“Sometimes I want to trade bodies with you,” he says. “Like, if we both pee in the Bethesda fountain and hope for a body switch?” He flicks my midsection. “Like, dang . . . Seriously, how many sit-ups have you done this past week? A million?”

“I simply have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.

By the time we find Cori standing near the refreshments, looking perplexed at her red Solo cup, Ming and I have already taken one group photo and been part of two live videos. She’s wearing a one-piece under a jean jacket, heart-shaped sunglasses, and judging from the bulging pockets, I’d bet there are two paperback novels on her. She’s not as exposed as most of the other kids, but she’s not standing out either, which is just another way of fitting in.

“It’s supposed to smell that way,” Ming explains as we join her. “Marvyn bought like fourteen cases of the old, battery-acid-level-caffeinated Four Loko out of Jersey before it went off market. Completely different from the current sparkling water that’s on the shelves now. It won’t make you hurl later, but it does taste like the sort of thing that would make you hurl later.”

“Not to mention they expired years ago,” I add.

Corinne looks down at her cup, shuts her eyes, and then chugs it.

“Dang,” Ming comments.

“Carpe Vinum,” she says. “‘Seize the wine,’ if I’m remembering my Latin elective.” She checks her watch. “Is this considered ‘fashionably late,’ or are you just always late, Haltiwanger?”

“He’s always late,” Ming answers before I can mutter a comeback. “Halti 101: always factor in a fifteen-minute buffer. It’s annoying as hell at first, but eventually, it becomes part of his charm.”

Corinne smiles, and I can tell that a bullet point has just been added to the flash card in Corinne’s head.

“I don’t like the two of you becoming friends,” I stipulate. “It does not suit my lifestyle, like, at all.”

Corinne suddenly raises her sunglasses over her head, framing her wall of curls as she narrows her eyes at me, making no effort to hide the fact that she is brazenly eyeballing my torso. She takes an uncomfortably close step forward. Well, not uncomfortable but sudden, very sudden.

“Um . . . Can I help you?”

“Are you wearing baby oil?” she asks.

It takes a good five minutes for Ming to physically stop laughing. After a brutal cross-examination and only partial exoneration—I have dry chest skin; it’s absolutely a thing—the three of us settle in by the pool. It’s probably not the most active way to navigate a Marvyn party, but hanging out with Ming and Cori, our legs plopped into the artificially warmed water, is pleasant and easy. I wonder if this is what the water near those sandy beaches from postcards feels like.