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— There now, — the old woman said, still standing beside me, — now you really are a beauty. Just about Mary’s age.
I froze for a second, glancing at her, my fingers still caught between hot skin and the tight elastic fabric.
— I’m not— — I began, but Samantha cut in:
— Mary’s your granddaughter?
— Uh-huh, — the old woman brightened. — Quick little thing, goes to a good school. St. Clare’s.
My shoulders tensed.
— Oh, Lily will be going there too, — Samantha said far too casually, almost proudly.
I straightened sharply, nearly losing my balance, and stared at her.
— What? — my voice cracked. — Where the hell am I—
— Oh, sorry, ruined the surprise, — she said with an easy smile, clearly savoring the moment. — It’s a wonderful place.
She winked at me, flicking her gaze toward the old woman, hinting that now was not the time to start interrogating her. I clenched my teeth and obediently tugged at the right side of the swimsuit, trying to ease the pull under my breast. My fingers slipped along damp skin, and I felt a thin trickle of water run down my ribs, stopping where the fabric clung. The swimsuit hugged me so tightly I could feel every movement of my breathing — even a small sigh made the neckline shift.
— St. Clare’s… — the old woman narrowed her eyes slightly, as if picturing it. — They’ve got a strict uniform for girls. Skirts, blouses, knee socks. Would suit you, dear.
I shot her a look, but she seemed to take it for shyness.
— Oh, my memory — I need to call Katie! — the old woman turned toward her locker, and Samantha took my hand and pulled me toward the door marked “Pool.” I walked quickly beside her, wanting more than anything to get away from that nosy old woman, while another, far more urgent thought now spun in my head — school.
Samantha politely mentioned to her that we were heading to the pools, but the old woman clearly wasn’t listening anymore, and the next moment I was already following Samantha, forgetting about the pool and the old lady, wanting only one thing — to hear her say it had all been a damn joke.
— Are you out of your mind? We agreed — no damn school! — I almost hissed. — What the hell do you mean St. Clare’s?! We discussed this! I’ve got a degree, Sam! Higher education, twenty years of experience!
— You, Lily, — she corrected softly, but with that steel edge I’d learned to recognize over the years of marriage, — officially don’t even have ninth grade. On paper, you’re sixteen.
— And biologically eighteen! That’s just some mistake in the papers! You know that! They need to be fixed! — I jerked my hand away, but the swimsuit instantly tightened across my breasts, making me wince. Samantha’s gaze slid there, and she smiled with obvious satisfaction.
— Right, and while we’re at it, let’s get your old body back and cancel the virus, — she said in the tone of someone explaining to a child that Santa Claus isn’t real. — Those documents already cost us too much, Lily. And in fact, I think that “mistake” is for the best. Because this isn’t just about education. It’s about you… fitting in. Besides, as you yourself pointed out, the year will go by quickly.
At that moment, the pool door opened, and warm, humid air heavy with the smell of chlorine poured into the changing room. Blue flashes of water and bright laughter flickered beyond. A few women in swimsuits walked past us, tossing their hair back, not even pretending not to look me over.
I instinctively hunched my shoulders, trying to make myself smaller. The swimsuit pressed hard against my breasts, the narrow straps cutting into my skin. Every step pulled the fabric in the most sensitive places, and I couldn’t stop thinking how its cut emphasized everything I wished I could ignore.
— Come on, Lily, — Samantha said quietly but firmly, giving me a little push toward the door.
— I’m not going — I hissed, holding my ground. — And we are going back to the school thing. This is insane, Sam. I’m not sitting at a desk with… with kids.
She turned, irritation flickering in her eyes, but her lips stayed in that soft, almost affectionate smile.
— With girls your age, — she corrected. — And yes, you will. Because, I’ll repeat it one more time in case you didn’t get it — officially, you’re sixteen. And you don’t have a diploma. Want to work as a janitor?
She stepped closer, leaning to my ear.