Within/Without

chapter seventeen.

Simon - May 2013

It was summer the day I realized I was in love with her.

We'd finished ninth grade and officially not been freshmen for three days, so naturally a good half of our grade was congregated at the neighborhood public pool to strut our new falsified superiority. I was only there because one of my friends—Jun's friends, I should say—had insisted I get out of my house and enjoy myself a while. Nevertheless, I claimed a chair by the deep end and didn't move from it. I worried the hours away underneath a rickety wooden umbrella, reading Hemingway, taking in all the scents of summer: sunscreen, chlorine, overly saccharine lemonade.

The other kids took risky dives off the diving board or did flips underwater or played sharks and minnows. I sat quietly, by myself. I did that even when we were in school.

When she arrived at the pool, at first I didn't notice her. She must have blended in with the swarms of other girls sporting their newest bikinis, giggling over things I'd likely never know. I guess I'd never pegged Val as the sort of girl who'd be into majorly social stuff like this. I guess I'd always thought she was quiet, reserved, like me. Or maybe I just wanted her to be.

I kept thumbing through the novel. Soon enough the sun was glaring into my eyes, however, and I could hardly focus on the words.

A shadow fell over me. "You know, most people our age come to the pool to swim, Jun."

I folded the book closed over a finger, looking up. Val stood at the edge of my chair, hands on her hips. Her dark hair was bountifully curly, already dripping with pool water. She smelled like honeydew and everything fresh and springlike. As usual, I was mesmerized.

"Our age?" I repeated.

Val frowned at me and sat down on the edge of the chair. That was when I realized she rather didn't blend in with the rest of the girls: she was in knee-length denim shorts and a tankini. It could have been a matter of style, but somehow, I knew it wasn't. I knew it was the words I couldn't keep other people from saying. I knew it was the beauty of her skin that she didn't seem to see.

I wanted to say something. So badly. But every word felt like the wrong one.

Val took the book from me with caution, careful to keep my place. She squinted at the cover. "The Sun Also Rises," she read, and added, "Hemingway," with a distinct nod of approval.

I smile a little, despite myself. "You know it?"

She raked her hair behind her ear. "Duh. I read it last year."

"Oh."

"I'd never peg you as one for cynicism," Val told me, returning the book to me. She lifted herself up on one knee, as if preparing to stand up again. "You seem like such an optimist, Jun."

I scoffed. "Me? An optimist?"

"It's not so insane. It's just the way you act. The way you look at things," said Val with a shrug. Before I knew it, she was on her feet, further away from me than I wanted. "Everything you say? Everything you do? It's like you're thanking the world for giving you life. I used to think it was weird. A lot of people still do think it's weird."

I hesitated, raking a strand of black hair away from my face. "And what do you think now?"

"I think," said Val, and then she cocked her head, like she was genuinely considering it, "I think I wish I had whatever it is that you have."

No, I thought, but didn't say, because she had already bounded back over to her friends near the edge of the pool. You wouldn't, if you knew.

I realized then just what to call that odd feeling. That something that always drew me towards her, whether I knew it or not. I realized it was love, at the same time I realized it—and I—was screwed.

Most of the time I didn't wish for things I knew I couldn't have.

But that was the one time I let myself wish I had only one skin.