I want to punch her in the face. Not nice, but I’ve never claimed to be nice. I’m honest, and that’s something altogether different.

Jamming my hands deeper in my slouchy cargo pants, I’m acutely aware of how different I dress from the other women here. Even though it’s a country club pool, I’m wearing an old faded black T-shirt, old cargo pants that ride low on my hips and are frayed at the hem, and gray paint-splattered rubber flip-flops.

My hair, a dark brown that people like to call black, is loose and reaches almost to my waist and doesn’t have a style. It’s just long, but it’s how I’ve worn my hair since college, and I like it. I don’t try to be soft or pretty. I just want to be me.

Eva emerges from the locker room as Taylor Young walks our way. Eva, still in her swimsuit and with her clothes balled in her arms, stands at full attention as Taylor approaches. She’s looking anxiously at Taylor, smiling too big, waiting to be noticed.

When Taylor is about to pass without making eye contact or acknowledging her, Eva shouts out, “Hi, Mrs. Young. How are you?”

My hand clenches. I wish Eva hadn’t done that, but now Taylor pauses, turns in her short tennis skirt, and looks at Eva, and then me, and back to Eva. Her lips curve smugly. “Hello, Marta. Eva. How are you?”

I nod my head. “Hello, Taylor.”

“I’m good, Mrs. Young, thank you,” Eva answers breathlessly, smiling hard. “Are you having a nice summer?”

“Very nice. I hope you are, too.” And with a smile at Eva and a brief incline of her head in my direction, she moves on toward the locker room.

Eva’s wide, tight smile fades as Taylor disappears into the locker room. Her shoulders seem to curve in. “She’s the nicest mom. Everybody says so.”

I say nothing. What can I say?

We head to my truck, and I toss the wet towels in the back of the pickup. “You okay?” I ask her as we climb in.

She nods once but doesn’t say anything.

As I drive, I play my favorite Wyclef Jean CD. Eva just sits next to me, staring silently out the window. Her eyes are watery, but no tears fall. I tell myself it’s the chlorine from the pool, but I know the truth.

For a moment, I think I could hate Taylor and Jemma and all of them at the pool, but hate is such a useless emotion, and I don’t want to hate anyone.

Besides, Jemma’s just a little girl, and Jemma’s entitled to like who she wants to, even if Eva’s not one of them.

“Want to go see a movie? Go out for dinner?” I ask, glancing Eva’s way again, thinking of fun diversions.

She shakes her head, her long black hair hanging in inky tangles down her pale back. “No.”

“Is there anything that sounds good? It’s only Friday night, we could go home, pack up, head to Grandma and Grandpa’s cabin at Lake Chelan—”

“I just really wanted to have someone stay the night at our house. Play at our house.” She’s pressing her towel back to her mouth, chewing relentlessly on the corner.