Free Saving Ruth by Zoe Fishman

brother David with his apple cheeks and blue eyes, his wet hair matted to his perfectly round skull.
    â€œHi,” I replied, handing him the next lane. I’d just witnessed David’s first non-scowl since I’d been home.
    â€œRemember when we would play ‘Abyss’?”
    â€œOf course.” We had seen that movie on TV when we were kids, and it had become the basis for that summer’s obsession. David and I would swim out to the deep end with a handful of quarters and make ourselves at home by the diving blocks, pretending that we were ocean divers at risk of death by water monster. The quarters became the treasure we had to retrieve despite our horrible odds, and we would earnestly watch them plummet to the bottom in a shiny haze. Then, whoever’s turn it was to dive would strap on goggles, give a stern nod to the other, and grab the block’s handle before arching into a back dive.
    â€œSo did we just pretend that there was a monster lurking, or did one of us actually play the role?”
    David shook his head with a smile. “You know, I’m not sure. I think we just pretended that we were in danger. We never played with anyone else, right?”
    â€œNo way. It was our own private geek-out game.”
    â€œDo you think any of these kids have any imagination anymore? Or are they all just too computer-and-cell-phone-ed out to bother?” he asked.
    I handed him a rope. “I wonder about that all the time.”
    â€œI’m sure Mom and Dad worried about that with us. The next generation must always seem so out of touch with the world you grew up in, you know?” He dunked his head, and then resurfaced.
    I couldn’t remember the last time we had reminisced. The key was to not make a big fuss about it and scare him off. I wondered if I should tell him about Chris. Not now—this moment was too fragile. The smallest crack in the glass and it would shatter. Better to wait.
    The gravel crunched in the parking lot as the parents rolled in to drop off their spawn. In a whirl of radio snippets and doors slamming, the perfect stillness of the morning was no more. David hooked the last lane, and I pushed the reel back against the wooden fence. It was time to put our coaching faces on.
    I approached my huddle of guppies. They bounced around in their bathing suits like lottery ping-pong balls, some with their goggles already in place, the blue lenses fogged by the humidity.
    â€œGood morning, team,” I greeted them.
    â€œGood morning, Coach Ruth!” they shouted back in unison as they all looked up at me. I felt like a giant version of myself, taller than the Empire State Building.
    â€œCoach Ruth, somebody smells like cigarettes,” declared Ali.
    â€œWell, Ali, cigarettes are disgusting, and they will kill you. And forget about being a good swimmer when you smoke.” Great, I was coaching The Bloodhound Gang.
    â€œI know.” Something about her tone seemed to suggest that she knew I was full of shit. Being judged by a six-year-old was a drag.
    I looked for David, wondering if he had taken off. The older kids practiced in the next hour, so he was free to roam. I liked it better when he took off. There was something about knowing he was watching me coach that made me nervous. I didn’t see him.
    â€œAll right, guys, let’s get this practice started already. To start, we’ll have the six-year-olds in lane two, the seven- and eight-year-olds in lane three, and the nine- and ten-year-olds in lane five.”
    â€œCoach Ruth, can you put my goggles back on me?” asked Ali.
    I suctioned them back onto her face. “There you go.”
    â€œThanks!” She turned from me and jumped into her lane, barely able to contain her excitement.
    â€œOkay, so we’re going to start with kickboards.” I retrieved them from the storage closet and handed them off. They were almost bigger than the kids themselves. “I’m