Candor by Pam Bachorz Page B

acid?” She laughs.
    “We aren’t big swimmers.” My voice cracks, and I have to look away. I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t cry. Don’t think about it.
    It helps until I open my eyes and see the brick patio. Old Chicago bricks, from our last place. I never understood why Mom made Dad bring them here.
    Dad cried the day they were delivered. That was the day he started playing the Messages.
    “What’s wrong?” Her voice is gentle.
    I bite the inside of my cheek. “Let’s talk over here.” I walk over and perch on the edge of a wicker lounge chair. But she doesn’t move.
    “You want to talk?” she says. “Then come put your feet in.”
    She stirs the water with her feet. Flashes of black-painted toe-nails. Pale skin, almost white under the water.
    I shake my head.
    “Sit,” she says. “That’s all.”
    So I sit next to her. I sit so close, our hips touch.
    “My name isn’t Mandi.” She edges away.
    “You want me to sit or not?” I meant to sound tough. But my voice cracks.
    She comes closer. “Put your feet in.”
    “I don’t swim.”
    Then she squeezes my hand tight, just once, and lets go. “I’ll keep you safe.”
    I’m nervous. So nervous I barely notice the five seconds of hand-holding.
    The water doesn’t own me. Nothing will happen. I can take care of myself.
    I kick off my sandals. Slide my feet into the pool. It’s warm. Soft. My muscles relax, just a little. “I never knew it was heated.”
    “It’s nice,” she says. “Dad filled my pool with a hose, when I was little. We got it for five bucks at the grocery store.”
    I risk a kick. Watch the water fly off my toes.
    “So you like my drawing?” she asks. Shy, for once.
    “It’s amazing.” I wish I could make something from nothing. But all I do is work the system. I take what’s been dealt and do my best.
    “I can teach you,” she says.
    “Don’t bother.” It’s not supposed to sound mean.
    But she bites her lip and looks away.
    I feel like I owe her an explanation. “My mother tried, for years. But my brother was the artistic one.”
    “You have a brother? Where do you keep him, under a rock?” She thumps one of the boulders. It makes a hollow thud.
    “I don’t have a brother. Not anymore.” Or ever, as far as anyone in Candor knows. I pull one foot out of the water and hug my knee close. I don’t know why I told her that.
    “Is that why you hate the water?” she asks.
    My legs feel heavy. Like they could pull the rest of me in the pool. And the rest of my body doesn’t care.
    I slide my foot back in.
    “I mean, I do have a brother.” It feels good to say it. I haven’t told anyone here about Winston. “But he’s dead.”
    Nia doesn’t say anything. Nothing about being sorry, or any of those other awkward things people said to me at the funeral. She just looks at me. Patient. Like she knows there’s more I want to say.
    There is more. It’s all been protected inside me. Waiting for someone to listen. Someone who won’t say I’m crazy.
    So I tell her.
    I tell her why we’d never used our diving board or gone in the pool. I tell her how I never got to open my birthday presents that day. We spent the day at the hospital. And then we went home, without him. Mom started crying. She never really stopped.
    Not until we moved here.
    When I finish, she finally speaks. “Do you hate him?”
    “No.” Yes, sometimes. “I miss him.”
    “Of course you miss him.” She shrugs. “But your whole life would have been different if he’d just done a cannonball.”
    “Or stayed out of the pool.”
    “Too boring.” Nia swirls the water with pointed toes.
    “You’re right. Winston didn’t know how to be boring.”
    I don’t hate him for that. But she’s right—sometimes I hate him for other things. For not being here. It feels like a broken promise. And sometimes I hate him for what happened after he died.
    “My mom left us because of him.” It comes out like a confession.
    “Why? He was already