Spilt Milk Part part two

The first time they saw her she was perched on the diving board of the town swimming pool. Nut brown legs, set off by the soft blue and white stripes of her bikini, dangled from the side of the plank, and caught both their attentions almost simultaneously.
Later, Peter would remark that he saw her first. He would say it in a studied, offhand manner, as if it really didn’t matter. As if he was thinking about something else, and who saw George first really did not mean a thing to anyone. He had flicked his hair out of face at the time. A purely reflexive movement, given that he had no hair anymore. His muddy brown locks had long been clipped into a stubbly crew cut. School regulations.

George. Georgina Rose Jenkins to be precise. A bulky, old fashioned name for somebody so graceful, somebody whose every movement, even the lackadaisical swinging of her legs from the edge of the diving board, heels neatly arched and toes painted a bright yellow, seemed to Peter to be the precise movements of dancer.

He said this out loud, standing in the sweltering heat at poolside with Oliver. Or perhaps he hadn’t said it out loud and Oliver had simply intuited it the way he sometimes did.

‘Don’t be a Pansy.’ Oliver sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke before killing the cigarette and tucking the dog end behind his ear. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he followed Peter’s gaze to the diving board.
Peter shrugged and did not look away.
Her friends were at the side of the pool, opposite to where the two boys were standing, dressed in their usual skinny jeans and baggy hoodies. Conspicuous by merit of being fully clothed.

Her friends had her brand of showmanship. Lanky, sun kissed boys in board shorts and naked torsos. Smooth skinned girls in designer eyewear. As Peter watched it became apparent it was a dare, or something like a dare. To dive from the highest diving board at the Public swimming pool. It was evident from the way they were calling to her.

‘Come on, George!’

‘Let’s see you it!’

No heckling. Just good natured and encouraging taunting.

‘Little attention whore,’ said Oliver beside him.

Peter knew what he meant, although he didn’t want to see it that way. She wasn’t stalling because she was scared. She was laughing, smiling. Cherry glossed lips always slightly open. Dark hair cropped short like an elf’s. Peter could not see her eyes but he got the immediate sense they would be green. Her movements were just slightly exaggerated and theatrical. The shakes of her head were too emphatic and sweeps of her arms too wide. It was a farce. She was not scared and she didn’t need coaxing. She was more of an actress on a stage sneaking peeks to see who was watching before her Grand finale.

He enjoyed the performance nevertheless. He watched the way her midriff crinkled every time she folded herself over to bury her head in her hands. Her surreptitious glances. She tilted her head in his direction and for a moment their eyes met and held.

A smile broke over her face and she gave a little wave.

He shrunk back against the rough face brick of the pool house, pulling deeper inside his hoodie. It was an automatic and mechanical response to eye contact. Derived from years of years of knowing it was better to go unnoticed.

Above him, she stood up in much the same way a wilted flower might rise and stretch given water. For a moment her silhouette was trapped in the beams of the late afternoon sun. She bounced once, twice, on the third leap she was propelled into the air. A lazy parabola that turned convex in the smooth arc of a swan dive. She slipped into the water with barely a ripple and emerged to the scattered clapping from onlookers.