In March, on the last day of swim season, Evelyn had yet to come up with a plan to remain clean that didn’t involve wet naps swiped from the restaurant. Sneaking into the locker room for a quick shower was proving more difficult than anticipated, and she dithered around after practice, worrying about it. She was tying double knots onto the tops of her work boots when Lauren Tate ambled over. They were alone.
Lauren had grown four inches and found twenty pounds of muscle since her thwarted attempt to come between Evelyn and Adam Nutarelli. Her one-hundred fly was so sublime that several colleges were fighting over her. She was hearty and strong and fit in perfectly where Evelyn protruded like an unruly cowlick. But Lauren had never stopped being friendly, and Evelyn almost found a smile in
