14 McKenna
McKenna
I’ve gotten to Hollyhock early today because Coach let us out before our usual end time. Probably because he felt bad about
nearly killing us in the weight room. His repeated chants of “Strong beats tired, Sonny” are still echoing in my head as I
sit on the front steps of the clubhouse, scrolling through social media. As I swipe through picture after picture of Meadowbrook
students “summering” in Nantucket and the Vineyard or lazing around on European beaches, I try not to be salty. Even if I
could afford luxuries like that, the constant grind that is my life doesn’t allow for them. Just a few unscheduled days out
of the pool can affect a swimmer’s times. It wouldn’t matter anyway, I suppose. Glory’s condition has me tethered close to
home for the foreseeable future. I’m interrupted from my negative spiraling by the sound of Leo’s voice.
“McKenna, why are you sitting on the steps?”
“Hey, kid,” I say, looking up to find him approaching. “You’re very early this morning.” I smile to make it clear I don’t mind, but then I remember that people with autism don’t always interpret social cues accurately. “I’m smiling because I’m glad to see you,” I say.
I note Beck’s red sedan idling in front of us and watch as he lowers the passenger window.
“Hey, McKenna,” he calls, leaning across the seat. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping Leo early. There’s a meeting I have to
get to out in Greenport.”
“Not at all,” I call back. “Happy to have the company.”
He and I smile at each other, and I feel a little zing, but I push it away, waving goodbye and turning back to Leo. He’s standing
awkwardly at the bottom of the steps, like he’s not sure where to go.
“Want to join me?” I ask, patting the stone surface beside me.
“You didn’t tell me why you were sitting on the steps, so how can I know whether I want to join you if I don’t know what we
would be doing out here?”
“That is a very fair question,” I say, my smile widening at his earnestness. “I was resting here after a hard workout session
this morning and scrolling through apps on my phone. And then I guess I was just going to sit here and feel sad for a few
minutes, but now that you’re here, maybe I don’t have to feel sad after all.”
“Okay, I’ll sit. But I don’t want to feel sad. Why were you going to feel sad?” he asks.
“Well,” I start, preparing to sweep everything under the rug.
But for some reason, I feel a pull to open up to him.
“I was having some unkind thoughts about friends from school, and then I was angry at myself for not just being happy for them.” I keep unloading.
“On top of that, my grandmother moved into a facility for older people who need special medical care, and I miss living with her.”
“That sounds like you should be happy. For the part about your friends. You’re lucky to have friends,” he says, reaching into
the pocket of his swim trunks and removing one of those small airplanes he carries. He starts running his finger over a wheel,
watching it spin.
I want to tell him that most of the people I’m talking about aren’t really my friends, just people I know from school. Real
friends do more than put emojis under one another’s posts from time to time. But that’s all I get outside the swim team. All
that time practicing and traveling for meets limits how much I can connect with any of the other students.
Before I can clarify, Leo continues. “Anyway, you’re allowed to have any kind of thoughts you want as long as you don’t act
on them all,” he says. “That’s what my therapist says. Maybe you need a therapist too.”
I laugh lightly at his take and say, “Maybe I do.” No need to mention I can’t remotely afford that.
“You should be happy about your grandmother too,” he adds. “You have a solution for your problem. She needed special care,
and you found a place for her to get that. Sometimes I have problems with no solutions, and then it’s very hard to feel happy.
I don’t like to talk about those problems, so don’t ask me.”
“Okay, I won’t,” I say, perfectly glad to be told.
A bird flies out of a tree beside the steps, and Leo’s head turns quickly in its direction. He watches it flit over to the
next small tree lining the club’s driveway.
“Would you like to tell me some things that do make you happy?” I ask.
“Okay,” he says, but then he doesn’t follow it up.
“Go ahead,” I prod. “What makes you happy?”
“Airplanes.”
“What about them?”
“Everything.” His finger is still propelling the one little wheel of the replica in his hand.
“Like what?”
“They’re predictable and organized. Every part of an airplane has a specific purpose. The aerodynamics always make sense.
