LITMIR.BIZ

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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 wave.

      “You did not just say that.” She comes out from under her sunshield.

      “Oh my God,” I say, and we burst into laughter. “He must think I’m such a dork!”

      This is a private joke between me and Kale. We throw out as many funny versions as we can of greetings when we first see each other, and of goodbyes when we part ways. We don’t generally do this in front of other people. The whole thing started when our third grade teacher—Mrs. O’Connor—taught us letter writing—business letters, personal letters, postcards. For some reason, we found the word salutation a riot. This is the part of the letter where you say Dear so and so, but in our text book, it gave alternatives, like Greetings! Or Top of the mornin’ to you! That one cracked us up. We collected these like other kids collect scout badges or baseball cards. Ta-ta! Toodles! Regards to the family! All the best!

      “That is so a sign, dude,” Kale says, lying back down and going under cover.

      “Sign of what?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Tell me.”

      “Can’t.”

      “Why not?”

      “Violates one of the goals on your wall.”

      “Tell me or I will have to pummel you senseless.”

      Kale lifts the cover off her eyes for a sec, to give me a certain skeptical look she has.

      “What?” I say.

      “That last comment. It’s sort of not funny, given events in your recent past.”

      “True,” I say. “Ugh. Totally poor taste. Sorry.” And for a minute I’ve got that kicked in the gut feeling again. Kale has seen me when I slide into this funk.

      “You okay?” she says.

      “Yes. But tell me, what is ‘ta-ta’ a sign of?”

      “Just that you accidentally felt comfortable enough with one-who-saws to use our private language. It’s like intuitively you know he’s worthy, like of being in our inner circle. Her Royal Highness Bower would call this foreshadowing.” Bower is our English teacher. Bower resembles the Queen of England.

      “Shit,” I say. “As usual, you are probably right. Was it obvious I liked him?”

      “To me. Not to him,” Kale says. “You forget how clueless guys are.”

      “Shit,” I say again.

      “Ca-ca,” says Kale. Now she is onto terms for fecal matter. We found a list of these once in a psychology textbook in my dad’s office.

      “Boom-boom,” I say.

      “Double boom-boom,” says Kale.

      “Boom-boom is already double. That, Bower would so kindly inform you, is redundant.”

      “Alas,” says Kale. “So put me in grammar prison.”

      Everyone mocks our English teacher, but Kale and I secretly revere her. Bower is old, older than you would think for someone still teaching high school. She’s short and has a small build, white hair, and glasses. Kids call her “Old Lady Bower” and because she doesn’t wear a wedding ring, they make jokes about how she’s the seventy-year-old virgin. But they should shut up, because no one knows 1) how old she is; or 2) anything about her life outside of school. She could easily be divorced or widowed. Or maybe a lesbian. She could’ve had plenty of sex in her life whether she was married or not, gay or straight. The thing is, she doesn’t have to explain herself to any of us and that’s one thing that makes her formidable. She’s wicked smart about literature and doesn’t have to answer to any dumb teenager.

      “When I go home, I need to recommit to my goals,” I say.

      We’re quiet after that, lying on our backs, side by side on her mom’s old sheet. The sun is high and feels good beating down on me. I imagine the heat and the sweat as cleansing. By lying here, I’m purifying. And then, as always when I’m left with my own thoughts, I think of my mother and I wonder if, wherever she is, she can see me down here. Like Google Earth, just zoom right in on me from her celestial place. Does she know what I think? That I have a crush on this swimmer boy? That I’m sorry in a thousand different ways?

      Kale is putting on her shirt, standing up to step into her shorts. “I’m hungry,” she says. “Come on, we can go to the restaurant and I’ll share my free meal with you.”

      She

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