Like A Flip Turn

One.

JENNY

Summer is hot sunshine and just-out-of-reach bug bites and the lingering scent of chlorine. It is the sweet aroma of fresh-cut grass, offering gentle nudges as the sun begins to rise, and flecks of forgotten sleep that cling to eyelashes for an extra hour each morning. It is the barbecued smoke that wafts through neighborhoods, planting small seeds that will lead to dreams of laughter and full bellies and ketchup: the quintessential summer condiment.

The word summer, of course, is yellow and orange and red, but summer itself is mostly blue. Different shades of blue, but definitely mostly blue. I cling to my cobalt kickboard, contemplating this realization, and listen to the sound that my feet make as they churn through the aquamarine pool water: swish-clop-clop, swish-clop-clop, swish-clop-clop. The rhythm is soothing.

To clear my head, I swim. An abundance of words is what usually swarms there, buzzing about and ricocheting off the inner walls of my skull, but with each additional lap, it’s numbers that tend to occupy more and more of the space. For the most part, I count laps. A constant record of how many I’ve already swum and how many more I intend to complete runs circles in my brain.

But sometimes other thoughts creep into the mix: “Twenty-seven. Five more for a half-mile; thirty-seven for a mile. I can’t forget to stop at market on the way home. Twenty-seven… twenty-seven… twenty-eight… Maybe someone will be selling white peaches.”

I end up swimming farther than a mile, because even when my arms feel like overcooked spaghetti and my burning lungs threaten to burst, leaving the pool is never something to which I look forward. I’m taller when I’m in the water, and stronger.

On land, I’m just like anybody else.

Eventually, though, I do pull myself onto the warm cement. I toss my goggles onto the ground beside me and sit there, feet dangling in the coolness, studying the way that a pool of glistening water is able to manipulate the lines of my legs. Refraction prevents things from connecting like they ought to; my waterself is slightly different than my landself.

I’ve found that noise travels differently in the summer. In the summer, with humidity hanging heavy in the atmosphere, words tend to travel farther. Car horns honk louder, children’s laughter is more resonant, and nasally cricket choirs can be heard from miles away.

Today is a humid day.

A humid day filled with splendiferous sounds.

Today is also the first day of August, which means that the first day of school is a thought that should soon work its way from the back of my brain to the forefront. Especially since I’ll be entering a new district this year—and setting up a new classroom—more than two thousand miles from the place that I’ve always known as home.

It was time for a change, though.

Lounging at the edge of the pool, the sun beating down on my exposed back, I watch people. There aren’t many, really. Most have already left, due to the fact that they came for the sole purpose of putting in a few laps before starting the day, but ten o’clock is the cue for children and the serious pool rats have begun to filter in.

Three teenagers, probably around the age of fifteen, sprawl on oversized towels and unfasten their halters, aspiring to achieve flawless tans. Not far from where I sit, a mom with a magazine divides her attention between glossy-paged fashion tips and a young boy splashing happily in the shallow end. It’s the boys on the other side of the pool, though, executing lackadaisical flips off the diving board, who filch my attention and hold it captive. Their motions are fluid, effortless. One wears blue trunks that seem to hang at his hips; the other sports red shorts with a white stripe down the side. Their skin is copper, like the color of well-used pennies, but now and then a hint of paleness will peek out from beneath a hem gone askew. They laugh from time to time, sharing insults when one hits the water with too much force, or at an angle that results in a geyser-sized splash, but mostly they are silent, relying on movements and facial expressions rather than words. The way that their muscles ripple as they lift themselves from the diving well, climb the tall ladder that reaches into the sky, and then tumble through the air lets me know that these boys are natural athletes.

The kind that excels at every sport.

The kind that doesn’t know what it is to struggle with school.

I think, in fact, that these boys probably qualify as the rare kind of athlete that is actually able to pair black socks—the ones that stretch halfway up a person’s calf—with mesh shorts and athletic sandals… and get away with it. There aren’t a whole lot of people who can accomplish this feat. Not even my ex-boyfriend, who literally owned a lucky jockstrap, could pull off such a look.

The unexpected memory of Josh—of all that anger and hurt, attraction and love—isn’t an especially enjoyable one. I dismiss him with a shake of my head and quickly force myself to my feet, reaching for the striped towel that I’d tossed aside before hopping into the pool. I pat dry my face, wipe the shimmering droplets of water from my arms, and slip into my flip-flops. A mesh bag, bulging with swim gear, is slung over my shoulder.

One of the lifeguards offers a lazy wave as I walk toward the exit. “See you tomorrow,” I say, knowing that I probably will, and then I keep walking because by-foot is the form of transportation that I’ve chosen for today. It’s one of the things that I like most about Lake Caywood: the ability to never rely on a car.

