The chlorine kisses me with silent accusation. I don’t want to be here and the water knows it. My teacher is as chilly as standing wet on the side with my toes on the edge and the other kids don’t like me. I leave my towel next to the clinical tiled showers and the faceless pay-a-quarter lockers with their identical orange keys that make me feel smaller than I am. It should stay dry there, but it doesn’t. No-one talks to me unless they are telling me to do something.
The deep end of the pool has secrets at the bottom. I look down past my blurry feet scissoring the water and I imagine I see sparkles. It is the holy grail of my grade two swimming class. The blessed few who can reach it lord their ability over us, puppies treading water in brightly coloured bathing-suits. I think the sparkles are wishes. The day I hold the bubble in my nose and touch my tiny fingers to the dark blue bottom, I will surface knowing how to play cello.