Girl Underwater (9 page)

“Please do,” I say, relieved that the easygoing mood has returned.

“Well, singing, as mentioned. Small talk. Hosting parties. Meeting new people in large group settings. Knowing when to shake hands or hug. I'm a hand shaker, but whenever I meet someone, it's a free-for-all. I hold out a hand, and then suddenly we're wrestling.”

I laugh, having been in that exact situation many times before. In Boston, it's handshakes and Mr.-and-Mrs. In California, it's hugs and first names. I never thought I'd miss the stodginess of the old ways, but I do.

“Handshakes,” I say. “Always the safer bet.”

“Glad you agree.”

“So . . . is that why you keep to yourself at parties?”

“I'm not as much of a loner as you'd like to believe. You just go to heroic lengths to avoid me.” He doesn't say this with any spite, but it stings just the same.

“I don't avoid you.”

He lets this go, but I deserve worse.

“Well, if you wanted to fit in more, you could do a few things differently,” I say.

“Such as?”

“Like, I dunno, blowing off the Fall Qualifiers. You know you really screwed the team when you did that, right? Especially your relays. They were counting on you.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.

“Do you have an explanation?”

“No.” He looks at me as he says this, facing the challenge head-on. I don't dare ask him again, though it pains me to hear him lie. It hurts more than it probably should.

The wind screams at the paneled walls, and that's when it starts: the storm. Flakes of snow topsy-turvying above us, the tempo increasing with each gust of wind.

Frustrated, I move to the opposite side of the lean-to, a feeble attempt to create some distance between us. The younger boys stay nestled in Colin's lap, while Tim takes the space between me and Colin, providing a small but welcome barrier. His slight frame does little to diminish the tension brewing between us.

“You sleep first,” I say, before Colin can utter a word.

He doesn't argue, but I know he won't sleep, either. As he pretends to doze, the snow sneaks through cracks in the roof, settling on our heads and shoulders. It reminds me of a finely tuned performance: nature's silent display of beauty, wonder, and merciless power.

“Avery,” Colin says, his eyes closed as he whispers my name.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Think of something nice.”

I hate that he can read my mind, especially when I'm angry. “Like what?”

“I dunno.” He shifts his weight, trying to get comfortable. “A good memory, maybe.”

Nice
encompasses so many good memories. Campus. Naudler Natatorium. Lee. Our first date. The night we danced under the fireworks. Our first polite kiss, our first real one. Seeing Hawaii for the first time in the company of a local. Sleeping on the beach under a moonlit sky.

My mind touches on these things but doesn't stay there. Instead, for reasons only my subconscious could possibly understand, it drifts to the first week of my freshman year.

Early September but it feels like fall, because in Northern California, every day feels like fall. Crystalline skies, a blazing orange sun. The outdoor pool glistens like polished aquamarine, beckoning me to dive in.

There must be a dozen—no, fifteen—lanes, and ten of them churn with the easy, practiced strokes of elite swimmers. Their mechanics are flawless: High elbows in freestyle, with a steady kick that propels the engine. The backstrokers keep their heads perfectly still, their shoulders subtly rotating as the arms follow. The breaststrokers cut through the water, a rhythmic, pristine glide that feels almost musical.

There is one swimmer, though, who stands out from the rest. A butterflyer. His dolphin kick is a powerful, undulating beat that starts in his quads and whips out in one fluid motion. He finally surfaces when it's
just
legal to do so, right at the fifteen-meter mark. His kick is that powerful, that efficient. Once he takes a stroke, he has to battle surface tension and resistance.

But for this swimmer, these forces hardly seem at play. He doesn't cut through the water so much as ride it, his tremendous arms powered by a brutal kick. His body works in tandem, the kind of rhythm that eludes 99.9 percent of swimmers. It's the rhythm of someone who was born to swim.

“That's Colin Shea,” says the girl next to me. Mandy, I think her name is. Or Marjorie. She's one of two other freshmen who
didn't
compete in Olympic trials last year. I like to think of the three of us as the clique of mediocrity.

