Free Swimming by Nicola Keegan Page A

obey anyway. Her sweater is swallowing her neck, her scarf is swallowing her head, her pants are swallowing her legs, her shoes are wondrously normal.
    Good-bye table good-bye mush good-bye old lady who says hush , she says.
    She’s been seeing southeastern Glenwood’s most popular psychologist, Benny Chap, who has an office above Fanny Farmer. You should explain this stuff to Benny Chap , I say, hacking up some more malted milk shards.
    Benny Chap would freak , she says, shading her eyes from a shaft of sun.
    He would not , I say carefully.
    She gives me a look. You don’t know him. I do know him. I dream I’m as thin as a sheet of paper .
    She is as thin as a sheet of paper, but I don’t mention it. Tell Benny Chap. He should definitely know about this paper … situation .
    I want to … but his head is so big compared to the rest of him … She sighs, stretches two broomsticks out in front of her, crossing them at the ankle.
    What’s his head … tell Benny Chap about the paper thing, Bron. I’m no good to talk to; you’ve said so a million times yourself .
    Have you taken a good look at his skin? She picks up a dry leaf and crushes it.
    What? I watch it fall through her fingers and onto the ground.
    Have you or have you not taken a good look at his skin? She picks up another dry leaf and crushes it.
    No. I have not . I watch it fall through her fingers and join the other one lying on the ground.
    She rolls her eyes, flipping them back toward mine, leans in close. Adolescent inflammatory acne … He’s scarred for life and it’s iffy waters for me, sis. Hit or miss. Sixty-forty. Come or go. Win or lose. Sad. That kind of thing. Mother sits in the waiting room reading Woman’s World … Oh how did it go, baby, she says, like I’ve been to the dentist. Yesterday I said: Fuck off, bay-bee, that’s how it went. And she didn’t say one word. And do you know why, Philomena dear? Other than the obvious reasons, of course . The tonal component of her debater’s voice is starting to shift, her face moving in too close. I start looking around for June. I indicate with my eyes that I do not know why Mom is suddenly accepting the F word. Then I sigh. Then I shrug. Then I concentrate all my energy into pulling June from wherever she is to here, where she isn’t.
    Because she knows I’m dead, stupid . Who gives a flying fart about a dead man’s vocabulary? A dead man can say whatever he wants to whomever he wants. Carte blanche, if you will. But it’s a sad, useless freedom .
    She looks at me, the debater in her singing in triumph.
    My mind is having difficulty churning out some sentences that don’t have a dead in them.
    She says: Duhhhh and laughs, suddenly light, putting one of her birdy fingers into the bag and pulling out a malted milk ball.
    Dr. Bob’s calculating my life exactly like he calculates how much fuel it will take to get to Florida. Old Chapologist knows. I saw him know it just like he knows no more hair will grow no matter how nice he is to his head … And, Dad, the poor dear … I’m not so sure about you, though. Does she or doesn’t she? Suspense, suspense . She slips the malted milk ball into her mouth. These taste like Styrofoam covered in wax .
    She has no eyelashes, which makes her eyes seem eggy.
    I try to pull Dot and Roxy over with my stare; there’s a little me inside each eyeball, jumping and waving like people at the scene of a bad accident. But their game is turning ugly. Dot’s pants have fallen to reveal a skinny ass sitting in a pair of skinny underwear; Roxanne’s hair is dripping with mean sweat. My mind turns to song under duress: You’ve got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative… . Song takes over, blending in with parts of Coach Stan’s speeches. I’m the worst debater in the family next to Dot, who’s erasing herself with goodness.
    Malted milk balls are good , I say. Just suck off the chocolate, then let that center thing melt .
    Look at me , she