Swimming by Nicola Keegan Page B

fluffy-curled, girly-guy dives into the water, coming up seconds later with a big fish in his little hands, and Bron gets in a bad mood that lasts, more or less, until the day she dies.

A is for airway, make sure it is free
B is for breathing if life is to be ,
C is for circulation to make your heart thump
D is for death to avoid like a chump
    The first time I saw Manny, he was blind. He was crawling on top of his brothers as they fed, driven by a mixture of survival instinct, stupidity, and an innate ability to do the wrong thing. He stopped at the top of the pyramid, nestled in, began to suck on a tuft of his mother’s fur with all his vital energy, as though if he were patient enough, he would eventually draw milk.
    That one , I said.
    Which one? asked Leonard.
    The one on top , I said.
    That one? Are you sure?
    Yes , I said. I’m sure .
    The dog lady’s son pulled him off the fur and he mewled like a kitten. I held him in the palm of my hand and knew love. This one , I said.
    Our yard is covered in the bushes that attract the fireflies Manny tries to catch in his mouth. I’m sitting outside, skin tanned taut, the muscles in my shoulders and legs aching with every breath, following him with my eyes. He jumps. Gets nothing. Jumps again. Gets nothing. He trips over a log, falls, rolls down the hill, gets stuck in some mud, yelps. He’s six years old now and is, as Leonard says, as dumb as a turnip.
    It’s summer and I’m free. One of those anonymous balloons someone has let loose to meander across sky. The days start when I want them to—early, ending when I fling myself across my bed, eyes shutting of their own accord. Everyone is leaving me deliciously alone. O Gloria in Excelsis Deo . We don’t go to mass every Sunday; sometimes weeks go by with the absence of nun, priest, long, achy minutes on our knees spent in the confessional, papery wafers stuck on the roof of our mouths until we make enough spit to pry them off with our tongues. After week upon week of scorching heat, five tornados tear through the state, killing twenty-two. All we get is an intense steamy silence, trees so still as to be frozen, a hysteric cacophony of nervous birds that make June crazy, followed by the absence of bird, which disturbs her. New storms follow; massive black thunderclouds moving in slowly like zombies, needles of rain falling down hard, arrows of lightning springing up from nowhere. Roxanne and I stand under it getting pelted until June opens a window yelling: Electrocution, you idiots . Now a cooler, farther-away form of the sun is back in a flat blue sky and all is well. I love these atmospheric conditions; it is the only time of the year the air is cooler than the water in the outdoor pool at the Quaker Aquatic Center, or the Quack as I now call it, my home away from home. I put my face into Manny’s burry neck. He stinks like socks.
    I’m learning CPR with Coach Stan and the members of the Glen-wood Fire Department. We have a mannequin named Doug with wiry brown hair and a long, dead-looking face. When the firefighters turn their heads, Lilly Cocoplat French-kisses him, making sure spit splatters everywhere with rabid use of her tongue. She gets more daring with each day that goes by. We’re split in two, laughing in a roar, as Stan and various firefighters look up from their Styrofoam cups of steaming black tar and shake their heads, unaware of how awful we are.
    Most members of the team have been growing into something I have not. They’re slowing down, don’t care, one eye on the cute boys plunging through the lanes next to ours. When Stan blows his whistle, they sigh, plopping back into the water like well-fed sea lions. We have casual meets against country clubs and some rural summer clubs, beating them easily and getting home late. I learn the Heimlich maneuver, cardiac massage, pupil-reading techniques, exploding-vein indicators, how to tell when a person is finally dead.
    The Cocoplat and I bathe in the