14 McKenna #2
it’s a pretty effective mantra generally. But today it pisses me off. Why can’t I have bad days? Why do I always have to worry
about the image I’m projecting, about having the right kind of attitude? For once, I’d like to be allowed the freedom to lean
into imperfection.
But today is not that day.
“Again!” Lark commands from her lane.
I put on my happy face, slipping back into my prescribed role as the overachieving, upbeat athlete everyone wants me to be, as we belt out in chorus one more time, “No bad days!”
“That’s right, girls,” I hear from above us, and I look up to see our teammate Jillian making her way toward the locker room.
A white towel is wrapped around her waist, and water drips from the curls of her ponytail to the pool deck. “Something fun
has got to happen tonight, or I swear I’ll claw my eyeballs out. This town is so dead.”
After practice, the whole team’s going out for our monthly spaghetti dinner off campus. Most of the NARPs, the nonathletic
regular people, clear out during the summer, so the town surrounding Meadowbrook becomes just another sleepy suburban hamlet
full of families and early bedtimes.
“If nothing else,” I call up to her, playing my part, “at least you’ll get to suck on some long noodles tonight.”
“Oh, shut up, McKenna,” she says on a friendly laugh and then turns back toward the locker room.
As everyone else begins clearing out of the pool, I linger. Even though my arms already feel nearly boneless, I want to do
one more sprint just to see where I’m at. Once all the others have disappeared into the locker room, I call out to our assistant
coach, Marcy, who’s still busy scribbling notes on the clipboard in her hands.
“Hey, do you mind timing me for one last sprint?”
“Now?” She looks down at me, walking closer to my lane. Extra sprints are generally not encouraged at the end of a hard practice.
“You know your form’s going to be sloppy now.”
“Just fifty yards. Please?” She’s not wrong that I’m exhausted, but I’m craving the extra bit of release.
“Fine, but if I see poor mechanics, I’m stopping my clock.”
I nod and reposition my goggles down over my eyes before climbing up to the starting block.
“Take your mark,” Marcy calls. “Go!”
And then I’m gliding hard and fast under the water before cutting clean to the surface. As I slice forward in steady bursts,
I’m feeling strong and quick. With each rhythmic whip-snap motion of my breaststroke, I’m getting less pissed off about all
the extra effort I’ve been putting in this summer. It’s easy to feel like a fraud all the time. Imposter syndrome is so real.
But right now, as I’m moving with such power through the water, I feel entirely legit.
When I finish the second length and touch the wall, Marcy calls out my time.
It’s the exact same time I got in the qualifying meet back in February, down to the last tenth of a second.
“What the fuck!” I shout as I rip my goggles off and throw them across the pool deck.
“No, this is great, McKenna. End-of-practice sprint, and you’re right where you were after you tapered. You should feel good
about this progress.”
“Progress?” I nearly spit out the word. “This isn’t freaking progress. I’ve been busting my ass the entire summer, and the
clock hasn’t moved at all.”
I push myself out of the pool. “Let me see the stopwatch.” I hold out my hand, and Marcy passes me the timer. Glancing down
at the numbers, I see the ugly truth of what she said.
“Motherfucking fuck!” I shout as I hurl the stopwatch into the tiled wall across from us. The watch shatters, with plastic
pieces flying all over the pool deck. I don’t apologize. I just grab my goggles from where they landed a moment before.
As I turn toward the locker room, I notice Coach Cat standing at the other end of the pool. And from the look on his face, he clearly saw this whole thing.
Barely an hour later, we’re settled at three long tables at Bella Forno, a local Italian restaurant with painted murals on
the walls and old-fashioned Neapolitan songs piping down from speakers in the ceiling. With friendly waitstaff and big jugs
of wine, the place is packed nearly every time we come. Luckily, whenever Marcy calls ahead, the hostess, Gianna, who also
happens to be a Meadowbrook alum, saves these three tables for the team.
I chose the seat that was as far as possible from Coach Cat, but I know I’m going to hear it from him later. Now that I’ve
had a little time to process, I can see that Marcy was right. Back in February I never could have made that time at the end
of a practice, and that needs to be enough for me. I’m definitely making progress, even if it’s hard to take stock of it.
Coach notices me looking at him and pushes back his chair to stand, motioning me to follow him. I trail behind him as we make
our way back to the entrance of the restaurant and then into the quiet parking lot. I don’t wait for whatever he’s going to
say before I start talking.
“I’m sorry, Coach. I know I overreacted. I’ll replace the stopwatch.”
His phone rings, and he pulls it from his shorts before answering in a harried tone. “I can’t talk now, Paula.” He’s silent
for a beat while she says something on the other end.
“This isn’t the time. I’ll see you at home.
” He ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket before looking back at me.
“It’s not about the watch, Sonny. I thought we were finally done with these outbursts of yours.
You can’t fall apart every time something you don’t like happens.
You have so much potential, and you could have everything you ever wanted if you’d just stop getting in your own way. ”
“I know, Coach.” I look down at my feet. The strap on my leather sandal is fraying. I want to tell him about Glory, about
how hard it’s been to keep everything together since she moved out, but coaches don’t want to hear excuses. That’s what my
mom drilled into me the second time she got sick. She was so worried about her illness derailing my swim career, and I promised
her I wouldn’t let it. I have to keep pushing forward now, same as I did back then.
“I promise, Coach. It was a blip. I’ll do better.”
His eyes rove over my face for longer than I’m comfortable with. He’s probably thinking about how many times in the past I’ve
told him I’d do better, keep myself together, calm down, whatever I promised. I actually do feel sorry—not just about being
out of line with Marcy, but also about causing Coach any grief. He doesn’t deserve that either.
I’m about to apologize again when he tips his head toward the large windows of the restaurant.
“Let’s get back inside and put this behind us. Tomorrow is a new day, yeah?”
“Okay, yeah.”
With a satisfied nod, he turns back to the glass doors.
When he gets back to his table, he leans down to whisper to Coach Marcy.
I think for a second as I take my own seat about the rumor Rae shared, that our coaches were having some sort of illicit affair.
But I’m pretty sure he’s just filling her in on our conversation.
Never mind whatever strife I just overheard with his wife.
He’s way too obsessed with the team to ever jeopardize his credibility with something like that.
We order a family-style dinner, which is great because it saves us from having to narrow down the choices on the menu. It’s
also just another way for me to be close to my teammates, who really have become my family.
Lilah, a rising senior, elbows me. “Pass the calzone.” She’s decked out in a red tube top and low-riding jeans.
I hand her the large platter of mushroom calzone and then shovel another forkful of fusilli into my mouth. A movement across
the restaurant catches my eye. Two guys are standing near the door to the kitchen, and one of them is looking right at me.
When our eyes connect, he offers me a relaxed two-finger wave. I realize it’s Leo’s older brother, Harrison, or Beck. I do