his whistle to organize us for timed trials. All week, he’d been taking notes on his clipboard, trying to decide which Dolphins would swim in the qualifying meet. Usually, I was the undisputed choice for the 100-meter freestyle, but that day, Coach called my name and asked me to join Jill at the other end of the pool.
“I can’t believe he’s making me race her,” I said to Chris under my breath.
“Just relax and remember your flip turn,” Chris said, patting me on the shoulder. “He’s probably just doing it to shake you up.”
If that was Coach August’s intention, he didn’t have to shake hard. I was already shaking as I got out of the water and walked what felt like a hundred miles around the pool’s perimeter to the starting block.
“Hurry up, Amy,” Jill said, shaking out her arms and legs as if she’d been waiting all day.
“I’ll be telling you that in the water,” I said, “while I’m waiting for you to catch up.”
But when the starting buzzer sounded, my foot slipped and I left the block a split second behind. When I entered the water, I was flailing, and it took me at least a lap and a half to hit my stride. By the third length, I was sailing—everything depended on my final flip turn. “Don’t hit it, don’t hit it, don’t hit it,” I chanted from habit, forgetting what Chris had taught me. “Don’t hit it, don’t hit it, don’t hit it …”
WHACK
!
As I finished the last lap, I was sure that I’d swum my very worst time. I slapped the pool deck and jerked my neck around to see where Jill was in the pool. “I’m here, Amy,” she said smugly, and I realized that she was already out of the water, resting, her feet dangling into the pool.
“It’s like she’s waiting for me to blow it,” I fumed to Chris after practice, “so she can take my place at regionals.”
“Don’t let her get to you,” Chris urged, as I waited with him at the bus stop. My bus always came about ten minutes after his.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “She made me so self-conscious today, I couldn’t do one decent turn. Which is not the way I want to feel the day before a meet.” Even as I was saying it, I knew Jill wasn’t really the one to blame. I was.
Chris’s bus roared as it turned the corner onto Central. It was rush hour, and through the windows I could see that all the seats were filled with downtown workers, people who I imagined were going home to pretty houses with heated swimming pools.
“Amy, come home with me,” Chris said as the bus pulled to a stop at the curb. “We can grab a bite to eat and study, and you can practice your turn in our pool.”
I thought fleetingly of the health project that was due at the end of the week. Blythe had done a survey in the
Thunder
of students’ views on everything from love to marriage to romantic movies. She’d already collected responses from two hundred kids and tallied the results. All I had to do, she kept reminding me, was read the books she’d checked out of the library and write up an analysis of the survey.
I knew by then that studying with Chris was asking for academic disaster. After the night of the carnival, we’d gone to the library a few times together after school, and he’d do things like write love notes in the margins of my composition book or try to kiss me while I was trying to read. I could just imagine what he’d do when he learned the topic of my homework was intimacy!
But on the other hand, I did need to practice swimming.Otherwise, I’d probably try to turn in the lane tomorrow and end up somewhere near Timbuktu.
“You kids on or off?” barked the bus driver.
“On,” I said suddenly, skipping up the metal stairs. In the end, it wasn’t worry about my flip turn that tipped the scales toward going home with Chris. To be honest, I just wanted to spend time with him, to feel his arms around me, his cheek brush against mine, the gentle searching of his lips.
Of course, I didn’t tell him I was
“I can’t believe he’s making me race her,” I said to Chris under my breath.
“Just relax and remember your flip turn,” Chris said, patting me on the shoulder. “He’s probably just doing it to shake you up.”
If that was Coach August’s intention, he didn’t have to shake hard. I was already shaking as I got out of the water and walked what felt like a hundred miles around the pool’s perimeter to the starting block.
“Hurry up, Amy,” Jill said, shaking out her arms and legs as if she’d been waiting all day.
“I’ll be telling you that in the water,” I said, “while I’m waiting for you to catch up.”
But when the starting buzzer sounded, my foot slipped and I left the block a split second behind. When I entered the water, I was flailing, and it took me at least a lap and a half to hit my stride. By the third length, I was sailing—everything depended on my final flip turn. “Don’t hit it, don’t hit it, don’t hit it,” I chanted from habit, forgetting what Chris had taught me. “Don’t hit it, don’t hit it, don’t hit it …”
WHACK
!
As I finished the last lap, I was sure that I’d swum my very worst time. I slapped the pool deck and jerked my neck around to see where Jill was in the pool. “I’m here, Amy,” she said smugly, and I realized that she was already out of the water, resting, her feet dangling into the pool.
“It’s like she’s waiting for me to blow it,” I fumed to Chris after practice, “so she can take my place at regionals.”
“Don’t let her get to you,” Chris urged, as I waited with him at the bus stop. My bus always came about ten minutes after his.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “She made me so self-conscious today, I couldn’t do one decent turn. Which is not the way I want to feel the day before a meet.” Even as I was saying it, I knew Jill wasn’t really the one to blame. I was.
Chris’s bus roared as it turned the corner onto Central. It was rush hour, and through the windows I could see that all the seats were filled with downtown workers, people who I imagined were going home to pretty houses with heated swimming pools.
“Amy, come home with me,” Chris said as the bus pulled to a stop at the curb. “We can grab a bite to eat and study, and you can practice your turn in our pool.”
I thought fleetingly of the health project that was due at the end of the week. Blythe had done a survey in the
Thunder
of students’ views on everything from love to marriage to romantic movies. She’d already collected responses from two hundred kids and tallied the results. All I had to do, she kept reminding me, was read the books she’d checked out of the library and write up an analysis of the survey.
I knew by then that studying with Chris was asking for academic disaster. After the night of the carnival, we’d gone to the library a few times together after school, and he’d do things like write love notes in the margins of my composition book or try to kiss me while I was trying to read. I could just imagine what he’d do when he learned the topic of my homework was intimacy!
But on the other hand, I did need to practice swimming.Otherwise, I’d probably try to turn in the lane tomorrow and end up somewhere near Timbuktu.
“You kids on or off?” barked the bus driver.
“On,” I said suddenly, skipping up the metal stairs. In the end, it wasn’t worry about my flip turn that tipped the scales toward going home with Chris. To be honest, I just wanted to spend time with him, to feel his arms around me, his cheek brush against mine, the gentle searching of his lips.
Of course, I didn’t tell him I was
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