by Jessica Klimesh Milos Prelevic Ellee and I are amphibians, though Ellee says she’s a fish. I tell her that my mom signed me up for the tadpole class at the Y. “We’re amphibians,” I say. Ellee says no, she’s a fish. Then Ellee says, “Come on, Celia!” and runs through the sprinkler in her flowered underwear and matching undershirt. The grass is July dry, scratchy and wet, prickly and cool, each blade of grass momentarily quenched as the sprinkler see-saws between my yard and