Nina Chiappetta
“Okay,” I say.
Seth stands there a second longer, his eyebrows knitting beneath his aviators. I keep my lips pursed and breathe composedly, even though my underarms pool with sweat and I can barely hear the sound of his receding footfalls above the blood rushing behind my ears.
Okay is all he deserves, right?
I count to ten.
I do it again.
Then twice more for good measure before twisting in the hard, white plastic chair to make sure he’s walked well away from me. My sunglasses clatter against the table, my forehead hits my palms and I gulp – hard. Just the once.
I’m at the Country Club, I remind myself. No one is watching. Everyone is watching.
No doubt someone noticed a lifeguard—the staff—approach a nanny. I’m as good as a member—and that’s a no-no. It would also be a no-no for the nanny to cry in front of the other members. Keep it together.
I will.
I have.
It’s been six months.
Kat—my charge—is on the diving board. That’s why we’re here: she’s competing. I’m not watching anymore. My mind is whirring.
On her next dive—a simple back dive—Kat all but flops ass-first onto the water’s hard surface and comes up for air barking with laughter. She receives threes across the board and my half-hearted golf-claps.
I’m still trapped inside the rink.
I take stats for the boys’ varsity team. I’m easy to find on game-day between November and March: I have a clipboard, a purple pen