“Weird question: Did you guys have to submit a photo with your college applications?” I ask. I’m wearing a two-piece black tankini that shows only a sliver of skin between top and bottom, though my mom suggested I borrow one of her sexy white suits that has full side cutouts and connects in the middle with a gold O. Even in this one, I feel naked and exposed, and I hold myself low in the bucket curve of the raft.

“Of course not,” Shola says.

“Not like a head shot or anything. Though I think we might have put one in my athletic profile, of me in my fencing gear,” Levi says, and then without even being discreet about it, he checks out my mother, who strides over in a tiny, hot-pink bikini, cell phone pressed to her ear.

At least she didn’t wear her thong.

“Right,” I say.

“Hold on, Candy,” my mom says into the phone, and then she stops in front of me. Her toes are also painted a hot pink, and she wears a thin ankle bracelet and the sort of leather sandal you’d imagine came from a beach vendor in Mallorca, though they really came from Barneys. Her face is swallowed by enormous sunglasses and a giant straw hat—my mother takes no chances with sun damage. My guess is that the swimsuit and accessories and shoes and even the nail polish were all bundled together in her closet and labeled pool day by her stylist. “Sweetheart, don’t forget we have a conference call with Dr. Wilson in half an hour.”

“I couldn’t forget if I wanted to. Carrie put five different alarm reminders on my calendar,” I say, and blow out a puff of air. Most of the time, I’m happy to be the daughter of Joy Fields, and for all the privileges that come along with it. Today, I’d prefer she took herself elsewhere.

“Thank God for Carrie,” she says, and then into the phone: “Thanks again for the Dr. Wilson reco. That man’s a miracle worker.”

“Who’s Dr. Wilson?” Shola asks after my mother has finally walked away. My mom lounges on the opposite end of the pool, far enough away that we can’t hear her chatting away to Aunt Candy, but close enough that we can see the long expanse of her tanned legs. “You okay?” Shola asks, redirecting my attention. She drops her voice to a whisper so Levi can’t hear. “Is this about your ladyparts?”

“My ladyparts are fine, thank you very much,” I whisper back. Then in my normal voice: “He’s my college admissions counselor.”

“Isn’t Mrs. Oh everyone’s college admissions counselor?” Shola asks.

“Yeah, but my parents hired him privately. To help ‘package’ me.” I do gross air quotes and roll my eyes, to signal to her that I realize the whole thing is ridiculous.