Dissimilar Reflection by Jacklyn Wolfe

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 "Okay, it's your turn," I say, hastily wiping my hair from my eyes.  Ribbons of chlorinated water roll from the crown of my head to my brow.  The dribbles continue to the tip of my nose where they dangle momentarily before plopping back into the vastness of the swimming pool.  Tonya has no droplets of water on her face.  When emerging from the water, she simultaneously blows delicate bubbles from her nose and tilts her head back so that her hair washes away from her face.  Then she uses her hands like windshield wipers on her eyes and forehead to thwart the lingering beads of water.

"No, you go again.  I can't ever think of anything funny to say," she pleads, and I'm forced by her flattery to quickly think of some repartee before immersing my head again.

Under the water, I open my eyes and her hair, a light brown she calls "honey-kissed chestnut," is a floating frame for her elfish face.

"Josh Smith is a big butt hole."  The words escape my mouth in large bubbles that rocket to the surface of the water, and Josh Smith's status as a butt hole is ingeniously hilarious in my eleven-year-old mind.

"What? WHAT?" she gargles, and I start to laugh, a precarious feat when submerged in the deep end.  Tonya laughs, too.  We lock hands and vigarously kick our way to the surface, gasping for air and laughing hysterically as we struggle to seize the slippery blue tile bordering the pool.

"I can't pay attention to what you're saying because I keep laughing at the faces you make," she says as she inches her way to the ladder, giggling as she climbs out of the crystalline water.  I extend my arms over my head and arch into a full back dive, forcing air from my nose throughout the entire revolution.  When I return to the surface, Tonya is standing poolside above me, wringing the water from her hair.  The excess dribbles and splashes around me.  "Let's lay out for a while."

I agree, and we head across the sweltering concrete to our towels.  I park myself on the ground, face first into Flowers in the Attic.  Tonya's protocol for tanning requires supplementary efforts.  She begins by straightening her towel on the lounge chair beside me.  She tosses her head forward as she bends at the waist, allowing all of her hair to dangle toward the ground, and then begins a series of twists and tucks of her tresses.  When she returns to and upright position, her honey-kissed hair is a crown upon her head.

She lowers herself onto the chair in a deliberate position that allows for optimum sun exposure.  She begins carefully slathering her legs and waist with her special tanning concoction, taking extraordinary care to avoid getting any gunk on her ruffled yellow bikini.  According to her, the potion--a mixture of baby oil and iodine--must be periodically recapped and vigorously shaken to break up and redistribute the floating blobs.  This entire process takes several minutes, and when she is finally finished, I tell her that I'm ready to get back in the water.  She ignores me, realizing that I'm just trying to spite her, and reclines in the chair where she closes her eyes.

I have suspended my reading to observe this process in disgust.  I toss my partially waterlogged book at my feet and roll my eyes.  I think to myself as I rest my head on the warm terry cloth beneath me, She is always like this.

Full version available in the 2004 Harbinger.