Two
I get three hours of sleep before morning swim practice, then it’s time to freeze in my swimsuit in the dimly lit pool building beside Capital City High.
“I still can’t believe you almost died, ” exclaims Kristen Smithson, my best friend, as she snaps on a pink swim cap.
We stand on the pool deck, where the smell of too much chlorine overpowers the smell of seventy teenagers’ body odor.
I told Kristen about my night as she drove me to practice this morning, and she’s been talking about it since.
“Shh. The Super said people are hunting me.” I check if anyone overheard, given our echoey surroundings, but our teammates just yawn around the plastic bin, painted like a treasure chest, that stores our kickboards.
Foam noodles rest on hooks above it for when the pool is open to the public.
We’ve all heard the rumor of a junior a few years ago who used a noodle instead of a kickboard at practice and blew water at everyone during drills.
Apparently, our coach—slash my sister, if you can believe it—Arielle, kicked him off the team faster than you can say “butterfly.” Mere mortals had rarely fooled around in front of Arielle before that, and no one ever does now. Especially not me.
“Do you believe him?” Kristen asks, continuing to discuss D.S. “That Madeline Roberts is in black books, or whatever?”
“My picture in that guy’s wallet seemed pretty legit…” I start, interrupted by the BEEEEEEP of the pace clock blasting. We both jump, though this happens every morning. 5:00 A.M., time for practice.
Arielle Bridges—maiden name Roberts—likes to begin swim practice with a pep talk, but today she’s by the diving board chatting with a kid I don’t recognize.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he’s built like a competitor and has pale skin, harsh gray eyes, and charcoal hair plastered to his forehead.
Unlike the other guys around me, he’s wearing a shirt.
“Who’s that?” Kristen asks, still not using her indoor voice.
“No idea,” I whisper.
“Do you think he’s joining the team?”
“Doubt it. Arielle doesn’t let people join after the first practice.” Every year, basketball and dance team rejects try, but Arielle refuses to be anyone’s second choice.
“Too bad.” Kristen sighs. “He’d make smelling like chlorine all day worth it.”
She puffs out her chest to display the writing on her swimsuit, which she designed.
The fabric is sunny yellow with the words “Suns Out, Guns Out” embroidered, but with a huge X over “Guns.” For as long as I’ve known her, Kristen has been obsessed with fashion, using clothing to protest and sending the proceeds for her designs to advocacy groups.
I haven’t let her design a swimsuit for me yet—each of hers falls apart after two weeks.
Progress: they used to fall apart after two days.
The new guy catches us staring and doesn’t look away. He watches me as if he’s searching for something, and a spring releases in my memory. I’ve seen him before. Somewhere.
“Quick, move.” Kristen grabs my hand, pulling me sideways, and I stumble over her foot.
“Wow, thanks,” I say. Yesterday’s splashes still puddle on the floor and seeing them gives me a flashback: Boots sludge through a puddle, coming closer.
“Act cool,” says Kristen. “Arielle’s coming.”
Arielle Bridges is tall, toned from her own swimming glory days, and she always accessorizes with a waterproof clipboard, cropped leggings, and an obnoxious whistle.
“Alright, Sharks, listen up.” Her shrill command cuts through my teammates’ moans and groans. “The next person who whines about this glorious hour gets to start even earlier tomorrow. Let’s say 4:30 A.M.”
Every person within two miles of the pool stiffens because we all believe her.
Me, more than anyone. Once, when I was seven and she was fifteen, Arielle called the police after I stole a piece of gum from her overly organized backpack, just like she’d said she would.
She has one hundred percent follow-through.
I would exaggerate that statistic and say one hundred and one percent, but math doesn’t work like that.
“She got all the scary genes, huh?” whispers Kristen.
I scowl, though she’s right. Anyone who sees Arielle and me together immediately knows we’re sisters: same rusty hair, sharp elbows, and freckled skin that burns after two seconds in the sun.
But our looks and love for swimming are all we have in common.
Arielle gestures to the new kid. “This is Aaron Ryans, who’s just moved here from across the country. Please welcome him to the team and make him want to stay. This young man is our ticket to beating Hall this year , finally .”
Half-hearted applause smatters from the crowd, where Kristen claps the hardest.
Aaron quietly draws all the attention in the room. “Hey, I’m Aaron. Nice to meet everyone.”
“I can’t believe her,” I mutter.
“For real,” says Kristen. “Fox was supposed to be our ticket to beating Hall.”
“Pretending you didn’t just say that.”
“Okay, okay. Madeline Roberts is the world’s true freestyle savior.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I appreciate you.”
Arielle smacks her clipboard so forcefully that her ponytail bounces. “Quit dilly dallying. Go warm up.”
I grab my goggles and towel. While the building breeds mildew, the pool itself is an aquatic pearl.
Gutters line the perimeter to keep waves from adding resistance after a flip turn, and the temperature is a perfect 80 degrees.
Capital City High School spent its entire athletics budget to remodel it three years ago, after Arielle’s second year of coaching.
