4 McKenna
McKenna
Pacing along the edge of the pool, I monitor the movements of my student, six-year-old Eloise Lowell, who’s diligently working
on her backstroke.
“Chicken, airplane, soldier!” I call down to her, reminding her of the positions for her arms.
Though it’s only May, it’s a picture-perfect, eighty-five-degree Saturday. The chairs on the pool patio are mostly empty,
but bulging stacks of fluffy towels wait in cubbies for any club member who wants to settle on a chaise or take a dip. There
are still a few weeks before Long Island’s local schools will let out for summer, but I’ve already gotten six students signed
up for private lessons.
“Wait,” Eloise says, stopping mid-stroke and treading water. She looks up at me through iridescent goggles. “Miss McKenna,
which one’s soldier again?”
“Soldier is arms down.” I mimic a soldier standing at attention, clamping my arms firmly into my sides. “Ten-hut!”
She giggles, showing off the empty space in her mouth where two front teeth used to be, and I break character to grin back at her. Then I squat down so I’m closer to her level. “You were already doing it right though, kid. No need to alter anything.”
Her smile grows wider at the praise, and I realize I’m enjoying teaching more than I expected. Though, TBH, the money’s still
my favorite part.
“Can you tell my mom?” Eloise asks. “She promised I could learn water-skiing at my dad’s beach house once I got better at
swimming.”
Beach house. Right.
Because the country club, private swim lessons, and god knows what else just aren’t enough for these people.
I remind myself not to be petty, that even people who can afford fancy cars and boating excursions have difficult things to
deal with sometimes. My mind lurches to Glory and the websites I was reading last night about memory loss, but I’ve got to
stay focused on Eloise.
“You got it,” I say. “Can you high-five me without sinking?” I lean forward and hold up a hand.
Eloise is just finishing her last lap when her mom, Ainsley Lowell, approaches. The woman’s got a yoga mat under one arm and
a cash tip in the manicured hand she holds out to me.
“Thanks, McKenna. She has such a blast with you.” Ainsley lifts her designer sunglasses, pushing them onto her head like a headband to hold back her blond beach waves as she looks up at me.
I must be a solid six or seven inches taller than she is, and while I’ve never been particularly vain about my own chlorine-damaged, brassy blond hair, standing across from someone so perfectly made-up makes me feel particularly drab.
At least I have my high, angular cheekbones to “pretty me up,” as my mom used to say whenever I complained about my broad shoulders and towering height.
“She’s really talented, Mrs. Lowell,” I say as I shove the cash into the pocket of my swim shorts. “I’m happy to be working
with her.” And I mean it. Teaching wasn’t something I thought I’d enjoy, but it turns out it’s not so different from nursing,
which has always been my dream. Both jobs involve making people more comfortable in different ways. Hopefully I’ll be able
to keep the teaching position all summer, but my thoughts return to the letter from the scholarship committee, and I’m not
so sure.
She smiles warmly at me and says, “Well, she must get it from her dad, because I don’t have an athletic bone in my body. It’s
a wonder I’ve even figured out downward dog.” She wiggles the yoga mat she’s holding, the gold bracelets on her wrist jingling
in rhythm with her movements. A few other women are now settling in around the pool, kicking off their designer sandals and
opening magazines. I assume they came from the same workout class. “I just enjoy the peacefulness,” she adds. “So soothing
after my mornings at the network.”
I know from my boss, Kathleen, that Ainsley Lowell is a well-regarded local news anchor.
“I’m glad it works out for you to get the quiet time while Eloise is busy.”
“Please.” She smiles, showcasing her perfect teeth again. “It’s amazing for Ellie to have you as her teacher. A female collegiate
athlete excelling in so many areas of your life. You’re the perfect role model.”
I hate getting called a role model, always have.
As if I’m not under enough pressure without worrying about how my actions affect the next generation of young girls.
Her words threaten to wake my inner rage, the feelings I sometimes can’t get ahold of.
