We met the next day at seven A.M. in front of an old, Gothicstyle gymnasium off Landis Green. I was hardly awake and had bought a cup of coffee along the way that was still too hot to drink. Frankie was so wound up, he couldn’t stand still. He led me down a darkened stone stairwell to a locker room in the basement, where we changed into our suits. As kids, we’d shared a bedroom and had gotten undressed in front of each other countless times. But suddenly I felt self-conscious about my soft stomach and sunken chest. Frankie was clearly in better shape. His shoulders and chest had the definition of someone who exercised. His stomach was so tight, it looked like bongo skin stretched over his hips.

We walked down another flight, from the locker room to an enormous pool sectioned with lane dividers and flanked by high, caged windows just beginning to glow with morning light. I commented that the entire building seemed to be empty. “It won’t be,” he said, slipping into the pool. He pushed off the wall with the grace of an Olympic swimmer.

I was anything but athletic. I loathed sports, which were drenched in a sense of competition I was unsuited for. But I wasn’t about to be shown up by my little brother when it came to something as basic as swimming. I inched down into the water and drifted away from the wall. My arms slapped at the surface; my legs scissored to little effect. Frankie was already at the far wall, waiting for me. As I grabbed hold of the ledge, he said something about keeping my arms close to my body. “Uh-huh,”

I gasped, as if I knew that and was just trying something different, this one time. I struggled back to our starting point, and managed another lap, while Frankie glided from one wall to the other, over and over again, like a porpoise in captivity. I felt vaguely nauseated as I climbed out of the pool.

When he was finished, I followed him back to the locker room, where we stripped off our suits and stepped into an open shower. “I’m out of shape,” I said, my hands brushing against my stomach.

Frankie was sanding a bar of soap against his head. He let out a small laugh. “No, you’re not. You look fine. You’re just … uptight.”

“I don’t think I’m uptight,” I said—or tried to say; halfway through the rebuttal, the heat of the shower did me in. I folded over next to him, and if there had been anything in my stomach, it would have come out right then and there.

“Wow,” I heard him say as I felt his hand on my back. “Are you okay?”