Interesting timing, given that’s when she married Phil Bridges, Capital City’s mayor.
Aaron gets to the starting block at the same time I do.
Lane one, my home for the last four years.
The farthest left, a lane at practice for the fastest swimmers to share.
Given Arielle’s enthusiasm for him joining us, I have no question that Aaron is spectacular.
He’ll also push me to swim faster. Win-win for Coach Bridges.
“Hey.” He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the deck, revealing strong shoulders and abs so defined, I can’t believe they’re real. I force myself to look anywhere but at him.
That water sure is bluish green today.
“I’m Madeline,” I eventually say, making sure Arielle is out of earshot. “And you are her latest project.”
“I hear you were her first.” He speaks slowly, with a disarming quietness. Despite the sharp shape of his muscles, his gray eyes hold a gentle softness, and there’s power about him that I can’t quite place. A chill brushes my bare legs, and I wish I had on a sweater, not my bathing suit.
“I guess so,” I reply. Actually, Arielle had thrown a full tantrum at our dad when I tried to join the team. Swimming was her thing.
“Looks like Fox is running late, best day ever,” Kristen says as she passes. She swims in a slower lane, which means we can make faces at each other, but not, as Arielle calls it, participate in distracting chit chat.
“Yes!” Something is going well this morning.
“Who’s Fox?” Aaron asks.
“The third member of our swimming lane.” Also a subject I’d rather not shed light on before 6:00 A.M. “ I’m sure his presence will grace us soon.”
Aaron snorts. Conversation over, I streamline my arms over my head and dive. I break through the surface and switch on autopilot. Seconds later, I’m half a lap in and already sprinting. When I reach the wall, I plant my feet on its cold tiles and push off hard. Time for lap two.
~
My hands slam into the pool’s cement edge.
Panting harder than usual, I rip off my goggles and submerge.
My teammates’ kicks pulse underwater, as if the pool has a heartbeat, but I am ahead of it all.
Victory. The beat crescendos when Aaron crashes into the wall—he’s finished seconds after me.
The serene sound of splashing brings me two minutes of peace, and for a moment I have a personal sanctuary.
When I come up, the good times are over. This is evident when a sing-song voice utters four words: “Nice to meet you.”
Fox Levine, with his sharp green eyes, blonde hair, and annoying grin, nods to Aaron as they introduce themselves.
Fox’s perfect skin is still tan from summer, gold under the fluorescent light.
He lounges on the pool deck, lazily sipping his signature red sports drink.
Every time I see him drinking it, I have this urge to snatch the bottle from his stupid hands and throw it in his face.
“Why are you late?” I ask. If anyone else had arrived thirty minutes after practice started, Arielle would have made them wash the pool deck with a single sponge.
If I had shown up that late—not that I ever would—I would be washing the floors of the whole school.
Yet, Fox’s punishments are nonexistent, and he gets into more trouble than the rest of us combined.
Fox turns to me. “Good morning, Maddragon. It’s stupendous to see your bright and cheery face today.”
He places his sacred bottle right on the pool’s edge, failing to answer my question.
Typical. The heavy scent of fruit punch lingers between us.
Aaron studies Fox and me, and I wonder how he’ll fit in.
Will he and Fox become BFFs, like Fox is with everyone but me?
Or will the dynamics shift in my favor for a change?
I glance at Aaron. He’s stopped staring and introduces himself to some guy in the next lane. A shiver runs up my neck as another flash of last night comes back : an icy drizzle, the creepy stalker, the mysterious Super.
Then comes the perfect splash: a graceful dip and smooth, spiraling ripples.
Everything stops when Fox swims, and all heads turn to observe his precise strokes. Kristen catches my attention from lane four and blows a raspberry.
The man’s rotten breath reaches my nose. His gun shines in the moonlight.
I steal a sip of Fox’s drink and wait for the waves to settle.
By the time Arielle approaches to give us our workout, Fox is playfully teasing a freshman on the deck.
Arielle gives Fox and me identical workouts, but she prefers to tell Fox what they are.
I’m left to perpetually kick five seconds behind Fox and his abnormally humongous feet.
I’ll never know what Arielle wants from me; breaking records—and sharing DNA—isn’t enough for me to be included in her life.
We were never close, and after that horrible night three years ago, she made it clear that we never would be.
When Arielle leaves, Fox turns and asks the same question he does every morning, “Everything splash-tastic today, Maddy?”
No, Fox. Everything is the opposite of splash-tastic, and you know it.
“It’s Madeline, and yes, I’m fine.” The answer I always give.
This generally ends our interaction for the day, so I drag my hands through the water, making it curl and dance, and brush Arielle off like she’s nothing.
When the decisions on my scholarship applications come back and I can swim in a college that’s in any other city, these practices won’t matter anymore.
I feel Aaron’s eyes on me. But as Fox kicks off the wall, beginning our next set of drills, I gear up to follow him. Despite my sister ignoring me and my having to share a lane with someone I loathe, I’m okay. Right until Aaron’s whisper hits me like lightning. “You’re lying.”