8 McKenna
McKenna
I’ve been hiding in the ladies’ locker room at Hollyhock, making calls to home health agencies. What I’ve learned is that
everything will be more affordable if a doctor verifies Glory’s needs, but now I have to figure out how to get Glory to another
doctor’s visit without tipping her off. I’m due back at the pool deck though, so it’s a question for later.
As I hurry out of the changing area, I overhear a woman at the other end of the hallway reprimanding her child. Even as they
turn the corner ahead of me, their voices carry.
“The only birthday party you’ll be having is one where the whole second grade is invited,” she says in a frustrated tone,
as if she’s already told the kid several times.
Right away, I know it must be Mrs. Cushing, Parker’s mom. During mini-camp this morning, Parker told me he’s having a pool
party to celebrate his eighth birthday. He’s very excited, save for the fact that his mom is forcing him to invite a boy who
Parker finds, as he put it, “so annoying!”
“But why are you making me?” Parker’s whine drifts back toward me as I follow behind them.
“Nobody wants him there. He’s going to ruin the whole party.
” They exit to the sunny pool patio, and I miss whatever is said next.
But as I push the door and step outside myself, I hear Parker say, “And he doesn’t even know how to swim!
” The kid drops his towel to the slate patio and marches off toward the shallow end of the pool.
When I was Parker’s age, I never would have wanted a pool party even if we could have afforded it. For better or for worse,
I had very quickly come to view pools as places of work, not play.
I’ve almost reached the swim shed when I notice Kathleen has somehow snuck up behind me. I slow down so we’re walking in tandem,
and she says, “Must be a foreign concept to you, not knowing how to swim.”
She’s right. I can’t imagine how crippling that must be, having to fear the water.
“I feel bad for the kid Parker was talking about,” I say.
Back when my mom died, during my second year of high school, I worried that I’d be the one getting left out—that people wouldn’t
want the “sad girl” around even after I was ready to stop grieving. It wasn’t like I’d been Miss Popularity before that, not
after I’d spent years declining invitations to parties and movies because I was so busy training. But I’d been relatively
well-liked and included in most big events, even if I didn’t have a specific group of kids I was especially close to. I guess
I was lucky to have swimming in that regard. It gave me a bit of cache, some sort of street cred, because people knew I was
good at something and seemed to respect me for it.
“That’s not even the half of it,” Kathleen says.
“The boy they’re talking about is Elias Rollins.
” She says it as though the name should mean something to me, but I shake my head.
“They’re members, so I’m sure you’ll meet them soon.
The other parents do try to be inclusive.
They invite him to things, try to make playdates, but the boy’s got some behavioral challenges.
It’s hard getting seven-year-olds to accept a child like that. ”
I pull a clipboard off the hook outside the pool shed to double-check the timing of my next lesson. As I’m looking over the
names, something occurs to me.
“Wait, the kid is a member here? Why hasn’t someone taught him how to swim?”
“He never wants to go near the water. I guess that can be common for kids on the spectrum?” She asks the question as if I
might know the answer, but I just shrug.
“That’s too bad,” I say, opening the door to the shed so I can get myself organized before the next lesson.
Kathleen follows me inside. “Maybe the private lessons were the problem,” she says. “Maybe he would have been more comfortable
learning alongside other kids.”
“Maybe,” I say, my attention catching on the pile of lesson request forms on the wooden countertop.
“Actually . . .” She steps farther into the shed, excitement creeping into her tone. “Here’s an idea for you. Maybe I can
help you solve your community service problem.”
I look up from the papers in my hand. “What? Teaching that boy? But you just said he didn’t like the private lessons.”
“No, I mean teaching a group including Elias, if he’s willing. A small group of kids with autism. So none of them feels singled
out.”
“I’m not trained for anything like that. I wouldn’t know the first thing about teaching those kids.” I reach for the three-hole
puncher and position a stack of papers in its teeth.
“Sure you’re trained for giving lessons like that,” Kathleen says. “You’ve been swimming forever, and you’re an excellent teacher with the other kids. What else would you need?”
“Like, I don’t even know the answer to that, which is part of the problem.” I laugh lightly and shake my head. “I don’t think
it’s for me.”
I remember when I was a little kid swimming at the Y, I’d often pass by the classrooms where the special-needs kids did activities.
