Chapter 11: The Forearms

The fall regatta was held on a Sunday, on a grey river, under a sky the color of dishwater.

Rosetta came with me, in her denim jacket and three scarves.

"I'm here for the snacks," she said. "And for you, but mostly the snacks."

"There are no snacks."

"There's a lunch tent. I read the flyer."

We stood on the riverbank with two hundred alumni and parents, and I watched Griffin's boat come around the bend.

Eight men in matching navy, bent forward, rowing in a perfect line.

Griffin sat in the last seat, with his back to the finish.

I had thought I'd type lies the whole time.

I tapped my thigh, and the comments floated up, white against the grey.

"The boat is a very long water bug."

"The oars are tiny and very tired."

"Look at him go."

"The water is a rumor."

The grey lines stayed away, since he had both hands on an oar.

His boat crossed the line first by two lengths.

The crowd roared, and someone behind me shouted something about raccoons.

"Raccoon girl!" a rower yelled from the dock, grinning at me. "Raccoon girl, you're up!"

"What's happening?" Rosetta said.

"I'll explain at the snacks," I said.

The lunch tent smelled of coffee and wet canvas.

There were folding tables and long paper tablecloths, and a banner that read CARROWAY CREW, with the C hanging crooked.

Griffin came in with a towel around his neck and his hair soaked, and he sat down next to me.

His knee pressed against mine under the table.

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