But I know my place here, so I just say what I should.
“I’m lucky to have the opportunity to be here this summer. ”
“As far as I’m concerned, we’re all winning,” she says.
With the folded bills weighing down my shorts, and more students slated for lessons today, I can’t help but agree.
Eloise climbs out of the pool, offering me another soggy high five before turning toward the changing room and calling out,
“See you Tuesday, Miss McKenna!”
I wave goodbye and head over to Kathleen, who’s seated at one of the patio tables. She’s dressed in her usual work attire,
sleek black Bermuda shorts and sensible black sandals that look more appropriate for my grandmother than a woman who can’t
be more than thirty-five. Tucked into her shorts is a club-regulation seafoam-green polo shirt, embossed with the cursive
H and crisscrossed golf clubs of the Hollyhock logo. A ponytail that barely reaches the top of her back completes her no-nonsense
look.
A few of the other patio tables are occupied by members who’ve just finished morning tennis or card games.
It’s relatively quiet here, but Kathleen has warned me I should brace myself.
Once June arrives, she says, the club will be at max capacity seven days a week, dawn till dusk.
I don’t feel particularly worried as I look over the sprawling spaces around us, from the great lawn beside the patio that slopes down toward a forest of trees, to the children’s playground at the bottom of the hill, currently empty except for one toddler and her mother.
There’s plenty of room to fill. Next to the playground is a Har-Tru basketball court, where three middle-aged men are emitting a chorus of grunts as they shoot around.
And then behind us there’s the golf course, which extends farther than the eye can see.
Kathleen is biting into an onion ring as I plop down in the plastic chair beside her and reach for the other food container
on the table.
“Love to see it.” She fixes me with a good-natured smirk.
“See what?” In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve already learned that teasing is Kathleen’s favorite way to communicate.
“‘See you Tuesday, Miss McKenna!’” She mimics Eloise in a singsong voice. “That poor little girl has a total hero-worship
thing for you.” She laughs. “Or is it a coincidence that she showed up in a red Speedo just like yours? And her hair?”
Eloise did have her hair in a high ponytail just like mine, complete with a single skinny braid pulled into it, which is kind
of my signature look.
“Whatever,” I say before taking a too-big bite of my tuna melt. I hate the thought of any young kid wanting to be just like
me. It makes me want to chase after Eloise and tell her all my secrets, starting with how my discipline was born of survival,
not joy. “Definite coincidence,” I add through a mouthful of sandwich, and then I hear my mom’s voice in my head reprimanding
me for speaking with food in my mouth. If she were here, she’d be reminding me that nobody asked for the ingredients of my
lunch. Then again, if she were here, my whole life would be different.
I grab a napkin from the little dispenser on the table and hastily wipe my lips. “Sorry,” I say, as much to Kathleen as to
my dead mom.
“Don’t be sorry to me.” Kathleen shrugs amiably.
“If the cool new college girl on staff can get more kids into the pool, I’m not complaining.
Everyone’s always so focused on golf and tennis around here.
Makes a person feel bad, seeing that stunning swimming pool sitting empty one sunny day after another.
” She shakes her head musingly. “At least it’ll get some use during mini-camp. ”
The club’s summer camp is a three-hour-a-day program, during which members’ kids rotate between swim instruction, tennis lessons,
and sports on the lawn before getting together for lunch at the snack bar. Afterward, a few campers go on to private golf
lessons with their parents’ favorite pros, and the rest head off to playdates or naptime.
Even though it’s my first year here, I’ve somehow been given the title of “swim director” for the camp. I’ll have one additional
swim instructor helping me with thirty kids, plus a rotation of lifeguards. Somewhere in there, I’ll need to figure out when
I can sneak away to complete my community service hours. Coach hasn’t mentioned it again, but those bullies on Meadowbrook’s
awards committee sent an official letter saying that if I don’t complete the forty hours before the start of next semester,
they’ll cancel my remaining scholarship money.