The water at the Harrison community center pool where I taught lessons was the perfect temperature for swimming laps, which meant the kids were probably going to freeze. I had about twenty minutes to get in some laps before my class started. I concentrated on the angle of my arms as they left the water and the shape of my hands as I pushed back.

Despite the fact that I didn’t have much body fat to spare and I sank like a rock when I tried to float on my back, the pool had always been my comfort zone.

The sinking like a rock was no joke, though.

When I did my initial lifeguard training, we practiced rescuing each other, and I sank in slow motion to the bottom of the pool. The new trainees had been unable to lift me using the recommended techniques. The more advanced lifeguards there for recertification had also struggled to do so. The instructor advised me not to drown because it was too difficult to save me.

In the summers, I worked as a lifeguard and a swim instructor. During the school year, I cut back on my hours. I dropped lifeguarding altogether, and only taught classes one or two nights a week depending on the needs.

Amanda, the aquatics director, greeted me when she walked onto the pool deck. Her dark brown hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She tanned easily during long hours at the outdoor pool, but that didn’t last into the fall. All that was left of the sun was a scattering of freckles across her nose.

“How are things going?” she asked.

I paused at the end of the pool. “Swimmingly.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Ha ha. You’ve got four in your group this time.”

“The perfect size.”

I lifted myself out of the pool, and she handed me the clipboard with the names of my swimmers, the paper protected from my wet hands by a layer of plastic.

It was the first class of the new session. I was teaching the swim basics class designed to build stamina in the pool. It was one of my favorite levels to teach. The kids were between six and eight years old. They were enthusiastic about being in the water but had gotten to the point that they would follow directions, at least most of the time.

My worst nightmare was the toddler classes. They were like little terrorists in the pool. They were nearly impossible to keep track of. I was always convinced one of them was going to drown when I turned my head, even though there were lifeguards keeping their eyes on everyone.

My class consisted of three boys and a girl. Their parents came over to my lane one after another to introduce themselves before retreating to the bleachers to gossip with one another or read books or scroll through their phones.

“Are you a girl or a boy?” the girl asked.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question. The fact that all the instructors wore the same swim shorts and short sleeved uniforms regardless of gender didn’t help. “I’m a boy.”

“I told you so,” the girl said to one of the boys.

He shrugged, unbothered, and hung up his towel on one of the hooks on the wall.

When the kids jumped into the pool, they all let out surprised yelps. I’d been right; they were going to freeze. We spent thirty minutes learning how to roll from front to back and back to front, swimming for fifteen yards, treading water for a minute, and retrieving objects in chest-deep water. My students all did these tasks with varying degrees of success.

When they got out of the pool, they were all shivering. The girl’s teeth were chattering. I gave them all high fives before releasing them to their parents.

I only had one class for the evening, so once they were out of the way I was free to go. I picked up my towel and hung it over my shoulder. Before I left the pool deck, Amanda walked up to me with an unreadable expression on her face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

She pointed to her master clipboard. “Do you mind picking up another class on Thursdays? We just lost another instructor. Apparently whatever college class they’re signed up for takes priority over their duties as a swim instructor.”.

I shrugged. “Sure. As long as it’s not the littles.” I shuddered dramatically.

Amanda laughed. “It’s middle school kids working on stroke refinement. The tweens. Your favorite.”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t exactly call them my favorite . . .”

“You’re great with them,” she said. “And it’s another small class. Three kids this time.”

I toweled my hair off. “You don’t need to sell me on the class. I already said yes.”

It only belatedly occurred to me that I needed to make sure I could get to and from my additional class. We were a single car family with three drivers, which took some juggling.

When I got home, both of my parents were in the living room watching the local news.

“Do you guys mind if I take the car on Thursdays after school?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem on my end,” my dad said.

My mom nodded. “I’m good. Same time?”

“Yeah. I’m picking up another class. They’re desperate for more teachers, apparently.”

“As long as you keep up with your schoolwork,” my mom said.

I snorted. “When has that ever been a problem?” I didn’t do great, but I was a solid B student, at least on average.

***

Thursday evening, I was once again doing laps before class. They had increased the temperature in the pool after parent complaints. I swam slower than usual, completing fewer laps since I didn’t want to overheat.

When it was about time for the kids to start showing up, I climbed out of the pool and stood by my lane, waiting for my students. When the kids came in, Amanda checked their registrations and pointed them in the right direction.

Most of the other instructors had full classes and were already in the water by the time my first student showed up.

He had curly brown hair and light brown skin. He made me look like I’d never seen a day of sunlight by comparison.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Santiago. But call me Santi.” He had a very slight lisp when he spoke.

I nodded. The sign-in sheet said he was twelve, although he was small for a twelve-year-old. “We’ll wait a few more minutes and see if anyone else shows up.”

He hung his towel up on the wall and came to sit on the side of the pool, dangling his skinny legs in the water.

Amanda walked over to deliver the news: “Your other two both called in. One is out sick, and the other one is at a birthday party so it’s just the one student tonight.”

“Looks like you get a private lesson,” I said to Santi.

“Cool.” He smiled and jumped in the water. I lowered myself into the pool.

“How is your front crawl?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

I had him swim ten yards of front crawl for me. He was more than okay. I took him through all the basics then: front crawl, breaststroke, backstroke, and even butterfly. His form was decent for the most part, but his butterfly was terrible. He looked like he was drowning. That would give us something to focus on.

After spending some time on his weakest stroke I asked, “Do you know how to do flip turns?”

Santi shook his head. “I’ve never tried.”

“Have you ever done somersaults in the pool?”

He smiled. “Yeah. And handstands.” He demonstrated one for me.

“That’s great,” I said when he came back up.

We spent some time working on the half turn required to push off the side of the pool. On the first try, he got water up his nose and came up spluttering. He didn’t give up, though. By the end of the lesson, he was making some real progress.

Santi finished off the lesson treading water in the deep end before picking up diving rings from the bottom of the pool.

“See you next week,” I said when we both got out of the water.

Santi nodded. “Yeah. I kind of liked having a private lesson. You’re a good teacher.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and the other kids won’t come next week either,” he said, wrapping himself in his towel.

I smiled. “Maybe.”

“See?” Amanda said after Santi left the pool area. “Kids that age love you.”

“That’s because I look like I’m their age. We bond as peers,” I said.

Amanda shook her head and smiled.

When I walked into the lobby, Santi was sitting at one of the couches facing the door. “Is someone coming to pick you up?” I asked.

It was a stupid question. Of course someone was coming to pick him up. He was twelve. It wasn't like he could drive.

“Yeah. My brother uses the weight room during my lessons. He should be out any minute.”

I nodded.

“There he is,” Santi said, nodding toward the reception desk.

There he was: Marcos Grayden.