go away. Sixteen times. One for each year I’ve been alive.
Next thing I know, swim teacher guy is standing over me.
“Tate,” he’s saying. I don’t know how many times he’s said it.
“Yes?” I prop up on one elbow, adjusting my bathing suit top.
“Kale said I should come talk to you?” He ends it in a question, like he’s followed her orders, but he’s uncertain what to say next.
“Oh did she? Leafy Green said that?”
“She said you have questions about lessons?”
“Not really. She was going to teach me to swim better, so I could do laps like she does, but our first lesson proved me to be a spaz of the highest order.”
“But you can stay afloat?” he says. The sun blinds me when I look up at him.
“Sorry,” he says. He moves to the left and his body blocks the sun.
“Yes, technically, I swim. I mean, I won’t drown. But there’s nothing fluid or efficient about it.”
“Lessons would help,” he says. “Everyone can learn what Kale learned. She wasn’t that good either at first.”
“She’s good now,” I say.
“She got the hang of it.” Teacher boy looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know how to say this…” he continues. “Can I sit down?”
“Sure.” I sit up, to meet him halfway. I was horizontal, he was vertical; now we’re both sitting on the sheet, face to face.
“I guess I’m just sorry for all you must be going through.”
Here it comes. I nod. This is always awkward. I want to receive sympathy graciously, but I also don’t want pity. I can’t exactly say, “Oh, no biggie,” because it’s huge and everyone knows it.
“Thanks,” is all I say.
“And I’m sure you feel confident about this already, but I think your dad’s going to be acquitted.”
“Oh, he’s definitely innocent,” I say.
“I agree,” says Swimmer Boy. “Pretty much everyone thinks so, except the prosecution of course. But then that’s their job.”
“That’s where I’ve seen you before! At the trial! It was driving me crazy—you looked so familiar.”
“I can explain that,” he says. “Journalism project.”
I take in Sawyer Madison, with this new knowledge of him. “I only went to court twice,” I say, “but you were there both times. You took notes.”
“Right. The newspaper advisor at school thought it would be good practice for me, since I want to be an editor of a college paper. He suggested I attend the trial this summer and report on it. He thought it would be stupid not to, as a journalist living in this town when this thing happens. He thinks if I cover it well, I could even publish something.”
“Cool.”
“I guess I wanted to say…” Swimmer Boy looks to the left, looks to the right, looks anywhere but right at me.
“You’re sorry,” I say.
“I already said that,” he says. He smiles. “I wanted to say I admire you.”
No one has said this to me before.
“You seem to be handling this tragedy in your life very gracefully.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s why I swim so badly. All my grace is used up.” (When in doubt, make a dumb joke.)
Sawyer lets out a little laugh.
“Really, though, what else can I do? There’s not a thing I can do to change any of it.”
“Well,” he says, “I saw you a few weeks ago, in court, and I heard those women sitting behind you—I was in their row, and I heard what they said. I thought you handled that really well.”
“Which comment was that?”
“They said you’d never have a normal life.”
“Yeah. That’s a warm and fuzzy comment for sure.”
“And what’s normal anyway?” says Swimmer Boy.
“Good point.” I see Kale walking toward us, surveying her handiwork.
“Anyway, if you decide you want lessons, I’d like to do it no charge.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Keep what in mind?” says Kale. She’s knocking her head on the side to get water out of her ears.
“Lessons,” I say. “You sent Mr. Instructor my way.”
“He has a name,” says Kale. “Sawyer. And he’s a good teacher.” Kale lies down and puts a shirt over her face. “Wake me up before I get too burned.”
“That’s a cool name, by the way,” I say. “After Tom Sawyer?”
“No. After my dad.”
“He’s Sawyer also?”
“No,” says Swimmer Boy. “Carpenter. Sawyer equals one who saws.”
“Seriously? I love that! Did you hear that, Kale? Kale and I are word freaks. That is just so cool.” Okay, I tell myself, pipe down. Don’t go overboard.
“Does having that name mean your parents want you to go into carpentry?”
Sawyer gets up.
“I want to be a reporter,” he says. “They know that.”
“Right.”
He says, “Well, I’ve got another group coming in ten minutes. Let me know if you want free lessons.”
“Would I be with a group of little kids like that?”
“No. There are adult groups, but we could do private.”
The way he says the word makes me think of other things I would like to do with this swimmer boy in private. I remind myself quickly of Goal #6.
“Thanks,” I say. “Very generous of you, one-who-saws.”
He smiles.
“See ya,” he says. “Bye, Kale.”
“Later,” she says, without moving the T-shirt from over her face.
“Ta-ta,” I say as he walks away. He shoots back a quick
