I walked Emily into the pool area and, with the chlorinated heat rushing into my pores, smothering me, I felt the urge to strip down.

Desiree was already in the water, eyes heavily rimmed in black. Her trademark. Emily smiled brightly, let go of my hand, and sat on the ledge.

“Hey there, sweet pea,” Desiree said, patting the water with her hands, then grabbing Emily’s foot.

“Hi, Miss Dezzy.”

“Desiree,” I said, drawing her attention. “Can I talk to you after class?”

“Sure thing,” she said.

She had a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. The outline of a bird in flight. It was navy blue, not filled in, and the lines weren’t clean; it was probably inked in someone’s garage. I noticed it only because she’d skipped jewelry today. No rings, no string bracelets or bangles.

“I never noticed your tattoo.” It was a dumb thing to say. I blamed the sauna-baked air steam-cooking me to the temperature of slothfulness.

But Desiree was cool and unflappable. She smiled. “My mom liked birds. She died when I was a baby so I got this to remember her by.”

I knew that though, didn’t I? The way she spoke—carelessly, her words rough, her social cues off—she was the textbook description of a girl who grew up without a mom.

I left the glass room and its oppressive heat and sat in a chair aimed toward the pool. I shivered briefly, already longing for the heat.

As I watched the lesson, I hung on Desiree’s every movement, every smile, every wink, every time she touched one of the kids. There were four in her class.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Girl crush.

You have a girl crush.

No. It’s because she resembled Becky.

As I studied her face, her mannerisms, I tried to picture Becky. Had Becky thrown her chin back like that and opened her mouth when she laughed? Had Becky pinched her nose along the sides with both hands like that when she emerged from the water in the neighbors’ pool? Had Becky had those sharp canines?

Quit it with this. Thinking about Becky takes you to bad places.

There were other parents like me, sitting in rows of fold-out chairs, watching their kids. Some were giving their full attention to their phone. The other half had snuck out to sit in their car or run an errand.

In the back row by the changing rooms, two women wearing flip-flops and spaghetti straps, one with no bra, drank from thermoses and laughed too loud. The woman far to my left wore rubber boots and loose work pants. A few seats away to my right, two women wearing sundresses discussed plans for a fish-fry fundraiser for their church.