Sparkles of light like diamonds skim across the still blue water. The sun is impossibly bright and the air unbelievably still. I don’t want to do this. I adjust the red life jacket crowding my face.

I want to throw up. I am a pro when it comes to faking sickness to get out of stuff. Today, my nurse mom did not believe my act and marched me to the lake. Shame colors my cheeks. I’m the last one in the family to learn to water ski.

My skis stick up like two bunny ears, waffling back and forth like a child’s fishing bobber in the water. “Keep your legs together,” my uncle tells me, holding me next to him to steady me. His arms wrap me in a bear hug to keep my legs together. We both wobble back and forth as one tight ball of anxious energy.

I flay my left arm in the water to right myself, my right hand gripping the handle of the rope. I’ve waited too long. The slack rope snakes and drifts into circles likely to knot and snap once the boat accelerates. Then I’ll be hurled forward into the water, face first.

“Remember let go of the rope if you start to fall.” My uncle is patient, calm. The rope burn on my leg prickles from the last time. I nod. Just let go.

I want to get out, but everyone is watching from the boat. My dad is turned toward me, one hand on the wheel. Waiting. Everyone is waiting. My other uncle sits shotgun in the boat; my cousin in front. She calls encouragement, and I scowl. Easy for her to say. She can do a cartwheel while all I can do is a summersault. And she can ski.

The boat’s motor chews up the water, gurgling, splashing.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

I nod. It’s a lie.

He calls, “she’s ready” over my head, and the gentle butterflies in my stomach transform into a swarm of angry bees. Just let go.

Keep your knees together, don’t stand up, let the boat pull you up. Don’t stand up too soon.

The boat glides forward, the rope tightens, and we are gliding forward. My skis flail about, threatening to pull me into the splits. My uncle readjusts and brings my legs back together. My teeth chatter in the warm water. “I… I can’t…”

“Go!” my uncle yells from behind me.

Throttle down, the boat roars and the water churns around me. My uncle lets go. Bile rises in my throat. The boat pulls me from the tight ball into the air, the skis glide on the water, together. My knees buckle. I bobble, pull back on the handle and squat all the way down to sit my butt on the skis.

Someone hollers; there’s clapping. My dad looks back, smiles.

Don’t let go.