Sometimes one of the kids would be out in the hall with a teacher, and my first reaction was to worry they’d talk to me and
I wouldn’t know what to say. I think I was nervous about being embarrassed—like I’d screw up somehow and other people would
see. Maybe it means I’m just a shitty person because my main concern was how it would reflect on me. But I was taught from
a young age that athletes are role models, always needing to set a good example; screwing up isn’t an option.
“No, think about it,” Kathleen pushes. “It could be the perfect solution for you. You’d be helping one of our members, and
I’m sure so many other local kids could benefit. It’d be a great look for the club in terms of giving back to the community,
and you could do it in the mornings, after your team practices but before the club starts to fill up. If you ask me, it’s
pretty darn perfect.”
“I appreciate you trying to help me with this,” I tell Kathleen, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “I just don’t think I’m qualified.”
She shrugs, willing to accept my answer. “Okay, then I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Wait!” I follow her out of the shed just as Coach and his family are approaching. His wife, Paula, offers a little wave as
they reach us. Vanessa follows behind them, looking at something on her phone.
“Sonny, hey,” Coach says. “I’m heading back to campus now. Want a ride?”
“No, thanks, I’m still on the clock. And I have my grandmother’s car.” Even though there’s a bus stop one street over, I told
Glory I needed the car for the summer. This way, at least I don’t have to worry about her getting behind the wheel.
“Why don’t you ask Coach about it?” Kathleen prompts.
“Ask Coach about what?” He smiles.
I fill him in on Kathleen’s suggested solution to my community service problem. “But don’t worry,” I say. “I told her I’m
completely unqualified.”
“Unqualified?” Coach scoffs. “Who’s a better swimmer than you?”
I’m tempted to rattle off the names of certain swimmers at UCLA, Georgia, and Texas, but I know the question is rhetorical.
“Sonny, I think it’s perfect. You’ll knock out your hours in no time. Take her up on it.”
“Coach—” I start to argue, but he cuts me off.
“Nope, this is too good to pass up.”
“Yeah, Sonny,” Vanessa says, having finally looked up from her phone. “You should listen to your coach.” Her inflection changes again
on the word coach, but I can’t read her meaning.
Even so, her words do hit home.
I will listen to my coach, just as I’ve listened to every coach I’ve had since I started swimming a million years ago. That’s
one thing my mom drilled into me over and over: If you want to be successful, don’t argue. Always listen to your coach.
“So it’s settled then?” Coach says.
“Yup.” I paste a smile on my face and then notice my next student arriving with his mom. “See you guys.”
After the lesson, I’m making my way out of the clubhouse when I see a blond woman sitting on the upholstered sofa in the lobby.
She’s got a hot-pink purse resting at her feet with the name Rollins stitched into the side.
I realize she must be the mother of the boy Parker doesn’t want at his pool party.
There’s an iced coffee on the table beside her and a Kindle open in her hand. I’ve noticed her around the club before—not
only because she’s always dressed in graphic tees and cute summer skirts that are a little less stuffy than the usual golf
and tennis gear millennial parents favor at Hollyhock, but also because she’s always alone. A country club is a social place
by its very nature, so I’ve wondered about her.
I head her way, hoping she won’t find my questions intrusive.
“Hi, Mrs. Rollins?” I ask, and she looks up from her book.
“Yes?”
“I’m McKenna, the swim director,” I say, and she nods, waiting to see what I want. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I
heard that your son, Elias, doesn’t swim, and I wondered if you might want to change that?”
Understanding settles on her face, as though this is something she’s been asked many times before.
“Oh, you’re sweet,” she says, lowering her e-reader. “We’ve tried already, so many times, but it seems Elias is happier on
dry land. We haven’t had much luck with a teacher, and we don’t feel we should force it.”
“I get that,” I say, “but maybe he’d actually want to give it a chance if he were in a group lesson, watching other kids doing
what he’s afraid to try?”
“No, hon,” she says, reaching for her iced coffee beside her.
“But thank you. Elias has autism, and he’s already developed some insecurities.
He knows that many of the other children would progress faster than him in a group setting, and he’d hate being so far behind everyone else.
It happens enough in other situations as it is. ”
My heart sinks. Even though I wasn’t enthusiastic about taking on this responsibility, hearing the sadness in the woman’s
voice suddenly wakes something in me. The thought of a kid feeling held back, weighed down by his differences, strikes some
sort of a chord.