alyssa

Pools. I hate pools.

I feel like I probably hate way too many things, but whatever—pools? Pools suck. One time, when we were about four, our mom took us to the local swimming pool. We had just moved to Minnesota, and for the time being, we were just focused on embracing the humidity and suddenly-necessary sunblock.

Mom was swinging me around in the water, the two of us laughing and breathing in the strong smell of sunblock and chlorine. She set me down after what could have been seconds or days and moved to pick up Tanner, who held out his hands and announced that a mouse had swam over to him.

My mother shrieked and batted the Michael Phelps of mice out of my brother's hands, because of course it wasn't actually the Michael Phelps of mice, but instead a gloriously hard turd.

The gloriously hard turd whacked my shoulder. Which was fantastic for four-year-old me, who was so sensitive to literally everything that I started sobbing, whilst Tanner began to cry about the loss of Michael Phelps mouse/turd.

We were rushed home without warning—not because of the turd (we didn't even tell anyone about the turd we found, actually; I like to think it floated past the deep end and into the sunset), but instead because my mom felt the first tail attack she'd had in years coming on.

Everything went downhill from there.

So, yes. I don't like pools. Which should be fine. But, of course, in this small town of practically-none, the only job available to me was here. At the pool. With pool things. Like turds.

Dad and Tanner are insistent that I "move on" or whatever. Like, the second we're on the run from Woodbury, I'm supposed to act like nothing happened. Everything is fine, Alyssa. You didn't uproot our lives at allll, Alyssa.

At least I'm not a lifeguard, I guess. I'm an ironically weak swimmer, considering my whole scaly situation, and I'm so pale that if I don't leave the house covered in one bottle of sunscreen and dressed like a vampire Helena Bonham Carter, I will burn. To a crisp. And my ashes will sprinkle away with the breeze, a la Infinity War.

I'm working concessions, which shouldn't be too terrible. I brought a book, which I probably won't read, if I'm even allowed to, but it's there as a crutch. The owner, some guy named Hal with a semi-disturbing email handle, told me that I'll have a coworker. Aforementioned coworker bodes either very well, or very poorly, for my existence.

My bet is on the latter, but if I shared that with Tanner, he'd probably yeet a turd at me.

Tanner dropped me off right before work. He didn't have to get a job, but he seems to earn his keep by doing everything the mom-bot in Umbrella Academy would do. Also, I'm pretty sure that Dad forcing me to get this job is just a way to get me to socialise. I hate how predictable I am, that as soon as we move here, Dad insists that I get a job, because this is obviously the only way I'm to receive any non-familial human contact.

I mean, he's not wrong. I just think it's stupid.

There's a big "OPEN" sign next to this ominous break in a tan brick wall, like something out of Labyrinth but minus the caterpillar puppets inviting me over for tea and no King David Bowie. The sign is worn and sun-bleached, and five steps through the break in the wall shows that worn and bleached is a stylistic trend.

There are a few people in the pool, all wearing swimsuits one would typically associate with lifeguards and swim gear I would typically associate with people who actually like flapping through water. I ignore them and instead focus my attention on stumbling blindly through the pool, because nowhere is there a bleached, worn sign that says "NEW EMPLOYEE, ANON."

I just stand on the pavement, alternating my gaze between the swimmers and the already-risen sun, cloaked by a partly-cloudy grey sky. I figure that, if I stand here long enough, surely someone will come and tell me to do things. Either that, or they'll fire me for not reporting to where I should have, and then I can go home and watch those subpar Netflix movies I never got to last night.

The pool is as basic as basic gets, with beige cement and disturbingly blue water, reminiscent of a toilet mid-clean. I wouldn't be surprised if there were actual Michael Phelps mice in there. I can see from here that white paint has peeled off on the bottom, and that there are plenty of leaves and other such miscellaneous items in the gutters. Beautiful. Improper sanitisation is sexy.

"Well, if it isn't the Cupboard Hobbit."

My head snaps over my shoulder, and it takes me a moment to look up and properly register just who I'm seeing. Then, I realize: Elliot. The girl from last night.

She looks different when I see her in the light. Her hair is shorter than I remember, her frame far lankier than it was last night. Her skin is a golden bronze, lips thin and drawn into a confusing smirk-pout that I linger on. Seriously, I spend too long waffling over whether or not to keep staring at those lips or actually meet her disarmingly affable gaze.

"Oh. Hi," I say, sounding way colder than intended. "How's it hanging?"

Elliot flashes bright teeth, like she's simply happy I responded. "Super, actually, now that I've met my new coworker."

It takes me a moment to register this. "Wait, you work the concession stand?"

