Over My Head

by Marie Lamba

  First a trip to Poopsie land. Then swim lesson day.

  My life is hell.

  *****

  It’s a hot, sunny day. The sky is bright blue and cloudless. At least a hundred little girls in bathing suits are milling around the pool’s cement deck. The boys’ swim lessons are held later. Some girls, like Doodles, are excited to be here, chatting happily with whoever will listen. Some are nervous, clinging to their mothers’ legs. All are under the age of twelve and most are less than three feet tall. Then there’s me. Me sitting alone at the shallow end of the pool, pretending I’m not mortified to be in the Non-swimmer class with kindergartners and preschoolers sitting all around me. I suspect the little girl to my left is wearing swimmy diapers. At least I don’t wear swimmy diapers.

  I wish Raina would hurry up. She’s taking forever in the changing room, even though she already had her bathing suit on under her clothes.

  Instructors in blue suits are starting to show up. They’re claiming groups of little girls as their students and getting them to line up in neat rows along the pool’s edge. Doodles waves at me as she’s herded into a line. She’s in Beginner One because she’s comfortable going underwater. Big shot.

  Thank God Raina’s in my class too. Where is she?

  Crap. I see Trish Crowdly in a tiny blue bikini. Definitely one of the last people I want to see right now.

  She and I have a past, and not a good one. Picture this: It’s fifth grade, and Trish is in the back of the schoolyard showing the hot pink strap of her new thong to a crowd of shocked and impressed kids. I roll my eyes and Trish says to me, “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  I say, “Why would I be jealous that you stick things up your butt?”

  The kids all laugh and Trish looks hurt. I feel bad until suddenly Trish yanks down my shorts, and there I am for all the world to see, wearing my high-waisted green Telly Tubbies panties. Telly Tubbies were a silly fad in fourth grade, but by fifth they are out. Not cool. Not cool at all.

  Trish squeals with delight and says, “Cool underwear, Tubby Butt.”

  All I can do is pull up my shorts and run.

  Trish continued to call me Tubby Butt for the rest of fifth and sixth grade. In middle school, if I saw her at lunch or in the halls, she’d whisper something to her friends and they’d all stare at me and crack up.

  But whatever, right? That’s ancient history.

  Still, I look away from her now, trying not to think about what I must look like sitting here in my green bikini with its little ruffles around the waist and top. I try to relax. I even smile at the little Diaper Genie next to me, who sticks out her tongue.

  Why did I ever agree to come?

  Oh yeah. Guilt. Mom laid it on big time. She said we can’t get our money back on this one. And I said they should have asked me first. She said I shouldn’t waste money, especially now. That shut me up. Still, Dad had to put in his two cents. “Sangeet,” he said, “you will listen to your mom. No arguments. Why can’t you be like your cousin? Just look at Raina. She isn’t complaining. These lessons are important to her too.”

  As if it’s somehow my fault she didn’t learn to swim. You’d think with the hot climate and three-quarters of the country surrounded by ocean, everyone in India would be Olympic swim team material. But no. Apparently Sikh parents there don’t want their daughters to be seen in bathing suits. Raina’s mom, however, heard in the US everybody swims. She figured this was a chance for Raina to pick up the basics for safety’s sake. Safety: the parental obsession.

  “Anyway,” my dad said, “it is just lessons. This isn’t the end of the world.”

  He’s wrong. It is. It’s five mornings a week for six weeks. For me, that’s six long weeks of absolute terror. Okay, it may seem stupid that a nearly 17-year-old girl is so afraid of a little water. But I swear I come by this fear honestly. I was even younger than Diaper Genie when I tried to catch a butterfly that fluttered near the edge of a hotel pool. When it flew straight over the deep end, in I went, and down down down. Straight to the bottom.

  I remember looking up at the lens of day above me. Seeing that butterfly, that angel of death, fly out of sight. Clawing my little hands toward the unreachable air. Unable to save myself. Panicked and helpless.

  “Hey, you’re all sweaty.” It’s Diaper Genie. “P.U.”

  I wipe sweat from my upper lip with a shaking hand and splash some water from the pool on my face. I’m not that afraid of water.

