I hate going to the pool. Any body of water that isn’t the ocean, if I’m being totally honest. For a long time, the thought of taking my shirt off anywhere besides the shower or my bedroom triggered a fight-or-flight response, but once I lost the baby fat and puberty was done with me I realized how silly that was. Really what I hate is the water. Not just the stench of chlorine that lingers on your skin long after the heat of the sun dries you off, nor the way it carries the invisible filth that bodies leave behind, though I admit that’s part of it. It’s the risk. I’ve prided myself on my independence since I was young—more because adults complimented me on it than because I really thought it about myself—but the deep end of the pool has no regard for pride.
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