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You can’t go chicken shit because there’s a line behind you and the next kid’s already starting the ladder. See your flip flops and towel on the other side of the pool? This is the high dive. Knees, stop it. Back, straight. Pretend you’re on the Olympics. Forget it all and make yourself into a knife that stabs that blue throat.

You’re eight years old, underwater. Shot to the bottom of the pool, feel the slimy cement on your feet and push like you’ve been told, arrow up. Neck back, head back, water’s getting into your goggles and Dear God please don’t let Jimmy O’Mally jump before I get to the side with your hand on that black and blue tile. There now, up in the light again, and you can’t see your teacher because your goggles are fogged. Remember.