There are quite a few other elements that the town also has going for it, though.

To start, there’s a lake. And it’s big. Since I’m new to the area and know only a handful of people, and since my teacher salary doesn’t allow for extraneous expenses (i.e., a boat with an engine), I’ve never had the privilege of waterskiing on it. I have, however, watched others skim across the glassy surface, cutting the wake like a knife cuts through butter, an eight-foot spray cascading behind them. In the early morning, when the air is crisp and the birds are at their most talkative, voices dance across the water, allowing snippets of conversation to be heard by others. There’s always a burst of hardy laughter—as if someone’s just said something unabashedly amusing—and often times a question regarding the speed of the boat or the choppiness of the water. I like the watching and the listening that take place around eight a.m., but the goings-on at ten are nice, too.

At ten, it’s mostly just slow-morning practitioners who visit market. These are the folks who devote fifteen minutes to stretching before climbing out of bed; who sip coffee while reading the newspaper and always allow time to enjoy a second cup; who putter around their gardens, still clad in lightweight pajamas as they pull spindly weeds from their vegetable gardens and check the ripeness of tomatoes. They come to market because it’s something to do. They take their time at each booth, debating between Brandywine and Black Krim, asking advice from sellers as to how corn-on-the-cob ought really to be grilled. The pace that they keep is leisurely. Meandering. They see no reason to hurry.

Summer is deceptive in that way. June flutters in like a bird, full of sunshine and chuckles and fast talk, and berries that are positively abundant! Children sport rich indigo stains on their fingertips and wear them into July; even an extra round of brushing each day won’t completely erase the bluish hue from their teeth. With July come the plums, warm off the branch, dripping sticky juice that glistens on chins, spills down forearms, hangs tenuously from bent elbows. The months meld together, only discernible by the fruit that they bear, and thus create an illusion that summer will stretch into forever. But then enters August. Peaches tumble in with it—yellow and white, and covered with pink fuzz—but so does the realization that autumn is on its way. Each season, I am fooled by this magic trick.

I have, in fact, been hoodwinked on twenty-nine separate occasions.

Saying goodbye to summer never seems to get any easier, and knowing that it’s on its way out makes me want to savor it right up until the last second before its departure. Fresh produce is one of the best ways that I can think to do that.

Market is located on the edge of the lake, near a well-maintained playground and a rickety dock lined by canoes and muck-bottomed paddleboats. Happy children hang from monkey bars and climb on jungle gyms while their parents watch from nearby benches. Ducks paddle close to shore in the hopes that a passing pedestrian might toss a scrap of bread in their direction.

It’s a female mallard who accosts me from the water, exposing cream-colored feathers as she elevates her wings and flaps them in my direction. “Give us some crumbs,” she bosses. “The wee ones are hungry.” Behind her, swimming in their mother’s wake, three ducklings nod affirmation.

“Look there,” I point, “in the reeds.”

The mallard follows my finger and fixes her gaze on the once-soft, now-soggy pretzel. Her tail feathers wiggle as she scoots to retrieve the snack with her beak. “Thank you,” she manages, albeit a bit muffled. “Thank you so much.”

I offer a discreet wave and continue on my way. A cluster of canvas tents congregates on the lawn between playground and baseball field, each housing its own summer delicacy. Most sellers promote their products with poster board signage. Black-Sharpie block letters spell out the name of each vegetable and the asking price: Heirloom Tomatoes, 3/$2; Fresh Leaf Lettuce, $2/bunch; Corn-on-the-Cob, 12/$5. I fish four dollars out of my wallet and walk away with a bag of beefsteak tomatoes and the key ingredient to a tossed salad.

A Mennonite family occupies the next tent. Their specialty appears to be baked goods: the table is laden with muffins and whoopie pies and oatmeal-raisin cookies that measure nearly five inches in diameter. A little girl with blond hair gives me a shy smile and asks, “Would you like to buy something?” Despite the heat, she wears a pale blue dress with sleeves that reach almost to her wrist and a white bonnet perched atop her head. Her mother watches the exchange from a distance, bouncing a round-faced toddler on her knee.

“I think that I’d like some bread,” I decide. “What’s your favorite kind?”

“This one,” she answers immediately, and points to a loaf that’s slightly flatter than the rest. “There’s cheese in it; it’s called cheese bread. I helped bake it this morning.”

My mind does quick mental math: tomato + lettuce + cheese bread = lunch.

“I’ll try that one,” I say, and the little girl beams with pride.

