12 McKenna
McKenna
After practice Wednesday morning, I head straight to Hollyhock. Coach kept us late, making us run pyramid sets in the pool
until he was satisfied. As I make my way through the clubhouse, my legs are still wobbly, and I’m grumpy because I forgot
to pack my protein shake when I left the house earlier.
My stomach rumbles as I pass Kathleen’s office. She’s got her phone pressed to her ear, and when our eyes meet, I toss her
a quick wave.
“How’s it going with the kids?” she calls from her desk, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.
“Great. Really great!” I give her an awkward thumbs-up and keep moving.
Truthfully, it’s been rough so far. After the first lesson, Karyn gave me and Leo some pointers and then told us she’d seen
enough, that with the shared expertise between us, we’d be fine without her.
In the two days since then, I’ve only become more convinced that I’m not remotely equipped to teach these kids.
I feel a stab of guilt thinking about how I engineered this entire situation so I could get my service hours and appease my coach, yet I’ve paid very little heed to the well-being of the students.
But isn’t that exactly the same thing Meadowbrook is doing to me, using me to get what they want, putting demands on me without worrying about my well-being?
Like, maybe it’s too much to expect a scholarship student to complete so many hours of community service while also maintaining an impeccable GPA and a nearly impossible swimming record.
Yes, I know how much I’m benefiting from the deal, getting a free education and opening new doors for myself.
Maybe the same thing is true for my students—that even despite the flaws of the program I’ve created, they can enjoy some perks too, like spending time outside with other kids and having access to a beautiful pool.
But I wonder if a single one of them will actually make progress before the summer’s over.
Take Matthew, for example. He’s afraid of his own shadow. Anytime I suggest he touch the water, he starts rocking back and
forth with surprising speed and doesn’t let up until I back off. He and I both seem to be happier when I just leave him alone.
Then there’s Johnny, who thinks he knows everything about everything. He won’t shut up, and it’s really difficult to give
the other kids instructions when he’s always talking over me and moving in every direction. He just might be the most restless
kid I’ve ever met. Rohan mostly follows whatever Johnny does, so whenever things start to get bad with Johnny, Rohan’s encouragement
just makes it worse.
Elias has emerged as the complainer of the group, and Lindy, who’s very soft-spoken, apparently has Tourette’s.
Not Tourette’s the way most people think of it—like, she doesn’t scream out curse words at random.
She keeps shrugging her shoulders like someone’s asking her a question on repeat, and sometimes her head jerks suddenly to the side, as if she’s been slapped by an invisible villain.
I always thought only boys got Tourette syndrome, but when I asked Lindy to please, for the love of God, just sit still, she very sweetly answered, “I can’t, Miss McKenna.
On account of the Tourette’s.” So I guess I was wrong.
And then there’s Leo, who seems to have made it his mission to give me as much negative feedback as possible. I wish I had
a nickel for each time this week he’s said, “They’re not going to like that,” or “You shouldn’t do it that way.” He’s also
refused to get in the pool, focusing more on his role as teacher than student, which I suppose is fine since I’ve clearly
done nothing useful for these kids on my own.
I pass the large ballroom and continue through the smaller dining room where a buffet breakfast is being picked over by some
older men in golf clothes. At the far side of the room, French doors lead to the back patio and the pool. As I step outside,
I see Leo’s already here. He’s standing by the pool shed, arranging several large placards that look to be posters about swimming.
Continuing in his direction, I take the opportunity to study him.
In his pink polo shirt and navy swim trunks, he looks like any other country-clubbing sixteen-year-old boy, except for the awkward posture and the way he moves his fingers.
Each time he releases one of the poster boards, it’s as if he’s playing an imaginary piano.
He’s a lanky kid with gangly arms and legs, but he’s got a gorgeous face, with a jawline that looks like it was carved from stone.
Add to that the caramel-brown hair with a slight wave that reaches to just below his collar, and the dimples that pop on both cheeks whenever he smiles, and he could just about be a teenage model.
I don’t know if his ASD gets in the way of attracting girls, but I do know how image-conscious high schoolers can be, so I’d bet it does. I’m certainly not going to ask.
