as many school districts away, my words got back to him. He took his retribution at the Pelham-Mamaroneck game where he knew I’d be.
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, and a shirt that says CAZZO on the back. Sometimes it’s the home-colored jersey, sometimes the away—it depends on which one goalie Mike Cazzo throws my way that day. Seth didn’t know about the jersey or what it meant that I was wearing it. All he knew was anger and hate – mine, his – and the back of his hand.
Clapping drags me back to the hot pool-deck—it’s over, so I stand and wait for Kat. Ten minutes ago —was it only ten minutes?—Seth appeared shimmering in my peripheral vision, a mirage. Instead of disappearing, he grew sharper. He mumbled what sounded like an apology so I said okay.
That’s all he deserved.