  “Hey, it is you,” someone says.

  Oh God, it’s Trish pushing aside some kids to sit next to me.

  Run! Hide! “Uh, yeah.”

  “Well at least there’s a familiar face around here,” Trish says. “First days are tough.”

  She’s civil. I’m shocked. “You’re in this class too?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Isn’t that great?”

  Maybe I was wrong about Trish. I mean, how well do I really know her? We’ve all grown and changed since fifth grade, right? Now she seems pretty friendly. And she can’t swim either.

  “I’m only doing this because my dad says he’ll cut me off if I don’t learn to be responsible,” she says and rolls her eyes. “He should talk. What’s your story?”

  “My parents too,” I say. “Especially my dad. He—”

  She grabs my arm, her sharp manicured nails pinching my skin. “Don’t look now, but I see my future husband.”

  I do look. There is a Roman god by the deep end of the pool. There’s no other way to describe him. Short curly brown hair. Dark olive skin. Muscle magazine chest. He’s wearing baggy blue guard shorts. I realize it’s a guy named Cameron Cerulli. He’s in the same year as Hari, and while they aren’t friends, I’ve definitely noticed him over the years at sports events and things like that.

  And I’m definitely noticing him now. The hairs on my arms stand on end and my scalp tingles. I’m feeling sparks. Serious sparks. They are practically shooting from my fingertips.

  “He’s in college,” Trish says. “And he’s mine.”

  “Oh.” The sparks fizzle and sputter like they’ve been doused with a bucket of cold water. “How long have you been going out with him?”

  “We haven’t actually met yet. But I always get what I want. Don’t look now!”

  More Roman gods? My eyes are all over the place.

  But Trish says, “Loser at ten o’clock,” and points to the left.

  My heart sinks. It’s Raina stepping out of the changing room. She looks unbelievably awkward in a stretched out faded red one-piece that even my grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in. Maybe that suit was my grandmother’s! As she comes nearer, I notice that her legs are covered with fine dark hair. I ache for her.

  “What the hell is she wearing?” Trish says, shedding all remains of kindness.

  “It’s not so bad,” I lie.

  “Don’t tell me she’s coming over here. Is she some girl’s baby-sitter or something?”

  Raina approaches us, kneels beside me, and hunches low as if to hide her hideous suit. “Sorry if I am late.”

  “Parents and sitters have to leave the area during lessons,” Trish says.

  Raina nods.

  “Okay, girls,” Trish says, hopping into the pool. The water only comes up to her knees. “Let’s get lessons started.”

  I get this horrible sink-to-the-bottom-of-the-pool feeling. But she couldn’t be, could she?

  Chapter 7

  “Sang, you take the girls on the left of you. I’ll take the rest,” Trish says and smiles.

  Trish is the instructor. My instructor. God no! Come one and all to witness the supreme humiliation of Sangeet Tubby Butt Jumnal.

  The little girls smile back. One by one they drop into the pool. I reluctantly step in. Then Raina does too.

  “Everybody join hands for ‘Ring Around the Rosie,” Trish says, grinning at each child one by one, till she gets to Raina. “Listen, you have to go. This is for students only. You can wait out in the park.” />
  “Oh,” Raina says. “Sorry, but I am a student.”

  “You’re what?” Trish doesn’t bother to hide her chuckle. “Okay, then.” She rolls her eyes at me as if to say, can you believe her? Now I know for certain that not only is Trish an instructor, but she thinks I am too.

  Soon we are singing, “Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies.” This isn’t so bad. We’re going around in a circle. Some of the girls seem a little worried. Others are really into it, singing loudly and jumping with every step. No big deal. I’ll just get through this lesson and never show up again. If I ever see Trish after this, I’ll tell her I decided the job was lame and quit.

  “Ashes, ashes,” the girls sing. “We all fall down!”

  “Come on, girls, down!” Trish says and dunks her head under the water. Some of the girls dutifully follow. Others stand rock solid. “Everybody, now.” Another girl goes under. Another.

  I stand rock solid.

  Raina holds her nose and dips underwater, emerging gasping and wiping her hair off her face.

  Three girls remain, not counting me.

