Lee smiled. “We saved you a cup.”
He took the shotgun off his arm. Leaned it against a tree.
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
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.
Hargrove grunted. His eyes moved to Lee, who had climbed up behind Benny. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cover up. She just stood there, oiled and beautiful, and said, “You want a beer, Mr. Hargrove? It’s hot as hell.” Lee smiled
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.”
“My father was an asshole,” Benny said, calm and clear. “No offense.” He came down
Benny saw him first. He stood up, naked-chested and dripping with coconut oil, and walked to the ladder. “Mr. Hargrove.”