Routine summer days followed a simple schedule. The neighborhood pool opened. We were dropped off. The pool closed. We were picked up. At eight years old, I was haphazardly declared mature enough to babysit my four year old sister, Isabelle, as my parents clocked in to the jobs that chiseled fine lines into the contours of their face. We had an older half brother who could have also picked up a babysitting shift here or there, but my parents carried the patriarchal belief that daughters are born pre-equipped with a résumé that boasts maternal instincts, and I was deemed the better candidate. Each day, my sister and I walked up the cracked concrete steps to the pool, the mechanical whirring of the closing minivan doors mixed in with the percussion of our comically sized pool bags dragging behind us. We were "pool rats," the kids who without fail showed up to the pool from open to close, darting in the shadows of umbrellas to scour for spare quarters that could later translate to candy. The teenage lifeguards working at the front desk would gesture us towards the entrance without glancing up from their phones, momentarily sparing me from the shame of acknowledging my ridiculous goggle tan. I had spent more time here than in my own bedroom. My freckled skin was evidence enough.

I welcomed the familiarity of being blinded by the water as we searched for a pool chair to colonize for the day. Our tan skin contrasted the clusters of white bodies desperately smothered with tanning oil and layered with questionably priced swimsuits from Nordstrom. Isabelle and I would drop our bags under the umbrella, hearing the crack of plastic pool toys against the concrete and feeling my stomach lurch at the later punishment waiting for me. I'd unconsciously follow my mother's prescribed eldest daughter regimen, gliding the sunscreen stick against my sister's cheeks as she scrunched her nose in displeasure. Once she passed inspection, I'd give her the same stern nod I'd seen my mother do. Free at last, she'd run to the pool's edge and jump, screaming from both shock and delight when the cool water made contact with her skin. I'd join her, the water slowly melting my collected self into the child I really was. Every day brought some iteration of "mermaids" (I was Pearl, she was Amethyst) where we'd collect imaginary kelp off the pool floor, or whatever domestic chore I decided the mundanities of being a mermaid might look like. Docile kids would eventually find the courage to ask to join and their welcome to our community was celebrated with my immediate orders to gather "fish scales." No shiny object was safe from our small hands.

Each hour, a fifteen minute break mandated a mass exodus of children, ripples in the water stilling for adults who seek refuge from their offspring. A low whistle from the lifeguard stand broke our mass illusion, our noses mechanically drinking in the smells we had been depriving them of. The promise of crisp french fries and freshly grilled hamburgers from the pool snackbar sent children running to their parents, hanging onto their mother's arms as they would dig for wallets deep in designer purses, a small fee for 20 more minutes of poolside gossip. My parents wouldn't dare give us the substantial $6 for a mediocre hamburger flavored by overworked teenagers on minimum wage. We lived in an "ingredient household," where processed foods were a rare sight and eating out even rarer. The few quarters we found tucked between lounge chairs were our lottery ticket to a few Airhead candies. We would shake their wrappers until they shrunk to the size of an ice cube. The sweetness of rebellion in playing with our food allowed us to savor the taffy more deeply. These few bites would satiate us momentarily. We grew hungrier as we watched passersby with their lunch trays full, our microscopic candies shrinking in comparison to towering sandwiches supported by french fry foundations. In the small enclosure of the outdoor dining area I was guaranteed to run into a friend, whether a consistent playmate or someone we had met that day, and be called to sit beside them with a gentle pat of the picnic table bench. I'd try to maintain eye contact as they indulged in the gluttonous culinary delights of Americana my sister and I had always been denied, but without fail, they'd sense our longing and give us a french fry or two like we were dogs begging at the dinner table. Parents looked at my sister and I with righteous pity as we explained our parents weren't here with us, a blatant violation of the pool rules put into place. Most parents were replaced with au pairs or nannies if their work schedule didn't allow family pool time. This was a concept in another tax bracket. Fortunately, the nannies were women of action, rather than merely thoughts, and we would soon have our own lunch in front of us. I was always overly eager to order food from the snack bar, knowing it would lead to a brief interaction between me and my half brother. The child of a bitter divorce between my dad and his former wife, my angsty half brother generally wanted nothing to do with me. Understandably so. At eight, I was an animated teacher's pet who claimed her favorite color was "rainbow sparkly." The thin wall between our bedrooms trembled from his metal music and rages during dedicated hours playing World of Warcraft.

Our alliance permanently shifted. I returned to the pool and sought out the weightless solitude that wrapped my body in comfort. The oneness of water camouflaging the liquid from eyes grown puffy. My fingers brought tension to the red thread hanging around my neck. A hanging milky jade bead no larger than my pinky nail, a personification of my mother's desperate attempt to anchor me to my distant family in China. I ripped the string and felt my neck turn raw. In second grade, emotional intelligence was still in its hatchling stages, especially with topics as nuanced as racial hierarchies. Vocabulary hadn't yet been assigned, subtle connections hazily forming in the mind's eye. My lips couldn't form the words, but I understood the ache of otherness.

Siblings offer a particular beacon of hope in households plagued by turbulence. My brother was the blueprint. My father tested words for the strongest doses of venom. My own hands would be slamming doors soon. We shared the same knowledge of conditional love, but diverged in our approaches, him willing to accept losses and me willing to risk it all. As a result, he wanted nothing to do with me, the living reminder of the effort that my dad was capable of giving. Nick was left out like a puzzle not worth finishing, more of a chore than a pleasure. My dad's constant stream of complaints flooded Nick's subconscious. The financial stress of alimony payments, the mental strain caused by the six hour drive to his ex wife's house every other weekend, the lack of ambition my brother embodied as he lazed around the house. Comparison was inevitable. I seemed to be wearing a neon-sign flashing "Take #2: The Successful One" with the same obnoxious air of Times Square. Of course, children pick up on these things. I downplayed accomplishments, confusing self deprecation for humility. The nicknames stopped. When asked how many siblings I had, I began to answer "one."

Eventually, the pool lights flickered off and my sister and I were exiled to the designated seating area for the descendants of the chronically late. We sat mute on the top of the pool entrance stairs, straining to hear the conversations of the lifeguards ambling towards their hand-me-down family cars. The night air composed with the drones of cicadas and aggressive whispers over who would stay and wait with us this time. When the awaited headlights lit the scene, time slowed as my mom waited for the click of our seatbelts, her swift safety scan revealing the nakedness of my neck. Costly prices bring attention to even the smallest of items. I feigned surprise and speculated that the string must have snapped in the water at some point. If she had been aware I spent the entirety of my days skimming the pools' bottom, she might have noticed the beginning of my self loathing.