Parallel

you’re not a couple then?” I hear Megan ask.
    “Not a couple,” I reply, resisting the urge to add the word “yet.”
    Megan’s eyes light up. “Could you talk to him for me, then?” she asks. “Be subtle, of course. If he doesn’t like me, I don’t want him to know that I like him. . . .” Megan smiles self-consciously. She’s pretty. I-can’t-help-it-that-I’m-adorable pretty. Ugh.
    “Uh, sure,” I reply. “No problem.” What was I supposed to say? No, sorry, I can’t talk to him for you because I’m still hoping he’s secretly in love with me?
    “Thanks!” She hops off the picnic table and turns to face me. “Let’s head down to the water,” she suggests, handing me my crutches. “I can explain the rest of the calls on the way.”
    When we reach the water’s edge, Megan climbs into a boat mounted on wooden blocks a few feet from the dock. “This is our practice shell,” she says. “Hop in!” As soon as she says it, she giggles. “I guess you’re not doing a lot of hopping, huh?” she says. “Do you need help getting in?”
    “No,” I say irritably, laying my crutches on the ground next to the boat. “I can put weight on it, just not for long periods of time.” I swing my leg over the edge and ease down onto the seat facing Megan, my knees at her nose.
    “Where you’re sitting, that’s the stroke seat,” she tells me. “So depending on what boat you’re in, that’s either Josh or Brad.” Megan prattles on about the various boat positions, but I don’t hear her. I’m too busy fixating on the fact that I’m supposed to remember what to call, when to call it, and how to steer the boat with my face at Josh’s thighs.
    “To steer to port, pull the cord on your right toward you, like this. To steer to starboard, pull the cord on your left. Just remember that it’ll take a few strokes for your actions to take effect—the worst thing you can do is—”
    “The stroke seat, is that a good position?” I ask, interrupting her. “Is that where the best rower sits or the worst, or does it not work like that?”
    “Oh, definitely the best,” Megan replies. “From a technical standpoint, at least.”
    “So, Josh . . . he’s pretty good, then?”
    “Like, ridiculously good,” she says. “His team got the gold last year at the World Rowing Junior Championships in France.” Megan glances over at the rowers, now huddled together for a team meeting. I follow her gaze. Josh is listening intently to whatever the coach is saying. “I wonder what else he’s good at?” she whispers, then starts giggling uncontrollably.
    She did not just say that.
    “So how’d you and Josh meet?” I ask, steering the conversation to less nauseating ground.
    “Here,” she replies. “I was supposed to give him a tour of the boathouse before practice, but we never made it past the locker room. Not that anything like that happened. Not yet, anyway.” More giggling. The sound is really getting on my nerves. “We just started talking and the next thing we knew, it was time for practice. We, like, totally clicked.” She looks past me to where the rowers are gathered and brazenly stares at Josh’s butt.
    “Megan!” Coach Schwartz calls. “Need you over here!” He motions for her to join the group.
    “He means you, too,” Megan tells me, climbing out of the boat. “He’s just forgotten your name. He forgets everyone’s name, so don’t take it personally.” She picks up my crutches and hands them to me. “His bark is also worse than his bite, so if you mess up out there and he yells at you, don’t let it bother you too much.”
    “I’m going out on the water?” I assumed I’d get to watch today from the safety of dry ground. “Isn’t it a little too soon for that?”
    “Don’t worry, you’ll be great,” she assures me. “I’m sure Coach will put you with the M8A, which means you won’t have to do much, anyway. With the water being as calm as it is, you won’t even have to steer. Josh can handle the calls.”
    “Megan!” Coach bellows. “Now!”
    I follow Megan over to where the team is gathered, trying not to look like a total gimp in the process. When she introduces me as the team’s newest coxswain, everyone cheers and claps. When I count how many of them I’ve met before, I’m startled to discover that it’s less than half. How do I not know these people? Brookside isn’t that big. Then again, I’ve been hanging out with the same crowd since