. “It could be the perfect solution for you. You’d be helping one of our members, and I’m sure so many other local kids could benefit. It’d be a great look for the club in terms of giving back to the community, and you could do it in the mornings, after your team practices but before the club starts to fill up. If you ask me, it’s pretty darn perfect.”

“I appreciate you trying to help me with this,” I tell Kathleen, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “I just don’t think I’m qualified.”

She shrugs, willing to accept my answer. “Okay, then I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” I follow her out of the shed just as Coach and his family are approaching. His wife, Paula, offers a little wave as they reach us. Vanessa follows behind them, looking at something on her phone.

“Sonny, hey,” Coach says. “I’m heading back to campus now. Want a ride?”

“No, thanks, I’m still on the clock. And I have my grandmother’s car.” Even though there’s a bus stop one street over, I told Glory I needed the car for the summer. This way, at least I don’t have to worry about her getting behind the wheel.

“Why don’t you ask Coach about it?” Kathleen prompts.

“Ask Coach about what?” He smiles.

I fill him in on Kathleen’s suggested solution to my community service problem. “But don’t worry,” I say. “I told her I’m completely unqualified.”

“Unqualified?” Coach scoffs. “Who’s a better swimmer than you?”

I’m tempted to rattle off the names of certain swimmers at UCLA, Georgia, and Texas, but I know the question is rhetorical.