“What are you doing? Is someone in the water?”
He’s blaring the light into the pool now, and it must have nearly blinded Cherish before she closed her eyes—but she still doesn’t come up.
“Get out of the pool!” he bellows. “Ma’am! Both of you need to come out of the pool, or I’ll call the police!”
I don’t move. I’m standing in waist-deep water, in a soaking-wet bra, and he’s near hysterics, but I wait. This is all still up to me.
“Ma’am!”
I wait. Just as he bends down to untie his shoes, a first gesture of many meant to indicate he’s coming in the water after us, I hoist Cherish out.
The security guard looks at us, Cherish fresh from baptism, water pouring down her face and chest, both of us calm and silent. Cherish is recovering quietly and his chest is rising and falling quickly by comparison. The look on his face blends confusion and discomfort beautifully.
“What are you doing?” he asks, but any authority has drained from his voice. The color in his face follows, the longer Cherish and I stand before him, silent.
Instead of yelling any further commands, he merely gestures with his flashlight for us to come out of the water, and looks away from us when we finally do.
* * *
—
MY MOTHER MUST have been gone by the time the Whitmans were called, because when they arrive to pick us up from the security office, there’s only Jerry and Brianne.
When the still disturbed guard explains that we were trespassing on private property and tells them the address, he’s clearly not expecting the way their concern melts into compassionate sighs.
“That’s where she used to live,” Jerry informs him, suggesting with a lift of his chin that the man should at least pretend to understand. “I’m sure there’s no harm done. But it won’t happen again.”
He turns to a still wet Cherish and me, and we echo him in unison.
“It won’t happen again.”
“I’m sure next time you girls can swim in our pool, at home,” he says, with a lighthearted shake of his head.
“They weren’t swimming,” the guard interjects, and then he turns his head slightly away from the two of us, like we won’t hear what he says next. Or else like he still doesn’t want to look directly at Cherish and me. “They were holding each other underwater.”
Jerry scrunches his brow and glances at us. I assume Cherish gives the same blank and innocent expression I do.
“It’s just a game,” Brianne assures him, as though she’s ever seen it done—but the guard won’t let it go.
“It wasn’t a game,” he insists, and his eyes stray over to me before leaping away. “She wouldn’t let her up. I told her to multiple times, but she kept holding her down.”
There’s no expression or response I can give. It has to be Cherish.
All I can do is wait.
A giggle peels out of her, and the stiffness that might have collected in her parents’ posture never solidifies.
“What are you talking about?” she asks through the kind of laugh that cuts through certainty and self-esteem.
Immediately, the guard’s mouth gapes, and when I join Cherish in laughter, I make sure to keep mine restrained. I can’t be the one cutting into his credibility; my attempts to curb my amusement have to seem pitying.
“Somebody’s a hypochondriac,” she says, rolling her eyes and letting her tongue peek between her teeth when she snorts back a laugh. “Are you afraid of the water? Is that why you didn’t come in and rescue me?”
“Cherish, be nice,” Jerry chides her halfheartedly. “I’m sorry about these two. It’s the end of a very long, very eventful birthday weekend. Thank you for calling us; it won’t happen again.”
And when he flashes Cherish and me a glance, we echo him again.
“It won’t happen again.”
* * *
—
WHEN WE’RE HOME, no one tells us to wait in the foyer while they go retrieve a towel. No one asks what we were thinking, going swimming in our underwear, without a towel or a change of clothes. The Whitmans are permissive in the way parents can be when they don’t clean their own houses or vehicles and the cost isn’t a concern.
It’s nice not to have to tiptoe. It’s nice when every single instance of freedom isn’t followed by a consequence, even one as trivial as taking extra care before collapsing into bed.
It’s nice that the permission applies to me now, too.
Jerry wishes Cherish a happy birthday one last time, and both parents kiss us each on the forehead or the cheek.
“Good night, sweet hoodlums,” Mr. Whitman calls after us as we mount the stairs. “Please don’t ever make me speak to that security guard again.”
“No promises,” Cherish calls back.
Upstairs, we rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets the bathroom first, and I make sure she wins. She loves to throw scissors, so I slide out paper and then shrug like a gracious loser when she bounces off to take what I know will be one of her ridiculously long, scalding-hot showers. Alone in our room, I wrap my terry-cloth turban around my wet French braids and relax on my side of the bed to stare up into our vaulted ceiling by myself.
There’s a simple package on the nightstand beside me. It’s wrapped, but the weight and size can’t obscure the fact that it’s clearly a book. When I lift a corner of it, it’s just enough to verify that there’s no accompanying card for the gift.
“It’s for you.” Mrs. Whitman’s voice carries from the hall. She’s standing almost where I was when she sat on the bed with my mother, except the top half of her body is curling around the slightly open door and she wants me to know she’s there.
“For me?” I ask to see what else she’ll say.
“May I come in?”
I nod, and she slips inside, closing the door behind her.
“Jerry and I . . . we knew this weekend would probably be a little much to take. Birthday celebrations are fun, but. Maybe this year less so?” She makes it to the bed and sits on Cherish’s side, twisting to place her hand close to me without touching.
She’s being careful, tiptoeing around something. If she’d decided what to say before I got home, it was easier in theory. Now she’s afraid to upset me.
“I heard you talking to my mom,” I say as though in confession, choosing the apologetic tone in case she already knows, and so that she thinks it was an accident. But I wonder if that’s why there’s a present for me on the night of my best friend’s final birthday party.