She will. She will jump. A brief dry drop in the air and then sudden, thorough wetness. The relief that it is done -- like wet pants when you are really too old but you remember how it feels when it's over and you are so tempted out of wonder and laziness -- the white bubbles bubbling up and black lines wavy underneath and the stinging eyes and afterwards the long-held smell of chlorine on your arms, your skin that does not now keep your own smell. It is not like the smell of that other wetness, which is you still. She will jump. It is only a lean, a push, a fall. Whistle music then the slowing-down sinking. A line has formed beneath her, waiting, it would be hard to navigate down. She will go, she will jump for them, off to the side, Mother, brother, father, Mr. and Mrs. Cooley from Utica; she must jump or she will hear them call, Laura, Laura! Laura jump! Laura, Laura, they will call

-- Laura, Laura!

The sound is directed through cupped hands reaching all the way up to her on the scratchy green board, over a shriek or a laugh and the lifeguard's short warning whistle and normal regular grownup talk, all the way up to the sun warm on her back like a hand.

She moves closer to the scratchy edge of the board and does not turn again to look at them, she knows how they are watching, talking a little to themselves, laughing at something or other as they wait, her brother so sure of her he plays with his plastic truck, her mother not so much so, but her brother still a little in awe when she can remind him of it. He would not stand upon a scratchy board so high above the water even though he is even smaller and her parents would gladly bring Mr. and Mrs. Cooley from Utica to watch him jump. They would clap even louder for him than they would for her he is that much smaller than she climbing up the metal ladder with the too-far-apart rungs, her mother holding the striped towel out and wrapping it and her arms around her, father touching her hair, Mr. and Mrs. Cooley from Utica smiling finding their purse and keys. Later there is the before-leaving ice cream treat eaten in the hot car home and then a barbecue in their fenced-in yard, her father bringing out a painted-white metal tray with drinks with limes held up by ice cubes. He is in charge of the meat, too, and will put an extra bun on the grill and scorch it for her the way she likes to eat it plain with ketchup and nothing else.