High Dive

I was twelve. Twelve and fat.

I stood at the end of the high diving board, frozen with fear. From there, the water seemed twice as far away as it looked from poolside. I had to jump. Losing face was too high a price to pay, so turning back was out of the question.

I was in Phoenix, spending the summer with my favorite cousin. She was always friendly to me, but she was blonde, thin, tan and—worst of all—popular. Soon after I arrived, her A-list friends had a party and she took me along. They knew the score and wasted no time in cutting me from the herd. They teased me about my weight, mocked my slow Texas drawl, giggled whenever I said “y’all” or “yonder”. While my cousin was good enough not to join in the hazing, she didn’t defend me either. I understood. This was her territory and jungle law prevailed.

A few days later, the whole crowd was at the neighborhood pool. Already miserable in my ill-fitting swimsuit, I cringed as the teasing began again. Soon enough, someone asked about my diving experience.

I swam well enough, but diving was beyond my ability. My chunky little body seemed incapable of that high bounce, that graceful, upended arch. The few attempts I’d made ended in sputtering and floundering.

When the jeering crowd heard that I’d never been off the high dive, they began hooting and goading me, daring me to jump. I couldn’t say no. It didn’t look all that  high.

I made the long, slow climb up the ladder.

I stood at the end of the board, contemplating the fall.

I stepped off.

I plummeted.

The drop took half a second longer than it should have. I had a moment to regret my act. Then I hit the water. How could water be so hard? Hitting the surface felt like landing on solid ground. The backs of my thighs reddened from the spanking, and no amount of breathing out at the moment of impact could counter the water forced up my nose by my own momentum.

I surfaced, sputtering and floundering. I think the mean kids were laughing, but I’m not really sure. My ears buzzed with self-consciousness, and just to prove I wasn’t chicken, I climbed straight out of the pool and went right back up the ladder.

The second leap was no easier than the first, and no more graceful. Two jumps were enough to prove whatever it was I sought to prove. There would never be a third time.

A foolish response to the mocking of kids I didn’t know and would never see again.

But I was twelve. Twelve and fat, friendless and far from home.