  “Come on, ladies,” Trish says. “It’s easy. Isn’t it easy, Sang? Show them.”

  I don’t move.

  “I said, show them. Now.” Trish’s smile is cold.

  I can barely shake my head, can barely breathe. I feel Raina take my arm and lead me to sit on the pool steps.

  “Right. Well, while my assistant gets her act together, let’s play submarine.” Trish spreads her legs and the girls prepare to dive underneath them.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I look up and standing right behind me is Roman Delight Cameron Cerulli. Now I really can’t breathe. “I’m teaching with you,” he says to Trish. “Name’s Cameron.”

  Trish, the dozen teeny tiny non-swimmers, and probably every female on the planet all sigh at once. Cameron steps into the water, takes a kick board and starts pulling the kids around the pool. “That’s right,” he says. “Kick. Kick.” The girls fight to be next in line. Even Raina gets a spin. Suddenly every girl, even the most timid or awkward, is smiling and giving their best effort.

  “Hah,” Trish says to me. “Looks like you’re replaced, TB.”

  TB? I tilt my head to one side like Poopsie, trying to understand.

  Trish eyes Cameron like he’s dessert on a plate. “Seems my dad isn’t such an idiot after all. I’m going to actually like this job. Later, TB.”

  Oh. I get it now. Tubby Butt. Ha ha. I open my mouth but can’t seem to say anything.

  “So, Cameron,” Trish says, standing extremely close to him. “What’s next?”

  He smiles down at her.

  I clench my mouth shut and seethe at the unfairness of it all. Trish is this nasty skank, and yet she gets whatever she wants, including Cameron Cerulli.

  Time to cut my losses and disappear. I stand.

  Trish is saying, “Everyone line up on this side now. Come on—even you, Saggy Suit.”

  Raina seems absolutely miserable as she wades across the pool.

  “Her name’s Raina,” I say to Trish.

  “Whatever,” Trish says.

  I clench my fists.

  “So who’s first?” Cameron is saying.

  Raina bravely steps forward, but Trish gives her a shove back. “Why don’t you try me first?” Trish says with a seductive smile and runs a fingernail across Cameron’s bicep.

  “I’m next!” I say, surprised at myself. I hop into the water.

  Cameron smirks. “What’s your name, little girl?”

  “Sang, sir,” I say and give him the dimple smile.

  “But she’s not in this class,” Trish says. “Tell him.”

  “Actually, I am,” I whisper. “I’m terrified of water.”

  “Wow,” he says. “Really?” I nod. “We’ll just have to teach you to love it then.” He gives me a warm smile, takes my hand and leads me into the center of the shallow section.

  I feel a thrill at his touch. Best of all, I can practically feel the water steam around Trish, who is burning up with rage. I imagine Cameron holding me in his arms, and Trish’s anger becoming so red hot the entire pool evaporates, leaving everyone flopping around the blue cement bottom like a bunch of stranded fish.

  “You’ll be fine,” Cameron is saying to me. “You just have to stick with it.”

  I stare deeply into his soulful brown eyes. “Oh, I will,” I say. “It’s a promise.”

  Chapter 8

  After the swim lesson, I feel a little closer to Raina. But when we get back to my room, I can’t think of anything to say to her. This is stupid, because she’s my cousin. And she’s not like my cousin Maria on my mom’s side—the one I see once a year around Christmas who begrudgingly will sit next to me watching TV while all the adults yak in the kitchen. This is my Indian cousin. My sister.

  I can think of some things I’d like to say. Like, would she consider wearing a new bathing suit and shaving her legs? Because I could definitely help her out. Or I could ask her why she was crying last night, even though I’m pretty sure it was about Taoji. But maybe she wasn’t crying about Taoji. When you get down to it, I don’t really know her at all.

  After Raina changes out of her swimsuit, she helps Mom unload and reload the dishwasher. “Are you watching your cousin?” my dad asks. He’s sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea and reading from a thick textbook for an educator’s course he’s taking over the summer.

  “Yes, Dad. I see,” I say.

  Later, while I’m lounging on the couch reading a magazine, Raina brings up the laundry and puts the folded towels away in the bathroom closet. After she comes in from hanging all of our damp pool towels on the line to dry, Dad says “That’s a good girl,” to her.

