Parallel

must. I worry about what it’ll be like to leave him, even though graduation is still six months away.
    “You’re in love,” Mom said when I came home last Saturday night, clutching a giant blue teddy bear. Josh had taken me to the fair, where we’d shared cotton candy and ridden the rickety roller coaster, and he’d won me the biggest stuffed animal on the wall. Afterward, we went to our swing in Josh’s neighborhood, neither of us caring that the moon was too bright to see any stars. I could still taste his gum on my lips. Big Red. The kind he always chews.
    “What?” I said, even though I’d heard her fine.
    “You’re in love,” she repeated, her smile knowing and kind. “I’m glad.”
    I blushed and looked away, not ready to acknowledge it, but not arguing with her either.
    I’m in love.
    “Abby!” I hear Mom call from downstairs, startling me back to the present. “Isn’t the picnic at noon?”
    The party is about to begin when I arrive at the boathouse at quarter till. In the time since practice ended, the Brookside booster club has turned the boathouse grounds into a wonderland of blue and orange streamers and balloons. The Peppery Pig has set up shop under a huge tent in the shape of a Spartan’s helmet, giving the crisp autumn air that great charcoal-and-roasted-meat scent. I inhale deeply, relishing it.
    My teammates are gathered around the picnic table closest to the river, munching on chips and dip while Coach hovers nearby, holding his ubiquitous clipboard. Josh, as usual, is the last to arrive. He’s never actually late , he just doesn’t show up until the precise time we’re supposed to meet. Class, practice, our dates. Always right on time.
    At 11:49, his Jeep pulls into the parking lot. I smile as he comes down the hill. Untucked polo shirt, Converses replaced by canvas loafers. Hanging out with Tyler is clearly rubbing off on him. He’s also stopped parting his hair, and right now it’s damp and messy, like he got out of the shower and shook it.
    As he gets closer, my mind quiets and everything gets brighter. The blue of the sky, the green of the pine needles, the yellow paint on the boathouse door. My teammates are talking, laughing, buzzing with adrenaline and caffeine, but they’ve become background noise. The Josh Effect.
    “Okay, people,” Coach calls over the hum of chatter. “We only have a couple minutes before the crowd shows up.” The team gets quiet. “We’re mixing things up this week,” he announces. “In the stern, anyway. Megan, I’m moving you to the men’s B.” Megan’s jaw literally drops. She’s been coxing the 8A all season, and the buzz is she has a tentative offer from the College of Charleston, contingent on her performance on Saturday. When the COC coach sees that she’s been bumped from the A boat, he’s going to assume she did something to warrant it. “This isn’t meant to be a punishment,” Coach is saying to Megan. “I still want you on the women’s A. I just want to give Abby a shot at the men.”
    Did he just say Abby?
    Since Josh is currently grinning at me like the Cheshire cat, I assume the answer is yes. My hand shoots up.
    “You don’t have to do that,” I blurt out. “Megan deserves to be in the A boat. It should be her, not me.” I flash a smile in Megan’s direction, but she doesn’t return it. Meanwhile, Josh is staring me down.
    “I don’t have to do anything,” Coach snaps. “But last time I checked, I was the coach of this team. Which means I make the boat assignments. Not you. Not Megan.” I nod glumly. “The rest of the assignments are the same as last week,” he continues.
    He drones on, but I stop listening. I’m coxing the 8A? At the Head of the Hooch? There’s no way that’s a good idea. Yes, I’ve gotten better at this, but I am not A boat material. I’m not even B boat material. Every Saturday I’m amazed that my shell makes it to the finish line without crashing into the riverbank.
    “I’m preparing stat sheets for each of you to give to scouts on Saturday,” Coach says in conclusion, replacing the top sheet of his clipboard with a blank piece of paper. “So write down your email address before you go. And I better not see ‘crewgirl’ or ‘mrstroke’ or any of that shit. Like I said last week, college scouts are looking for mature rowers, not punk-ass kids. Okay, you’re dismissed.”
    “‘It should be her, not me’?” Josh asks. “What was that about?”
    I shrug.