Late Night Swim
written by Bailey Brook, a Warrior of Writing
It was a hot and humid Tuesday night, that summer before 9th grade, when Emily and I snuck into the Pasadena Public Swimming Pool (nicknamed the “PP” pool for several, legitimate reasons). The pool closes at five p.m. weeknights and all the crew members have fled by seven, so my friend and I decided to go for a swim. Last summer we went on a rampage, a record breaking four times in two weeks. We paraded around town going to parties and bragging about how cool we were that we could hop the six foot plastic fence that said “Do not enter after:” and then listed the hours of operation. Needless to say we were very pleased with ourselves.
It was the same summer that Emily’s father had left and she was stranded with her devastated mom and bratty 12 year-old brother, Henry. I thought it was time she had a break and time to relax and have fun, break a few rules. So that’s how the two of us ended up outside the gate of the PP Pool that night, alone under the yellow light of the street lamps. I helped my vertically challenged friend over the fence and then deftly hopped over it myself. Once on the other side, everything was different. We dropped our backpacks and tore off our cover-ups, rushing to the pool like the escape convicts of misery that we were. We stood at the edge of the deep blue abyss with our toes hanging over the edge. We were both silent, looking at our chipped toe nail polish waiting for the inevitable. Finally, she pushed me in. With a squeal of delight, I went under. The water surrounded me and everything was suddenly okay. The troubles of the world were gone and I was weightless, sinking deeper in the weightless water. I surfaced to find my friend giggling, clapping her hands together with amusement. I pulled her in after me and we splashed around, racing from one end of the pool to the other. It was the fun that she and I both needed after a stressful summer. After a good hour or so, I pulled myself up onto the ledge of the pool, breathing heavily. I was on the school’s swim team, but even that can’t prepare you for the workout of a good round of roughhousing with a friend. I laid out on the cement, still warm from the sun even hours after it had set. Night was upon us and I knew it was time to leave. Emily and I packed up our things and began walking to the fence. I stopped at the fence and set down my bag so my hands could be free to help Emily hop over it. I sighed, exhausted and eager to get home to my bed. I spun around on my heels as a blood-curdling scream erupted from behind me. The scene that followed I will never forget. Emily was kneeling on the ground, sobbing with her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth. In the pool floated a dead body. The body was Emily’s father. The police never figured out what happened. But I knew. I still know. I’m going to keep it that way. Emily deserves to think it was cruel, cold-blooded murder. She shouldn’t know about who her father really was. She deserves a better father than that.
Emily and I don’t go late night swimming anymore.
It was a hot and humid Tuesday night, that summer before 9th grade, when Emily and I snuck into the Pasadena Public Swimming Pool (nicknamed the “PP” pool for several, legitimate reasons). The pool closes at five p.m. weeknights and all the crew members have fled by seven, so my friend and I decided to go for a swim. Last summer we went on a rampage, a record breaking four times in two weeks. We paraded around town going to parties and bragging about how cool we were that we could hop the six foot plastic fence that said “Do not enter after:” and then listed the hours of operation. Needless to say we were very pleased with ourselves.
It was the same summer that Emily’s father had left and she was stranded with her devastated mom and bratty 12 year-old brother, Henry. I thought it was time she had a break and time to relax and have fun, break a few rules. So that’s how the two of us ended up outside the gate of the PP Pool that night, alone under the yellow light of the street lamps. I helped my vertically challenged friend over the fence and then deftly hopped over it myself. Once on the other side, everything was different. We dropped our backpacks and tore off our cover-ups, rushing to the pool like the escape convicts of misery that we were. We stood at the edge of the deep blue abyss with our toes hanging over the edge. We were both silent, looking at our chipped toe nail polish waiting for the inevitable. Finally, she pushed me in. With a squeal of delight, I went under. The water surrounded me and everything was suddenly okay. The troubles of the world were gone and I was weightless, sinking deeper in the weightless water. I surfaced to find my friend giggling, clapping her hands together with amusement. I pulled her in after me and we splashed around, racing from one end of the pool to the other. It was the fun that she and I both needed after a stressful summer. After a good hour or so, I pulled myself up onto the ledge of the pool, breathing heavily. I was on the school’s swim team, but even that can’t prepare you for the workout of a good round of roughhousing with a friend. I laid out on the cement, still warm from the sun even hours after it had set. Night was upon us and I knew it was time to leave. Emily and I packed up our things and began walking to the fence. I stopped at the fence and set down my bag so my hands could be free to help Emily hop over it. I sighed, exhausted and eager to get home to my bed. I spun around on my heels as a blood-curdling scream erupted from behind me. The scene that followed I will never forget. Emily was kneeling on the ground, sobbing with her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth. In the pool floated a dead body. The body was Emily’s father. The police never figured out what happened. But I knew. I still know. I’m going to keep it that way. Emily deserves to think it was cruel, cold-blooded murder. She shouldn’t know about who her father really was. She deserves a better father than that.
Emily and I don’t go late night swimming anymore.