checked religiously. How could Tabitha know about Hanna’s ugly duckling past?
When Hanna stared at the girl again, it was as though her features had been completely rearranged. Suddenly, there was more than just an Ali-like sparkle in her eye. Her Cupid-bow lips looked just like Ali’s. It was as though Ali’s ghost shone through Tabitha’s marred skin.
“Hanna?” Patrick’s voice cut through the memory.
Hanna blinked, struggling to break free. Tabitha’s voice still echoed in her ears. I bet you weren’t always gorgeous, were you?
Patrick gazed at her uncomfortably. “Um, you might want to . . .” He gestured to her collarbone.
When Hanna looked down, her pink dress had fallen down her chest, and half of her left boob was somehow hanging out of her strapless bra. “Oops.” She pulled it up.
Patrick lowered his camera. “You went dead on me. Everything okay?”
The image of Tabitha blazed in Hanna’s brain. But she wouldn’t think about it. She’d made a promise to herself. She wouldn’t let last night’s A message open Pandora’s box.
Hanna straightened her shoulders and shook out her palms. “Sorry. Everything’s perfect now, I promise.” The latest Black Eyed Peas song came on next, and she made a twisting motion with her fingers so Patrick would crank up the stereo. “Let’s keep going.”
And that was exactly what they did.
Chapter 11
Emily’s got a swimfan
“Ten one hundreds on a minute-thirty, leave on the sixty!” Raymond, the coach of Emily’s year-round club team, yelled at a lane from the edge of the pool on Tuesday. Raymond had been Emily’s coach ever since she was a kid, and he’d never diverged from his standard uniform of Adidas shower flip-flops and shiny black TYR warm-up suits. He also had the gorilla-thick arm hair of someone who used to regularly shave their arms for swim competitions, and the broad shoulders of a backstroker.
The clock edged to the sixty. Raymond lurched forward. “Ready . . . go!”
Emily pushed off the wall, her body in a tight, dartlike streamline, her legs dolphin-kicking frantically. The water was cool on her skin, and she could hear strains of the oldies station on the radio in the coach’s office. Her muscles relaxed as she stroked through the water. It felt good to be swimming again after such a long break.
She did a flip turn at the other wall and pushed off again. The other kids in her lane paddled behind her. All of them were serious swimmers, too, kids who hoped to get scholarships to choice colleges. Some high-school seniors on the team had already been recruited; they proudly brought Raymond their acceptance letters as soon as they got them.
Paddling strongly, Emily tried to let her mind go blank, which Raymond said would help her swim her fastest. But she kept thinking about the postcard in Ali’s mailbox. Who sent it? Had someone seen what they did? No one had witnessed what they’d done in Jamaica. There had been no couples kissing on the sand, no faces peering out of windows, no hotel staff cleaning the back deck. Either A had taken a wild guess—or else A was the person Emily feared most.
Emily touched the wall to finish, breathing hard. “Good time, Emily,” Raymond said from the edge of the pool. “It’s nice to see you back in the water.”
“Thanks.” Emily wiped her eyes and looked around the natatorium. It, too, hadn’t changed since Emily started here as a six-year-old. There were bright yellow bleachers in the corner and a big mural of water polo players. Motivational sayings covered the walls, and gold plaques of pool records lined the hallway just beyond the doors. When Emily was little, she’d ogled the records, hoping to one day break one of them. Last year, she’d broken three. But not this year . . .
Raymond’s whistle made a short, sharp tweet, and Emily pushed off the wall for one hundred number two. The laps flew by, Emily’s arms feeling strong, her turns steady and sure, her
When Hanna stared at the girl again, it was as though her features had been completely rearranged. Suddenly, there was more than just an Ali-like sparkle in her eye. Her Cupid-bow lips looked just like Ali’s. It was as though Ali’s ghost shone through Tabitha’s marred skin.
“Hanna?” Patrick’s voice cut through the memory.
Hanna blinked, struggling to break free. Tabitha’s voice still echoed in her ears. I bet you weren’t always gorgeous, were you?
Patrick gazed at her uncomfortably. “Um, you might want to . . .” He gestured to her collarbone.
When Hanna looked down, her pink dress had fallen down her chest, and half of her left boob was somehow hanging out of her strapless bra. “Oops.” She pulled it up.
Patrick lowered his camera. “You went dead on me. Everything okay?”
The image of Tabitha blazed in Hanna’s brain. But she wouldn’t think about it. She’d made a promise to herself. She wouldn’t let last night’s A message open Pandora’s box.
Hanna straightened her shoulders and shook out her palms. “Sorry. Everything’s perfect now, I promise.” The latest Black Eyed Peas song came on next, and she made a twisting motion with her fingers so Patrick would crank up the stereo. “Let’s keep going.”
And that was exactly what they did.
Chapter 11
Emily’s got a swimfan
“Ten one hundreds on a minute-thirty, leave on the sixty!” Raymond, the coach of Emily’s year-round club team, yelled at a lane from the edge of the pool on Tuesday. Raymond had been Emily’s coach ever since she was a kid, and he’d never diverged from his standard uniform of Adidas shower flip-flops and shiny black TYR warm-up suits. He also had the gorilla-thick arm hair of someone who used to regularly shave their arms for swim competitions, and the broad shoulders of a backstroker.
The clock edged to the sixty. Raymond lurched forward. “Ready . . . go!”
Emily pushed off the wall, her body in a tight, dartlike streamline, her legs dolphin-kicking frantically. The water was cool on her skin, and she could hear strains of the oldies station on the radio in the coach’s office. Her muscles relaxed as she stroked through the water. It felt good to be swimming again after such a long break.
She did a flip turn at the other wall and pushed off again. The other kids in her lane paddled behind her. All of them were serious swimmers, too, kids who hoped to get scholarships to choice colleges. Some high-school seniors on the team had already been recruited; they proudly brought Raymond their acceptance letters as soon as they got them.
Paddling strongly, Emily tried to let her mind go blank, which Raymond said would help her swim her fastest. But she kept thinking about the postcard in Ali’s mailbox. Who sent it? Had someone seen what they did? No one had witnessed what they’d done in Jamaica. There had been no couples kissing on the sand, no faces peering out of windows, no hotel staff cleaning the back deck. Either A had taken a wild guess—or else A was the person Emily feared most.
Emily touched the wall to finish, breathing hard. “Good time, Emily,” Raymond said from the edge of the pool. “It’s nice to see you back in the water.”
“Thanks.” Emily wiped her eyes and looked around the natatorium. It, too, hadn’t changed since Emily started here as a six-year-old. There were bright yellow bleachers in the corner and a big mural of water polo players. Motivational sayings covered the walls, and gold plaques of pool records lined the hallway just beyond the doors. When Emily was little, she’d ogled the records, hoping to one day break one of them. Last year, she’d broken three. But not this year . . .
Raymond’s whistle made a short, sharp tweet, and Emily pushed off the wall for one hundred number two. The laps flew by, Emily’s arms feeling strong, her turns steady and sure, her
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