chew-marked red before turning to find the trash.
“What exactly is she gonna catch from me?” Lindsey asked me. She tried to look pissed, but I winked at her and she cracked up.
“I can think of a few things,” I said.
Lindsey let that sit there for a little while, but then she asked again, and with complete seriousness, “But you’d go to Pride with me, wouldn’t you? You’d want to go to it. Just say yes.”
I knew that my answer meant more than just the words I was saying, but I nodded and said, “Yeah, I’d go. I’d go with you.”
She smiled big but didn’t ask anything more. They called her heat pretty soon after that, and I was just left there on the bench, waiting to be called up too.
We only ever had two days to get reacquainted, prelims Saturday and finals on Sunday, and then there was the matter of being there to compete. I had to be caught up fast. Lindsey had kissed five girls before, and had done other, mysterious, serious stuff with three of those. Lindsey’s mom knew a guy, Chuck, who was a drag queen, Chastity St. Claire, and Lindsey had seen him perform at a charity thing. Lindsey was gonna join the GLBU group at her high school. U stood for undecided . I hadn’t known, before Lindsey, that it was an actual category.
“Personal Best is good, but you need to rent Desert Hearts ,” she told me.
“I’m pretty sure they won’t have that at Video ’n’ Go,” I told her back after she explained the plot.
When Coach Ted passed out sign-up slips to house swimmers for our own meet, I didn’t even put the paper in my bag but rode my bike home with it pressed against my handlebars. Even though Ruth said we could sleep four comfortably if we used the pullout couch, I returned the little white slip to Ted with an X in the box next to: We can provide lodging and dinner for 1 swimmer . Lindsey sometimes got housed at meets and sometimes her dad came with his camper. I had a fifty-fifty shot. I tried to ask her about it casually, at the heat benches the next weekend, but it felt somehow like a big step.
“You’re coming to our meet, right?” I kept pulling at the straps on my goggles. I’d already spit in them twice, rubbed it around with my pointer finger, but I did it again.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” she asked, noticing my busy hands, my obvious need to be doing something other than looking at her and having this conversation.
“I don’t know,” I said, still fiddling. “Because the lake is gross and nobody ever comes to our meets.” The heat co-ordinator moved us to the next bench forward and I stubbed my bare toe, hard, on the edge of the cement lip of the pool deck, watched a blood blister form almost instantly under the nail.
Lindsey saw me wince and touched the top of my knee, left her hand there for a second longer than it took to ask if I was okay. “I like your lake,” she said. “It’s something different than all the other meets.”
“Yeah,” I said, and then didn’t know where to go from there, or why this was so hard, exactly. Then Lindsey started messing with her goggles, and we both sat like that, silent, on the benches some idiot had painted a glossy blue, the kind of paint that heats up like a car hood, toasts the back of your thighs the minute you sit on it in your swimsuit.
I waited until the walk to the starting blocks—when Ted said we should be visualizing the race ahead, focusing on our stroke length, our kick rhythms, picturing turns and pull-outs over and over in our minds—to finish asking her. “Your dad isn’t coming, is he?”
She had already put on her thick silicone cap, and she pulled one side out and away from her ear, looked at me like she was glad I had said something, even if she wasn’t sure what it was.
“I mean, to Miles City,” I said. “Is he coming to the meet? Do you need to stay somewhere?”
“I’m staying with you, right?” She said it so easily that I felt like I’d walked into a trap, into something I
“What exactly is she gonna catch from me?” Lindsey asked me. She tried to look pissed, but I winked at her and she cracked up.
“I can think of a few things,” I said.
Lindsey let that sit there for a little while, but then she asked again, and with complete seriousness, “But you’d go to Pride with me, wouldn’t you? You’d want to go to it. Just say yes.”
I knew that my answer meant more than just the words I was saying, but I nodded and said, “Yeah, I’d go. I’d go with you.”
She smiled big but didn’t ask anything more. They called her heat pretty soon after that, and I was just left there on the bench, waiting to be called up too.
We only ever had two days to get reacquainted, prelims Saturday and finals on Sunday, and then there was the matter of being there to compete. I had to be caught up fast. Lindsey had kissed five girls before, and had done other, mysterious, serious stuff with three of those. Lindsey’s mom knew a guy, Chuck, who was a drag queen, Chastity St. Claire, and Lindsey had seen him perform at a charity thing. Lindsey was gonna join the GLBU group at her high school. U stood for undecided . I hadn’t known, before Lindsey, that it was an actual category.
“Personal Best is good, but you need to rent Desert Hearts ,” she told me.
“I’m pretty sure they won’t have that at Video ’n’ Go,” I told her back after she explained the plot.
When Coach Ted passed out sign-up slips to house swimmers for our own meet, I didn’t even put the paper in my bag but rode my bike home with it pressed against my handlebars. Even though Ruth said we could sleep four comfortably if we used the pullout couch, I returned the little white slip to Ted with an X in the box next to: We can provide lodging and dinner for 1 swimmer . Lindsey sometimes got housed at meets and sometimes her dad came with his camper. I had a fifty-fifty shot. I tried to ask her about it casually, at the heat benches the next weekend, but it felt somehow like a big step.
“You’re coming to our meet, right?” I kept pulling at the straps on my goggles. I’d already spit in them twice, rubbed it around with my pointer finger, but I did it again.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” she asked, noticing my busy hands, my obvious need to be doing something other than looking at her and having this conversation.
“I don’t know,” I said, still fiddling. “Because the lake is gross and nobody ever comes to our meets.” The heat co-ordinator moved us to the next bench forward and I stubbed my bare toe, hard, on the edge of the cement lip of the pool deck, watched a blood blister form almost instantly under the nail.
Lindsey saw me wince and touched the top of my knee, left her hand there for a second longer than it took to ask if I was okay. “I like your lake,” she said. “It’s something different than all the other meets.”
“Yeah,” I said, and then didn’t know where to go from there, or why this was so hard, exactly. Then Lindsey started messing with her goggles, and we both sat like that, silent, on the benches some idiot had painted a glossy blue, the kind of paint that heats up like a car hood, toasts the back of your thighs the minute you sit on it in your swimsuit.
I waited until the walk to the starting blocks—when Ted said we should be visualizing the race ahead, focusing on our stroke length, our kick rhythms, picturing turns and pull-outs over and over in our minds—to finish asking her. “Your dad isn’t coming, is he?”
She had already put on her thick silicone cap, and she pulled one side out and away from her ear, looked at me like she was glad I had said something, even if she wasn’t sure what it was.
“I mean, to Miles City,” I said. “Is he coming to the meet? Do you need to stay somewhere?”
“I’m staying with you, right?” She said it so easily that I felt like I’d walked into a trap, into something I
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