green linen shorts, a gray M.C. T-Âshirt, and beach sandals that cracked against the bottoms of her feet as she descended the amphitheater stairs. She had tanned, muscular legs. Her hair was again wet and combed back, furrowed precisely as a plowed field. She said something to the teacher and he replied; then the girl turned and looked for a moment directly at Robert, and neither smiled nor glowered, but just took him in, then walked away.
The bell rang and Robert left with the other students, rising through the cloud of chlorine and suntan lotion.
On her third visit she touched Robertâs ear going past, a connection electrifying and confusing. She did not look at Robert before going into the room behind the blackboards. The bell rang and he went against the flow of the traffic, certain she would at least be waiting, and willing to talk to her if she was.
But the room was empty except for the tables and chairs and the same litter of cups and coffee-Âdarkened butts. The teacher followed a moment later.
âDonât tell me youâre lost again,â he said.
Robert grimaced. Ben was pushing a cart packed with specimen jars that tinkled and shivered as they waited to be taken home.
Ben smiled. âDonât say a word. Wait until you get your feet under you and can be honest. Youâre interested in my daughter, not me. Thatâs why you bypassed me, her old man. Are you hungry?â
âA little.â
âIf we catch up to Olive we can see whatâs in the bag sheâs carrying,â Ben said. âI warn you, though. Iâm the more interesting of the two of us. Olive is young and sweet. Boy crazy, too. I am old and full of stories. I have substance. Olive has pheromones. No contest, right? Come with me.â
They went through the second door. Robert followed Ben through a dim maze of blue tunnels that seemed excavated out of the heart of the sciences building in order for teachers to travel without risking contact with students. They found an elevator and took it to the third floor, then emerged into a hallway and crossed to Benâs office.
The girl was waiting. She sat on the floor with her legs drawn up, her face hidden in a book. When she looked up at them Robert was disappointed she was not prettier. But in standing she transmitted that grace of motion that had first hooked him. As with most Âpeople in Mozart, she looked vaguely familiar. She held out the lunch.
âThis is Olive,â Ben said. âMy little water nymph.â
âIâm Robert Cigar.â
âI know your parentsâ store,â Ben said.
âEveryone does,â Robert said. He asked the girl, âAre you a swimmer?â
She nodded. The pads of her hands and the tips of her fingers were spongy white; her eyes were bloodshot with chlorine.
âSheâs amazing,â Ben reported. âI canât run as fast as she swims.â
âWhat nonsense,â Olive exclaimed. But she squeezed her fatherâs arm. âIâve got to get going. Iâve brought your lunch. Youâd better enjoy it, too. Itâs the last time Iâm bringing it.â
âShe says that every year,â Ben said to Robert. âHow many times did you bring it for me last year?â
âForty-Âfour?â
âI thought it was more. Youâre like your mother: no spine.â
The girl froze at that, slapping her father unplayfully on the chest.
âWhere do you swim?â Robert asked.
âAt the high school,â she said, looking at him carefully for the first time, seeing a man almost too old for her, but just almost. To Robert, she seemed suspended in air, getting through her time between the time in the water as best she could.
âYou once wrote about me,â the girl said.
âWhat did I write?â
âYou had my times and races right, but you didnât talk to me after the meet,â she said. âThen in the paper you had me