The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,39

rose from her lounge chair in one, fluid motion. I hovered close to the sliding door, as if ready to scamper back inside.

“Glad you decided to join us,” she smiled serenely. “I was worried you’d changed your mind.”

“You gave me a bikini but you’re in a one piece?” I hissed in protest. I self-consciously covered my bare midsection with my arm.

“They’re my bathing suits. Shouldn’t I get to decide which one I want to wear?” she reasoned. She shifted her oversized sunglasses farther down her nose to look at me. “Besides, you fill out the top of that bikini much better than I ever could.”

Her openly appreciative stare was more bewildering than anything. On a typical day, I considered myself to be pretty ordinary. Standing beside Anissa, I felt positively plain. There was nothing special about me whereas she seemed to ooze sensuality. There were a lot of words I would use to describe myself—none of which overlapped with this woman. Wholesome. Pleasant. Agreeable. Fresh-faced. Friendly.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “You should grab yourself a plate. My brother, Sam, always grills way too much.”

The patio table was covered in various trays and containers of food. Hot dogs on grilled buns. Cheeseburgers. Thick slices of seedless watermelon. Cole slaw. Some kind of pasta salad.

“Impressive,” I remarked. “This is quite the all-American spread.”

“Were you expecting something else? Maybe hummus and falafel?” Anissa demanded. Her caramel-colored eyes took on a sharp look. “My great-grandparents came to Michigan in 1910 to find work in the auto industry. How about yours?”

I hadn’t meant to offend, but I’d spoken without really thinking. My cheeks grew hot. “Yeah, around that same time, too,” I stammered. “My great-grandparents settled in Hamtramck.”

“You’re Polish?” she questioned.

Hamtramck was just beyond Detroit’s city boundaries. It had originally been the center of Polish-American life, but in recent decades, the town had attracted new immigrants from Yemen and Bangladesh.

I nodded. “Alice Kaminski,” I told her my full name. “It doesn’t get more Polish than that. Hence my ignorance.”

The hard edges of her features softened. “I’m sorry,” she breathed out. “I shouldn’t have jumped on you. But when you’re from Dearborn, you get sick and tired of being called a terrorist.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said. “I spoke without thinking.”

Anissa shook her head. “I’ve heard much worse. You’re harmless.”

“And you’re gorgeous,” I replied without thinking.

“You’re forgiven,” she laughed.

I made myself a plate of food, even though I wasn’t very hungry. I’d already insulted Anissa once; I didn’t want to do more damage by refusing to eat. There were extra seats at the shaded table where her parents sat or the loungers near the two women who might have been her sisters. I would be forced to make polite small-talk in either situation, so I sat down by the pool’s edge instead with my paper plate on my lap.

Anissa had entered the pool and played a game of Marco Polo with her nieces and nephews. They hovered in a circle around her, keeping a careful distance from their aunt, who was currently “It.” Periodically, Anissa submerged underwater before popping up in a different place, much to her nieces’ and nephews’ delight.

I hadn’t grown up with a pool—in-ground pools weren’t very practical in Michigan, where we only experienced three months of warm weather—but I knew the game’s rules. With your eyes closed, you had to find and tag someone else who would then become “It.” When you yelled “Marco,” the other players had to respond with “Polo.” Because your eyes were closed, the sound of the other players’ voices was the only way you could really hone in on tagging someone else to be “It.”

I finished eating and set my empty plate to the side. I contemplated my next move while Anissa continued to splash around with her nieces and nephews. The sun was hot and the air smelled like chlorine from the pool and grilled meat. I could hear the local radio station calling that afternoon’s Tiger’s baseball game coming from an adjacent yard. It was a nice day for a pool party, but my body refused to relax; I wasn’t an invited guest, and I barely knew the party’s host.

It reminded me of house parties I’d attended as a freshman in college. We weren’t old enough to go to the bars, so practically every weekend night my roommate and some other girls from my dorm floor floated around the neighborhoods surrounding campus, looking for house parties. Free beer was always in the back kitchen and no one