-- Laura, Laura!
The sound is directed through cupped hands reaching all the way up to her on the scratchy green board, over a shriek or a laugh and the lifeguard's short warning whistle and normal regular grownup talk, all the way up to the sun warm on her back like a hand.
She moves closer to the scratchy edge of the board and does not turn again to look at them, she knows how they are watching, talking a little to themselves, laughing at something or other as they wait, her brother so sure of her he plays with his plastic truck, her mother not so much so, but her brother still a little in awe when she can remind him of it. He would not stand upon a scratchy board so high above the water even though he is even smaller and her parents would gladly bring Mr. and Mrs. Cooley from Utica to watch him jump. They would clap even louder for him than they would for her he is that much smaller than she climbing up the metal ladder with the too-far-apart rungs, her mother holding the striped towel out and wrapping it and her arms around her, father touching her hair, Mr. and Mrs. Cooley from Utica smiling finding their purse and keys. Later there is the before-leaving ice cream treat eaten in the hot car home and then a barbecue in their fenced-in yard, her father bringing out a painted-white metal tray with drinks with limes held up by ice cubes. He is in charge of the meat, too, and will put an extra bun on the grill and scorch it for her the way she likes to eat it plain with ketchup and nothing else.