Most of the moms wouldn’t dream of actually getting in the pool with their children, despite being in outstanding shape (thanks to private fitness trainers and visits to a local, exceptional plastic surgeon who never names names).

I’m not pointing fingers, though. I wouldn’t get in the pool here, either (although I have, when Eva’s been especially lonely and desperate for companionship), not when every woman on the side will stare, sizing you up and down as you peel off your clothes, drop your towel, and climb in the pool.

They’ll give you the same once-over as you climb out, too.

Each time. Every time.

And I guarantee nearly every woman is silently measuring. Comparing. Do I look that fat? Is her figure better than mine? Does she have flab? Dimples? Do my thighs jiggle like that, too?

These thoughts remind me of why I loved New York. New York was cool and sharp, beautiful in a hard, glistening way Bellevue isn’t.

Bellevue, a suburb of Seattle, is soft, squishy, with exceptional public schools, big shingle houses fronted by emerald green lawns, sprawling upscale malls, and a Starbucks on every other corner. In this place of affluence and comfort, I feel alien.

Like Eva. But not. Because I don’t want to fit in. I don’t want to be like these women who have too much time on their diamond-ringed hands and who drive immaculate Lexus and Mercedes SUVs.

The girls swim close to Eva, and suddenly Eva is pushing off the wall and swimming toward them. I’m torn between exasperation and admiration. She tries every day. She doesn’t give up. How can I not respect her tenacity? I never liked no for an answer. I should be glad she doesn’t, either.

“I can dive,” Eva says to them, smiling too big, trying too hard, setting my teeth on edge. “Want to see?”

One of the girls, I think it’s Jemma Young, makes a face. “No.”

But Eva, now that she’s finally made the first move, persists. “I’m hoping we’re going to be in the same class again this year.”

Jemma rolls her eyes at the other girls. “Yippee. That’d be fun.”

I press my nails harder into my palms at Jemma’s smart answer. Why didn’t Jemma’s mom teach her any manners?

“So fun,” another little girl chimes in sarcastically, playing Jemma’s game.

The little girls are all giggling and looking back and forth from Jemma to Eva.

I feel wild on the inside, like a mama bear needing to protect her cub. But I don’t get up. I don’t do anything. This is Eva’s battle. She must learn to fend for herself. Even when it breaks my heart.

Jemma and girls flick their wet hair and swim toward the side of the pool. As Jemma hauls herself out of the pool using the ladder, she glances at the others, lined up little duck style right behind her.

“Let’s go get ice cream,” she announces imperiously.

The little duck friends follow.

Eva tries to follow.

She starts to climb the ladder, and she’s smiling, keeping that too wide, too hopeful smile fixed on her face just in case Jemma turns around and asks her to join them. But of course they don’t ask her. They walk away, heading toward the snack bar.

And Eva’s smile starts to fall. Her face is so open, so revealing.