"Yes. I am the hot dog girl. And the ice cream girl. And the pretzel girl. Basically anything girl. Although, not nachos. I am not the nacho girl. I kinda maybe broke the machine. But don't tell Hal. Hal thinks it committed un-life on its own."

"That sounds impressive. Your secret is safe with me," I say, trying to peg just how I feel right now. I really liked our conversation last night, but this morning is kind of not the morning. Not for banter, or for making new friends like my family would want, or—maybe especially—for cute girls with fun banter.

Elliot nods, this vaguely Jagger-esque move, and rubs the back of her neck. Even though it's supposed to get to the nineties today, she's got on a flannel over her faded Hulhazy Front Public Swimming Pool tee. I feel so stupid, but I want to see how that flannel would look tied around her waist. Sometimes, I just get stupid impulses like that—like, Elliot's cheekbones? Definitely deserve a fun day with some funky highlighter. Her bone structure in general is just amazing. And her eyes are so real. I generally only sketch singers and actors I like, but I would sketch Elliot in a heartbeat.

Honestly, I should not be allowed to look at people.

"So," she says, saving me from figuring out what kind of eyeshadow technique would match her eye shape best. I'm not that much of an artist, but she's seriously gorgeous enough to grant thinking about what kind of makeup she needs. "Should I show you around?"

It almost feels like I've been caught doing something wrong, which is stupid. I was just thinking about the construction of her face. That's it. Nothing more.

"Sure," I say, chirpier than I feel. I might be flushed. I'm not entirely sure why.

There's not much to show me. As we walk about the small, shoddy compound (it feels like a compound), Elliot points out various little details I probably shouldn't find myself caring so much about, and brings up little anecdotes that aren't too funny when I think about them, but are funny the way she tells them.

It's definitely weird.

There's this little voice in my head that says, "Max made you feel this way. Remember Max? Max, the one you were in love with? Max, the one who you betrayed and abandoned and lied to? Max, who despite everything, couldn't handle the real you?"

It's hard to ignore.

"Breakroom is in there," Elliot says, pointing at a shack with ancient jungle animals painted on the textured brick. "I only go in for coffee on days I forget mine. Otherwise, I avoid it. It's easier."

"Easier?" Why would you need to avoid the shack? "What, is it haunted?"

"Kinda." She stares at the shack for a minute, blinks hard. Like she's snapping herself out of something. Which is kinda weird, but whatever. "It's just too far of a walk."

I try to nod and smile like I get it, even though I most definitely do not.

Then Elliot, without warning, grabs my shoulders and gives me this really intense look. "Are you ready for your life to begin?"

So. I do not like being touched all impromptu like this. I wonder if she can feel how I immediately tensed, or how quickly my heart started beating. "Sure?" I'm definitely ready for her to let me go.

"Awesome. To the shack!"

The shack is basically right next to us. It's open in the front, with a grimy glass window and a wooden counter. Elliot introduces me to a side door that lets us behind the counter and to the goods. "I'll teach you all this crap later. It's super basic, honestly. No one ever really comes here. I think I talk to, like, maybe three people each day."

It's longer than the haunted breakroom, but the same width. Elliot walks towards a door behind all of everything, pulling out a single key from her pocket and unlocking it. The lights don't turn on at first, but the electric buzzing is intense.

The lights finally snap on. I look about the room, with its stained cement floor and wire shelves that lay mostly empty, and its freezer with a small puddle of water shining against the fluorescence up above.

Elliot looks over her shoulder at me. "This," she says, "is heaven."

"We skipped the staircase?" She's silent as I look around. "It's certainly...."

"Divine? Ethereal?"

"Eh?"

"Dinky? Dinky."

I hug myself in the doorway, feeling my bare shoulders exposed by the tanktop I'm wearing. It's freezing in here, so I untie the sweatshirt from around my waist that was just meant to be there for a just-in-case type thing. Guess it came in handy. "Maybe dinky."

"Hmm. Unfortunate."

We stare at each other for a moment, till Elliot decides to break the weird contest and head towards the door. As she brushes past me, her hand finds my shoulder, and an ice-white burning flashes in my legs. My heart stops.

Well that was weird. Time to ignore it.

She says something else, shuffling towards a giant dispenser of sorts, but I'm not listening. My legs—what the hell was that?

"Alyssa. Um, Alyssa. Alyssa?"

The burning is receding, but I can still feel it as I look up and try a smile for her. "Sorry. Just zoned out a sec."

My skin crawls slightly, prickles, itches, shifts. And just like an oncoming blizzard back home, I feel a change in the air, a shift in the wrong direction.

Please. Just let me get through this day.

A/N (August 8 2021):

Apparently ingesting too much of any fluid is not the best for you.

Huh.