One summer my sister lost weight and grew boobs; her skin cleared up. By fall she had a boyfriend — a tall, dark, skinny boy who sat with her for hours at a time on the diving board in our back yard, making out. How boring, I thought. How could someone stay interested in a kiss for so long? I kept waiting for them to do something else. They kissed and they kissed. Father was safely at work, where he sold steel and more steel. Mother watched them from the kitchen window, where she peeled potatoes and more potatoes. I watched from the window of the back door to the garage, where I was busy curling and curling a weight bar. My sister and her boyfriend, wrapped and wrapped around each other like freezing people in a snow cave, kissed and kissed on the wooden diving board my father had sanded and sanded, then varnished and varnished. He had rubbed that board so long I’d thought he would reduce it to a wafer. Why not buy a fiberglass board? I’d asked. No, he would make this one like new. And on it sat my new sister with her new boyfriend. As my mother scraped new potatoes. And I contrived to grow new muscles. And my father filled orders for girders to hold up new freeways.