Skylar and I ooh and aah over the baby, maybe because he looks so much like Mr. Boyce. We love him, he’s adorable. Maybe we can babysit for him someday.

Lindsey leans forward and raises her hand like she’s in school. “Mr. Boyce, Mr. Boyce,” she calls. “Why aren’t you teaching eighth-grade English next year? All the other teachers are mean and strict and grumpy.”

“Yes,” Nessa adds. “We need you, Mr. Boyce.”

The rest of us gather around him. “Please teach eighth grade,” we beg. “Please, please, please.”

He laughs. “There’s nothing wrong with the eighth-grade English teachers,” he says.

“They aren’t you,” Skylar says.

“Oh, you girls are so sweet. I should have flunked every one of you and made you take my class all over again.”

He laughs, but Mrs. Boyce picks up Andy and frowns at her husband. “It’s past time for Andy’s nap,” she says. “We have to go. Get the blanket and towels.”

“Sorry, girls.” Mr. Boyce begins to fold the blanket. I pick up Andy’s little yellow duck and a couple of plastic boats and hand them to my teacher.

“Thanks, Abbi.”

We watch him follow his wife to the car. You can tell that Mrs. Boyce is mad by the way she slaps one foot down after the other, like she’s squashing bugs.

“Wow,” Nessa says, “what a crab.”

Lindsey shakes her head. “Poor Mr. Boyce.”

“I bet they get divorced,” Erica says.

Skylar sits beside me, examining her chipped thumbnail polish again. I wonder if she’s thinking about her dad.

The five of us go back to the pool and sit on the bottom to see who can hold their breath longest. I win three times in a row. Then we try to talk to each other underwater. That makes us laugh and snort and cough. We spread our towels on the grass and watch some boys we know cannonball off the diving board until the lifeguard blows his whistle and makes them stop.

Nessa and Lindsey think the boys are cute, but Erica, Skylar, and I think they’re jerks. Not as bad as Carter and Jason, of course, but the kind that think making farting noises is really funny.

By the time Ms. Freeman shows up, our noses are bright red and our arms and legs are pink and we’re ready for a quick stop at Shake Shop for Mango Passionades.

We go to the pool almost every day, but we don’t see Mr. Boyce again. We decide that his wife didn’t like the way we hung around him. “Maybe she’s jealous,” Nessa says, but that’s totally ridiculous. Why would a grown woman be jealous of twelve-year-old girls? She must just want him all to herself. He sees enough of us at school. Now it’s summer, and it’s her turn.

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