“What’d you bring today, Leo?” I ask as I look behind him at the different posters he’s arranged against the wall of the shed.
Each is covered with pictures that look to have been printed off the internet and taped to the board.
“I made picture schedules.” As usual, he avoids direct eye contact with me. “Sometimes people call them picture boards. Boards.
Picture boards. They’re not boring, even though ‘board’ sounds like ‘boring.’ Because if they were boring, they would be called
‘boring boards,’ and that repeats the same sounds, which people might think is funny. And if they’re funny, then maybe they’re
less boring than I thought.”
I’ve noticed that Leo is sort of obsessed with language. He likes to examine and repeat words, to use them in different ways,
almost as if the words are marbles and he’s playing with the feel and position of them in his mouth.
“Well, why don’t you just tell me how we should use them today?”
He readily explains that the pictures are meant to illustrate what the swim lessons will entail, how long they’ll last, and
what will happen during the instruction portion.
I study the pictures as he talks, and I see that they follow a very logical order.
First, kids are standing beside a pool. In the next picture, a grinning boy is stepping into the water.
Then there’s a picture of a kid floating on his back with a teacher’s assistance.
Right next to it is another showing a girl doing the same thing.
The next shows kids with the bottom portions of their faces in the water blowing bubbles.
I follow the pictures all the way to the end, where kids are walking away from a pool, each holding hands with an adult.
I’m not sure how Leo will get the kids to focus long enough to look at all these pictures, but given the abysmal job I’ve done running the show, I might as well let him take a stab at it.
Soon the younger kids start arriving. Johnny and Rohan show up together, as their parents have been carpooling. Rohan’s dad
watches the boys make their way to me before waving and turning back toward the way he came. Next comes Lindy, holding tight
to her mother’s hand. She’s wearing another one of her caftan-style cover-ups, today with orange Crocs on her feet and pink-framed
sunglasses to block the bright morning sun. If she ever gets to the point of putting her head in the water, we’ll have to
switch her straight from sunglasses into polarized, UV-blocking swim goggles.
When the others have arrived and are seated at the edge of the pool, I make the mistake of telling them we’re going to be
putting our faces in the water today.
Matthew starts flapping his hands up and down in obvious panic. He bumps into Elias, who is clearly affronted by the intrusion
into his personal space.
“Stay away from me, quiet baby,” Elias says, which only upsets Matthew more. Matthew jumps to his feet and starts running
in little circles, flapping even more vigorously.
“Hey!” Leo calls.
I didn’t even notice he’d walked over to us, but we all turn toward him. Even Matthew pauses for a moment.
“Who knows how fast the fastest fish in the ocean can go?” Leo asks.
Nobody answers, but the question has gotten their attention.
“Come see the storyboards,” he says. “They are not boring, and you can see how today’s lesson is going to go. Then I’ll tell
you about the fish.”
The kids stand right up and clamber over to the posters. I’m more than happy to take a step back if Leo can keep them under
control. Anything to get us through the half hour.
As Leo explains each picture, the kids seem rapt by what he’s showing them. While he’s talking, I notice a group of middle-aged
women walking out of the clubhouse in golf gear. They’re chatting loudly as they make their way toward the pro shop. One of
them looks our way, and I watch her eyes survey the kids, taking in their fidgety, jerky movements, and then Leo, who’s still
moving his fingers in that conspicuous way of his while he explains the pictures to the kids. I notice one side of her lip
move up, something resembling revulsion on her face, and I feel instantly protective of the kids. I resist the urge to flip
her off before I turn my attention back to Leo.
Rohan raises his hand as Leo gets to the end. Without waiting for Leo to call on him, he says, “Now you have to tell us about
the fish. Which is fastest?”
“You have to do everything on the board first. Each one of you. Then I’ll tell you about the fish. Fish, fish, fish. If you
say ‘fish’ fast, it sounds like a sneeze. But I can’t tell you the answer yet. First you do the lesson.”
Rohan looks like he might argue for a moment, but when the other kids start moving toward the steps, he turns to follow. He’s
whispering to himself as he approaches the pool, and I can hear him repeating “fish, fish” too.