  I visit Poopsie and there are no more poops on the floor. Maybe she was just upset over Mrs. Schnapps leaving. I snap on her leash and walk her around the unfenced yard. After we come in, I snuggle with her on Mrs. Schnapps’ red velvet sofa in the living room. She rests her fuzzy chin on my knee, which is really sweet.

  “You’re lucky you’re a dog, you know that?”

  Poopsie blinks at me.

  “Seriously. You already know how to doggie paddle, so you’ll never have to suffer the misery of swim lessons. You don’t have to deal with annoying parents because, well, who knows where yours are right now.” The dog sighs. “Oh. No offense. Also, you can sleep all day, and you don’t have to worry about what your clothes or your hair look like. As for love? Well, you seem pretty content to me.” I scratch behind her ears. “Really, if you could just use a toilet instead of having to go outside in front of everyone, you’d have it completely made.” I give her a hug and set her down. “Well, see you later.” I pick up the key from the foyer table.

  Poopsie gives me those sad little puppy eyes, practically breaking my heart. So I grab the leash again. “How about a field trip?”

  “No, Sang. Absolutely not,” Mom says when I try to bring Poopsie upstairs to my own room. She’s planted herself on the steps with her arms crossed.

  “Come on, Mom. She’s adorable. And she’s lonely.”

  “Dogs are dirty and smelly.”

  “Aw, look at her, Mom.” I pick Poopsie up. “She’s not dirty or smelly.”

  Mom backs up a step. “She’s going back home. If she’s lonely, spend time with her at Mrs. Schnapps’ house.”

  “But look how cute she is.” I hold Poopsie closer to Mom.

  Mom holds up her hands. “Get her out.”

  “Mom, are you afraid of her?”

  “No.” Mom gives a nervous laugh and smoothes her frizzy hair. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Then I guess you’re just heartless.” I hug the dog tight and take her back to the Schnapps’.

  When I return, I find Raina and Dad sitting side by side on the living room couch looking at a photo album. This reminds me of when I was little and used to snuggle with him in that same spot while he’d read to me. I especially loved hearing the t
ranslated stories from The Jataka Tales, which is like an Indian version of Aesop’s Fables.

  Raina and Dad are listening to one of Dad’s old cassettes of screechy Punjabi tunes sung in a nasal voice. They are laughing as they flip through the album. “Just look at your father,” Dad says.

  “That’s Papa?” Raina chuckles. “He’s so slim.”

  “Well, that’s long before he met your mother and she started filling his belly with her delicious pakoras. I don’t suppose you know her recipe.”

  “I could ask her, Uncle-ji. And I would be happy to cook them up.”

  I clear my throat to get their attention, but the tabla drums on the cassette drown me out. “That’s just what we need around here,” Dad is saying. “Some good Indian food. If you get the list together, I’ll go to Patel’s—the Indian market. In fact, you should come with me. It’s a distance, but then you can shop for some of the things that will remind you of home. And we can get mangoes. They aren’t as good as the ones in India, though. I really miss those. And listen, Channel Thirty-five has Bollywood movies on Saturdays. We can watch them together. I wouldn’t want you to get homesick.”

  “No, Uncle-ji,” she says and gives a sad smile. “Who are these other people in the picture?” She points to the album. She and Dad start chattering away in Punjabi. I stand there, the outsider. Maybe this is how Grandma feels when she’s around my Indian relatives.

  “Hello,” I say, loud enough to be heard above the droning singer.

  “Sangeet. Join us,” Dad says. I move a cushion aside and squeeze in next to him, while he lists the people in the black and white snapshot. “That’s me,” he says, pointing to a teen wearing a tacky striped shirt, tight pants, and platform shoes. His face is covered with a peach-fuzz beard and he’s wearing a patka, which is like a scarf covering up his bun of hair. Sikhs traditionally don’t cut their hair, and the boys and men both pull it up into a knot on their heads. But while the men cover this with a turban, the boys only wear the patka, a half-turban. Of course, now there’s nothing traditional about my dad, who has a shaved face and short hair. And an American wife.