Even when a plane malfunctions, there’s a clear reason why it happened, not like with people. And if you like planes, you
can study maps and navigation. You can track flight paths. You can see the way the shape of a plane affects how it moves when
it’s in the air, and how different planes take off at different angles. They can have different purposes and loads, engine
power and thrust. You have to think about runway length, weather patterns. I made a PowerPoint of the first-class amenities
on different airlines. I like the way planes change over time, how they’ve gotten faster. I like warplanes and drones and
comparing planes to birds. I like building models of planes and showing them to my dad. I like talking about planes and going
to the Bethpage Air Show at Jones Beach to see the Navy demonstrations and the Blue Angels performing. I like learning about
aerodynamic efficiency and the different technologies they use for navigation and instrumentation, like GPS, inertial navigation
systems, and more traditional systems like flying VOR to VOR or ILS approaches, the cockpit instruments and what they measure—”
I interrupt and jokingly ask, “Oh, is that all?”
“No, there’s a lot more,” he says, “like air traffic control systems and regulations from the FAA and ICAO—”
“Leo,” I interrupt again.
“I’m not finished,” he says.
“I’m aware, but when people ask a question like that, they generally want to hear about two or three things you like, not
every last thing. I imagine we could be sitting here for many hours if you were to tell me every single thing you like about
airplanes.”
“Yes, many hours.” Leo nods sagely. “I think so too. Can I keep going now?”
“I want to hear about other things that make you happy, not just flying. And we don’t have several hours to be here, so I
think we’d better move on to the next thing on your list.”
“My brother makes me happy,” Leo says. “He’s the one who dropped me off. You met him and called him Beck Becker. But he’s
not Beck Becker, he’s Harrison Becker. He spends a lot of time with me, but I think my mother wants him to stop, and that
does not make me happy. A lot of things don’t make me happy. You didn’t ask about those, but do you want me to talk about
them anyway?”
“If you’d like.”
“No,” he says. “I still don’t want to. I like thinking about things that make me happy better.”
“Me too, but sometimes we have to think about the things that make us unhappy so we can fix them or make them better.”
“What if you can’t make them better?” he asks.
It’s a good question, and as I take a second to think about my answer, my phone chimes to remind me that the other kids in the swim group are going to be showing up soon.
“You know what, Leo? We need to get ready for the lesson. Can we finish this conversation later?”
“No,” Leo says, standing back to his full height, his lanky arms hanging at his sides again. “I don’t want to.”
I don’t argue, and he walks off toward the pool.
Six hours later, I’m back at the Meadowbrook sports complex for the second team practice of the day. I’m keeping pace with
Tilda Chen, another rising junior on the team, as we finish our last laps. The horrible AssaultBikes that Coach has been making
us ride during dryland workouts are definitely making an impact, and I can feel myself moving better through the water.
I’ve dropped a solid half second off my practice time since summer started. I miss the days when I was younger, when my time
drops could be as big as six or eight whole seconds during a new training period. Now that I’m older and my time drops are
so much smaller, I’ll take what I can get. The NCAA hasn’t announced qualifying times for the coming year yet, but with the
younger generation of swimmers going faster and faster, Coach Cat is expecting the benchmarks to go even lower than last year.
Tilda and I reach the end of our respective lanes at just about the same time, both of us huffing and puffing. Lark is on
my other side, also having just finished with her practice partner. She pulls off her goggles and shakes her head at me.
“Freaking swimflation is going to be the death of me,” she says between gulps of air.
“Tell me about it.” I pull off my cap and lean against the wall of the pool while I wait for my chest to stop heaving.
“If they lower the times again, there’s no way I’ll get an A-cut,” I say. “Coach’s expectations might be completely unrealistic.”
I wonder if I should be putting in even more hours at the pool so I can accomplish what Coach wants from me, but I can’t stomach
the thought of adding a single lap I don’t have to. I remind myself it’s just two more years, and then this soggy, regimented,
chlorine-smelling portion of my life will finally be over.
I must be making some sort of face because Lark interrupts my thoughts with her usual pep.
“Hey now,” she says, shaking the plastic of the red-and-white lane line between us. “What do we say when we have the dark
thoughts?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble back at her.
“Nope, not good enough.” She takes off her swim cap and pulls it over a couple of fingers on both hands, creating tension
in the silicone and aiming it toward me like a slingshot. “Now say it with me,” she says.
I roll my eyes, but together we both call out, “No bad days!” It’s a line our team uses before meets, and most of us agree