“Oh. Who is he?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Who
is
he?”

Another girl chimes in. “He's the next Michael Phelps.” Then, in a hushed tone, as if this is some kind of sacrilege: “He's
better
than Michael Phelps.”

Someone blows a whistle, and minutes later, the whole team is on deck. The giddy chatter of my fellow freshmen dies down. Coach Toll delivers a stilted speech in which the core message seems to be,
These are our new freshmen. Be nice to them.
Then he drones on about practices, expectations, and teamwork. Oh, and have fun.

Fun?

The blitz of introductions is even worse. Names, faces, a roster of hometowns in states and countries I've never been. As the upperclassmen weave through the crowd, their small talk makes my head spin. They look intimidating, too. Pretty girls with copper complexions and perfect bodies. Guys who belong in
Sports Illustrated
or
GQ
or a hybrid of the two. A billion insecurities that had all but disappeared over the summer come rushing back.

“So, Avery,” one of the seniors says to me. I can't remember her name. “What's your event?”

“Uh, distance.”

“Distance?” She frowns. “I thought Coach said you were middle distance.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, middle distance. The 200. I love the 200.”

Her bronze face brightens again. I actually
hate
middle distance, but when Coach recruited me, he sold it as the perfect event for me. What he didn't say was that he already had a legion of talented distance swimmers, and that they were bigger and stronger than me, and that at five foot five and 125 pounds, I just wasn't
built
for the 1500. He also needed a middle-distance swimmer because his star 200 freestyler had graduated last year. His backup quit the team because of “academic difficulties.”

The truth is, I would have swum the sidestroke if he'd asked me to. I wanted to be a part of this team. At the time, I wanted it more than anything.

“Anyway, I, uh . . . I need to use the restroom.”

She laughs. “You asking for my permission?”

“Uh, no.” I smile in such a way that hurts my face. “Sorry.”

I make a mad dash to the locker room—to throw up? Cry? Flush myself down the toilet?—as the onus of what I've just done comes crashing down on me. A move across the country? To swim? With
these
people? I'm too small, for one thing. Those other girls could eat me for breakfast. In a Speedo, my modest chest looks flatter than an ironing board. My arms and legs are toned but thin. Too thin. And even though it's just after Labor Day, I don't have a tan. My dad enforces sunscreen use like martial law.

It's not that I'm uncomfortable with being an outsider; high school was not exactly a glowing chapter in my personal history. But college was supposed to be different. A chance to start over, maybe even be someone who mattered. Someone
cool.

I retreat to one of the stalls near the showers. It's quiet here, at least. Hidden. I look down at my collarbone, at the purple suit straps sloping over my shoulders. A subdued purple but purple nonetheless, which is devastating because everyone else is wearing black. Of course they are. Everyone here is a professional athlete, and I show up all decked out in something from sophomore year of high school. The swimsuit's design is a loud, childish network of yellow stripes and green circles on a purple background. I used to think the flashes of green brought out the green in my eyes, but now I realize how stupid that sounds. No one at practice cares about my eyes. I should have worn black. Black is for blending in.

To make matters a hundred times worse, I start to cry. Big, fat, baby-doll tears, an emotional flood that won't stop until I'm somewhere safe, somewhere familiar. I want to go home, back to Brookline. Back to the swim club that nurtured me, back to the high school that made me feel safely invisible.

“Hello?”

It's a guy's voice: deep, husky, a little rough around the edges. As my mom would say, it has a “city flavor.”

Oh God, I'm in the men's room.

“Um, yeah? I'll be right out. I'm so sorry—”

“Take your time. Just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

He's not coming in.
Whew.
Maybe I'm in the right locker room after all. I open the door and perform a quick scan of my surroundings: no urinals. Just an endless row of private stalls, the shower drains clogged with hair. Yes, this is definitely the ladies' room.

