By the time we’ve finished the sandwiches and topped them off with a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, Skylar is back to normal. We sit down and read again. Even though I want to know more about Rob, I keep my mouth shut. She’s put him in the place where she keeps things she doesn’t want to talk about.

A few days later, Ms. Freeman drives us to the pool. To save time changing, we wear shorts over our bathing suits. We both hate the dressing room. The cement floor is always wet and the cubicles have these cheap curtains that never stay together. People are always opening them to see if anyone is in there. Somehow they pick the exact moment you’re naked or half naked and say, “Oops, sorry, I thought this one was empty.”

After Skylar and I pay, we go straight to the pool, fold our shorts, and lay them on our towels. We do what we always do first—dive into the deep end and race each other underwater to the other side. We come up at the same time, take a deep breath, and dive again. We race each other three times before Skylar wins by a hand.

We sit on the edge of the pool and look around to see who’s here. Skylar really likes this boy named Jonathon, but we don’t see him. “He might go to the country club pool. He lives on the best side of town,” she says.

“Where do we live?”

“Somewhere in the middle. Not rich, not poor.”

I notice some girls in our class at the kiddy pool. I nudge Skylar. “Look. Mr. Boyce is here with his wife and baby.”

Skylar jumps up. “Where?”

“Over there with Lindsey and Nessa and Erica. Let’s say hi.”

Almost every seventh-grade girl loves Mr. Boyce. He’s tall and super good-looking, and he teaches language arts, Skylar’s and my favorite subject this year.

We tug our bathing suits into place top and bottom, smooth our hair, and casually join the group.

“Well, well.” Mr. Boyce grins at us, and his white teeth flash. “It’s Skylar and Abbi, the one and only super-duper dynamic duo.”

My heart zooms a little. I like Mr. Boyce soooo much, I don’t know what to say. So I just sit on the edge of the wading pool, gazing at him.

“Have you two met my wife, Rose?” he asks, like we’re grown-ups entitled to know his wife’s first name.

We shake our heads, and he introduces us. Even though she must be at least thirty, Rose is still pretty.

Mr. Boyce hoists the baby over his head and the baby chuckles. “This is my son, Andrew Junior—Andy for short.”