My fifteen-year old son, adopted from Chile, pedals his bike back from the pool, says some boys just called him a Spic, and my brain explodes— Ping, ping, says my brain. Wait! says Louey. I get in the car, gun the gas pedal, stomp past two teenage lifeguards at the gate, on my way to the deep end. Did you call my son a Name? I call across the water to two skinny white boys no older than twelve, their goose-pimpled arms hugging their concave chests. They nod. Any minute they might cry and their their mothers might come over. Listen, you! Words hurt! I am yelling, Don’t ever say that word again, do you understand? Or I'll come back here and beat the shit out of you, do you understand? Open-mouthed, they nod. Maybe I didn't make that threat aloud. But we all heard it. At home, Louey says he was holding their heads underwater for fun, which is why they got mad in the first place.