Armed with the fixings for a summertime sandwich, I stroll toward a pickup truck housing bushels of fruit in its bed. There are peaches and apricots and plums and squat early apples with pinky-red skins. Watermelons, dirt still caked to their rinds, lounge on a faded blanket. Interspersed among them, their shells callused and coarse, are a few remaining cantaloupe. I pick one up and hold it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It smells like heat and childhood and tall grass swaying in a soft breeze.

“Something I can help you with?” a gruff voice asks, not unfriendly. It belongs to a burly farmer with a ruddy complexion and a plaid shirt. His beard could use a trim. “First time this year I got melons. Seedless are real sweet.”

“Do you have any white peaches?”

“I do,” he says with a terse nod. “How many you want? Give you a bag this size for three dollars. Even throw in a few yellow ones if you want.” He pronounces yellow with an –er on the end rather than an –oh. It makes me smile.

“Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”

I pay and thank him, and decide to walk home through the middle of town, just to see what’s going on. It’s true that the wintertime version of Lake Caywood is still a mystery to me—I only just moved here a couple of months ago—but I can honestly say that I like the summertime version just fine. It reminds me of being at the beach, but without the saltwater and the seagulls. The mentality is the same. Ducks rule the roads and traffic on Main Street is forever coming to a standstill because a family of mallards would rather walk than fly. Blue herons are occasionally spotted as well. Usually closer to the water, but there’s one that frequents a restaurant in town, The Tavern, and begs for scraps. The staff there has named him Twist, due to the fact that he’s constantly asking for more.

The idea of “no shoes, no shirt, no service” doesn’t really apply to inhabitants of Lake Caywood. At least not during the summer months. Just yesterday I passed a bare-chested man wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a wakeboard strapped to his back… and he was coming out of the bank.

Outdoor eateries can be found on nearly every block, and there’s a popular coffeehouse near the center of town that offers outdoor entertainment on the weekends. I’ve never actually been in for a caffeine fix, but the door is usually open and the front porch typically hosts an assortment of people, some of them swaying back and forth on an old wooden swing, others lounging lazily on the warped steps. Today is no exception.

“I don’t understand why it’s even an issue,” someone is saying as I grow near. “The place is an eyesore. It should have been torn down years ago.”

“The house is a mess, yeah,” another voice agrees, “but have you ever looked at the garden? It’s gorgeous. And besides, it’s someone’s home. To take it away is wrong.”

“It’s not like she wouldn’t be paid for the property, though. Did you see the figure that’s being offered? It’s huge!”

“How much?”

“Front page of the Times,” the first speaker says, relinquishing the newspaper that he’d been scouring. His twenty-something friend—a pretty girl with fashionable bangs—accepts the literature, scans it briefly, and then lets loose a low whistle. “Yikes,” is how she chooses to respond.

I continue past them, managing my purchases by swinging the bread and vegetables at my side, tucking the peaches under my arm, and readjusting my bag of swim gear so that it doesn’t dig into my shoulder. I’m in the midst of this last alteration when a tandem bike pulls up beside me and stops. I raise my gaze and glance over, curious. The back seat is vacant, but the front seat is occupied by a tall man who is just barely able to avoid the classification of lanky. Slim, I think, better suits his frame. “You look like you could use some help,” he says. His voice is softer than what I expect it to be, and sort of musical. Long dimple-wedges embrace his mouth when he smiles, just like parentheses would. His eyes are the same color as pears.

“Your eyes are the same color as pears,” I say to him.

The man grins bigger, which somehow elongates his chin, and asks, “Bartlett pears?”

“Before they’re ripe enough to eat.”

“My middle name is Bartlett,” he says. “What’s yours?”

“My middle name?” I confirm, and it admittedly takes a bit of effort to keep from laughing. “Anastasia,” I tell him, “but I typically go by my first name, which is Jenny.”

“Jenny,” he says, putting the word in his mouth so that he can taste it. Satisfied with its flavor, he grins slightly and offers, “I’m Petey Goode.”

“Petey B. Goode?”

“No relation to Johnny,” he assures me, eyes twinkling. It makes me happy that his last name matches his eyes. “Would you like to bum a ride on my bike? I have a basket,” he adds, motioning to the front of the tandem, “and a bell.” It dings cheerfully.

I hand my bags to Petey and climb onto the grass-stain green contraption. The seat is old, the vinyl cracked. A crevice of yellow foam, torn edges now brown, can be seen through a long split. “Do you always go tandem bike-riding by yourself?” I wonder.

“Not usually, no, but I had a feeling I’d need the space today.” He pushes away from the curb and starts pedaling. Almost as an afterthought, he asks, “Where are we going?”

I give him my address and a brief explanation regarding my relocation to Lake Caywood. He doesn’t presume that I mean D.C. when I mention Washington, and I compliment him for his lack of assumption. He says that since my hair is the exact color of coffee beans, it only makes sense that I hail from Starbucks’ birthplace.

