“My father was an asshole,” Benny said, calm and clear. “No offense.”
Lee smiled. “We saved you a cup.”
He came down. And The Pit, for one afternoon, was just a pool. No sides. No history. Just oil-slick skin and cold drinks and the sound of people who’d finally learned to swim in the same water. the pit summers interracial pool party oil it up
For a long moment, nobody breathed. Then Hargrove looked down at the party again. At Marcus teaching Gina’s husband the electric slide. At Darnell grilling hot links next to Paulie. At the water, which for the first time in anyone’s memory, looked less like a grave and more like a mirror. “My father was an asshole,” Benny said, calm and clear
The old man squinted. “You’re Joe Morelli’s boy.” And The Pit, for one afternoon, was just a pool
Around four, old man Hargrove appeared at the top of the quarry path. He was eighty-two, white as chalk, and had a shotgun broken over his arm. He stared down at the scene: fifty people, every shade from coffee to cream, oiled up and splashing, sharing beers, passing a joint, slow-dancing to a bootleg R&B mix on Marcus’s speakers.
The “oil it up” part came from Marcus. “You can’t have a pool party without the grease,” he said, pulling out ten bottles of baby oil. “Old-school. Like the mixtape covers.”