I want to shout We still see you, Kendra! You can’t hide from the eyes of your peers! But who cares? You look great! We all look great! Our bodies are wondrous, miraculous things, and we shouldn’t ever feel ashamed of them!

Bailey is talking to me about a lifeguard named Brandon Something, who was her first real-life crush (not to be confused with her first crush of all, Winnie-the-Pooh’s Christopher Robin). She leans against the locker and waves her hands, like she always does when she talks, and of course she looks like she just stepped off the pages of Seventeen, even in the ugly, shapeless blob that is our regulation black one-piece.

I’m the heaviest girl here by a mile, and everyone keeps glancing at me to see when I’m going to take it all off, probably because it will make them feel better about their own bodies. I move as if I’m in slow motion, determined to run out the bell. I nudge off one shoe and then the other and place them—one and then the other—neatly, gingerly in my locker, as if they’re made of the finest glass. I remove my bracelet and take the greatest, tenderest care to tuck it into my bag where it will be safe. I do everything but write it a poem, that is how long I’m taking to ensure its comfort. I reach into my pocket and pull out a hair tie and then, as if we have hours to get ready, I pull my hair back and smooth it into place, every last strand, just like I’m a squad captain for the Damsels.

Caroline walks by and says in my direction, “You can’t delay the inevitable.” But even Miss High and Mighty can’t get to me today.

Finally, it’s just Bailey and me and a girl named Margaret Harrison, who is chattering into her phone. Our teacher, Ms. Reilly, comes whisking through and, with barely a glance at any of us, goes, “Margaret, phone! Bailey, pool! Libby, swimsuit!” She would be an amazing drill sergeant.

Bailey waves. “See you out there, Libbs!” And goes bounding off, hair swinging, long legs high-stepping. It is a wonder I like her.

Now it’s just Margaret and me. She’s still blabbing away, but I really need her to disappear, so I start singing to myself. Loudly. I rearrange my shoes. I check on my bracelet. She continues blabbing, but now she’s watching me. We could be here for days.

Finally, I’m like, Screw it. I pull off my top. Hang it up in the locker. Pull off my jeans. Hang them on the other hook. I grab my towel, slam the locker door closed. I throw the towel over my shoulder. I meet Margaret’s eyes, and they are wide. The phone is still to her ear, but she has finally, finally stopped talking. I put one hand on my hip, the other behind my head. I do a little pose, and her face breaks into a smile.

She says into the phone, “Yeah, I’m still here.” And gives me a thumbs-up.

I stroll into the MVB Aquatic Center.

Everyone stops.

Just. Stops.

From across the pool, Ms. Reilly shouts, “What is that supposed to be, Strout?”

I holler back, “A purple bikini.”

And then I strike the same pose, one hand on my hip, one hand behind my head.

Ms. Reilly is padding toward me, her feet going slap slap slap on the wet cement. “What is that on your stomach?”

And she must be nearsighted, because I wrote it in giant letters across the widest swath of skin I own.

“ ‘I am wanted,’ ” I say. “But don’t worry about it washing off in the water. I used a permanent marker.” And then I walk over to the deep end, drop my towel, and execute an Olympic-worthy dive that would impress even the most unimpressible judge.

My mom learned to swim the year she turned forty, the year before she died. She and I took lessons at the municipal pool near the park, and together we learned to tread water, breathe, do the back float, do the breaststroke, dive. To me, swimming was as natural as walking or sleeping. I felt at home in the water. My mom was more nervous, something she blamed on her age. “You just need to trust the power of the water,” I told her. “Our bodies are designed to float, no matter what. The water will hold you up.”

I haven’t done much swimming in the years since. But it’s amazing how something like that comes back to you. As I cut through the water now, I forget where I am. It’s me and the water. And my mom, just out of reach. I close my eyes, and I can see her in the lane next to mine.

I come up for air and open my eyes, and I’m back in the high school swim center, surrounded by gawking, laughing girls. This jars me for a second, but only a second. It is my job in life, apparently, to teach gawking, laughing girls lessons about kindness. If you had told me when I was seven or eight that this was something I’d be taking on, that I would never get a break from it no matter how good I felt about myself, I would have said Thank you, but if it’s all the same I’ll take another job, please. What else do you have for me?

I know what you’re thinking—if you hate it so much and it’s such a burden, just lose the weight, and then that job will go away. But I’m comfortable where I am. I may lose more weight. I may not. But why should what I weigh affect other people? I mean, unless I’m sitting on them, who cares?

I find the ladder and climb out. I brush the hair off my face and check my stomach. The writing is still there.

I pick up my towel and walk past them all into the locker room, where I dry off and pull on my shoes, which I chose especially for today. On one side, I’ve decorated them with this line from A Separate Peace: Everyone has a moment in history which belongs particularly to him.

This is mine.

I make my way through the crowd, pretending to be on my phone. I’m planning to avoid the main hall, even though it will mean going upstairs and around and down again to get to my next class. The closest stairs are in what we call the Four Corners, which is where the main hall branches off in four different directions, and if I’m wily enough, I can duck up these to the second floor. Otherwise, I’ll have to trek all the way to the front hall and take the stairs there. I don’t want to run into anyone.