Petey travels a route that sticks close to the lake, which is especially pleasant because there are sailboats floating there and something about sailboats has always made me happy. I think it has to do with the brightness of them and how they skim across the water, but the sound that a sailboat makes—that sharp clap of the wind hitting the sail and the water lapping against its hull—is like nothing else. When I was a kid, my father bought me a ride on a hot air balloon. We flew so high that the only noise was the soft, steady whoosh of the burners. The clouds were our treetops. An hour later, back on the ground, my father stepped out of the basket and said, “I imagine that’s exactly what it would be like to go sailing in the air.”

I’ve always remembered that.

“You’ll like our regatta,” Petey predicts, noticing my fascination with the boats. “It’s held every Labor Day weekend. The university students will be back by then, and it’s tradition for the LCU crew to compete against our high school’s varsity crew. Lots of sailing, too, of course, and plenty of food.”

The way his tone changes when he mentions the word crew isn’t lost on me. There’s a hint of affection that lingers there. I stare at the back of his head (his hair is short, but long enough to look tousled) and neck (the skin there is pink—whether from the sun or exertion, I don’t know), and then I ask, “Are you a rower, then?”

“I was in high school.”

“Not college?”

“Competition to be accepted onto Yale’s lightweight crew is steep. I didn’t stand a chance.”

This information doesn’t immediately register, but when it does, I’m momentarily speechless. It’s as if my brain suddenly doubts my ears and needs to review some facts before communicating with my mouth. Finally, though, my voice is given the go-ahead. “Are you telling me that you went to Yale?”

“I am, and I did.” He’s not smug about it at all, just matter-of-fact.

“Wow.”

Petey shrugs, but doesn’t contribute any additional information. I’m left to assume that he’s either so accustomed to the idea of having graduated from Yale that it no longer seems special, or it’s just not a topic that he has an interest in discussing. But then he says, “Even though I majored in sociology, and enjoyed most of my courses, I haven’t used my degree for anything.”

“So what do you do for a living?”

“Well, all sorts of things really… but most of my income is earned waiting tables at The Tavern.”

The Tavern is the only restaurant in Lake Caywood that I’ve visited more than once, which therefore places it at the top of my list of favorites. To show that I’m familiar with the establishment, I state, “That’s where Twist lives.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that he lives there,” Petey laughs, and even though I can’t see his face, I know that those parenthesis-dimples are hugging his smile. “It’s more like he stops by from time to time, begging for food. His preferred menu item seems to be the shrimp scampi.”

“Mmm… shrimp scampi.”

“I’m glad you like it, because if you didn’t we probably couldn’t be friends.” He steers the bike into my driveway and stops it with his feet. They’re tucked inside a pair of tattered Converse sneakers the color of over-washed denim. The toes are scuffed and the laces are dirty. Petey doesn’t wear socks with them.

“Thanks for the lift. Let me pay you with a peach.” I pull an especially plump piece of fruit from one of my bags and hand it to him. It’s still warm from the sun. When Petey accepts the gift, our fingers brush ever so slightly. “Does anything epitomize August like the peach?” he asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, of course; the answer is obvious.

***

Floyd’s obsession with water is something that I can certainly appreciate, but I’d be lying if I claimed to fully understand it. The furry-footed feline visits the bathtub several times each day, seeking soap-scented puddles into which he can daintily dip his paws.

Oddly enough, wet paws are something that Floyd enjoys immensely. Later, he’ll experience an equal amount of pleasure by licking them clean.

In addition to the tub, my cat is a big fan of the kitchen sink. He likes to doze there, curled beneath a quiet faucet, waiting for it to begin magically gushing water. This is where I find him today. He sits up when I open the door, executes a languid yawn, and then watches with unblinking eyes as I situate my groceries on the counter. After a generous allotment of time, Floyd licks his lips and asks pointedly, “Will you turn on the water?”

Ignoring the fact that he’s already spoken, I retrieve a bowl from the cupboard, tumble the peaches into it, and contribute, “I think that I might’ve made my first Pennsylvania friend today. His name is Petey Goode.”

Floyd chirps once, offering his own form of congratulations, before repeating his previous request: “Will you turn on the water?”

I roll my eyes, but nevertheless walk over to plant a kiss on the top of his head. He purrs contentedly and touches his nose to mine, nuzzling my face in a show of affection. I run a hand over his velvety coat, speckled with patches of taupe and ash, and Floyd arches his back as my fingers glide over his spine. Then he prompts emphatically, “The water?”

Without further ado, I reach over and turn on the faucet.