I throw some cold water on my face and pat down my hair to make it look like I ran off to fix some fly-aways. Not that this matters because we'll all be wearing silicone caps in ten minutes, but maybe he won't notice.

The mirror isn't friendly; my eyes are bloodshot, my cheeks puffy from all the crying. If I don't talk to anyone, I might be able to pass this off as an allergy to the sun. But the slightest provocation—a word, a memory, the sound of my name—will set me off again. And then everyone will see me for what I am: the mediocre swimmer from Brookline who thought she could change. Not just change but
contribute.
One glance at those forty faces, and I already know this team doesn't need me.

“You okay?” he calls out again.

I practice a few smiles in the mirror, take a deep breath, and head toward the exit. I'm barely out the door when someone—a very massive someone,
wow
—steps in front of me. He's at least six four, with broad, powerful shoulders. He has a warm, almost shy smile, though. It softens the electric blue of his eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw.

“Hey,” he says.

“Uh, hey.”

Colin Shea.

Of all people . . .

I recognize him from the roster, but his photo doesn't capture the athleticism of his frame, nor the grace with which he carries it. His face, too, looks different. He's the kind of person whose personality dictates how the world judges him: If he's an asshole, I might describe him as severe-looking, with the hardened eyes of a criminal. If he's nice, he's just ruggedly good-looking.

His voice already gave him away; the smile just confirmed it:

He's nice.

“Practice doesn't start for another twenty minutes,” he says. “Wanna take a walk?”

He doesn't fully pronounce the
r
in
start
—a dead giveaway for a Boston native. My nerves meter goes from a ten to a seven, but I'm still worried about crying in public. That dam hasn't yet sealed itself off from disaster.

We head down a path that leads toward the university's golf course. Some older men are digging through the bushes, searching for wayward balls. A fake pond glistens under the morning sun.

He doesn't say anything until we've navigated the thick branches of a weeping willow, which protects us from flying balls and curious onlookers. He gestures to a wooden bench next to the trunk, and we both sit down.

“Sorry for the kind of isolated spot,” he says. “I've been hit by too many golf balls to sit anywhere else.”

“It's fine,” I manage.

He holds out his hand. “I'm Colin.”

“Avery,” I say, giving it a firm shake. His strength seems to transfer through his fingers. It courses right through me, steeling my resolve.

“Great to meet you, Avery.”

I smile—reluctant, shaky, but it's a start. The tears don't come. Something inside me seems to find its footing again, the ground steadying beneath my feet.

“You, too.” I lean back a bit, watching the willow leaves as the wind takes them. “You're Colin Shea, right? You qualified for Nationals in six events last year.”

“Should've been seven.”

“Oh.”

“Kidding.”

I force one of those please-don't-think-I'm-a-loser smiles.

“I hope you didn't go memorizing the roster,” he says. “Just do your own thing. Don't worry about anybody else.”

“I didn't memorize everyone.” Just him, because he's incredible—a future Olympian for sure.
Doesn't he know this?

“Well, good. And forget all that stuff you read about me. It's hooey.”

“Hooey?”

“My sisters tell me not to cuss.”

“I see.”

He extends his long legs as he puts his hands behind his head. His hair is a wild, sun-kissed blond, though it probably gets a shade darker in the winter. He runs a hand through it, mussing the ends as it curls around his ears.

“Anyway,” he says. “I want to apologize for eavesdropping, but I heard you talking to Kara.”

“Kara?”

“Scary tan. Red cap. Asked you about your event?”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Right. Sorry, I forgot her name.”

“It's okay. I just call her Scary Tan.”

I see him smiling, and for the first time all afternoon, my heart finds its rhythm.

“Anyway, I know you hate middle distance.”

“What?” The defensiveness in my tone surprises even me. “I never said that.”

“Yeah, but you do. I can see it.”

“How? You just met me.”

“Well, you swam all the distance events in high school. Open water, too.” He studies his hands to avoid looking directly at me. “Sorry. I admit I did a little research. In any case, you're a distance swimmer.”