A Matter of Heart (18 page)

T
he taps come in a rhythm. I prop myself up on an elbow. Rhythmic taps mean Dad is in a good mood.

“Come in,” I whisper.

“Hey,” he says, slipping inside. I sit up, yanking the covers over my shoulders. The mattress squeaks as Dad sits on the edge, smelling of mint. “Tough day tomorrow, huh?”

“Yeah.” Tomorrow is Saturday and another Horizon meet I won't be competing in.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

We still haven't heard from doctor number two, even though Dad has called the office every afternoon. How long can it take to look over some test results?

“Don't worry about it.” He stretches his neck and it cracks with a little popping sound. “You don't need to prove anything.
You've got your qualifying times, and missing one more meet won't hurt you.”

“I know, but”—I swallow—“when will we hear?”

“They know it's urgent, Ab. Hopefully tomorrow. The office is open most of the day.”

I wiggle a hangnail on the edge of my thumb. “It's going to come back okay.”

“Of course it is. But don't go crazy worrying about it. Whatever the results are, we'll deal with it. You've already overcome so much. The way you're swimming on the beta-blockers? You're doing something amazing.” He clears his throat but I can hear how close he is to tears.

I yank at the hangnail. A tiny bubble of red wells up.

“You've taught me something,” he says in a halting voice. “I couldn't face it at first when we got the news. I'm embarrassed to admit that. But you never gave up. You found a way. And for you to get out there now and swim competitively and keep the dream alive, after everything…” His voice catches, and there's a gleam of wetness on his cheek.

I look down, pressing a finger into my thumb. I feel the burn, watch the blood spread around my nail.

“I'm so proud of you, honey,” he says. “You're a fighter. And you're talented. So much more talented than I ever was. You're going to do this because you're stronger than any problem. And you're going to prove it when you get out there and swim that fifty on beta-blockers—and win.”

My chest is so tight I can hardly breathe. “Dad.” I try to fill my lungs, but it's only my eyes that are full. “I don't want you to be disappointed.”

He stops me with a pat of his hand. “I won't be. Ever.”
Something loosens inside of me, and then he adds, “Maybe it won't be first or second, Ab. I understand that. But I've been mapping your times over the past week and you're in contention. Top three for sure.”

I force a smile, and thank God there isn't enough light coming in from the hall for him to see me clearly.

“You know, I was thinking,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow before the meet, you and I can go to Lifeline. If you can't swim for Horizon, maybe you can swim for me.”

“Oh, Dad.” I shake my head.

“Just to get it on record.”

“I'd like to, but…” I shrug. “Coach needs me early to set up. It's a home meet.”

He's quiet a second. “Okay. All right.” He squeezes my arm. “Maybe Sunday, then?”

“Sure. Sunday.”

On Sunday, I'll figure something out. Or maybe by Sunday I'll have the results.

“Well, then,” he says, “I'd better let you get some sleep. You still doing your stretches every day?”

I nod.

“Taking your vitamins? Staying hydrated?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He's quiet for a long second. I hear his breath in time with mine. “I love you so much, Ab.”

“I love you too, Dad,” I say.

And that, at least, is the absolute truth.

“H
ow do I look?” Jen says.

I turn away from my bathroom mirror and then laugh. She's stuck a squirt gun into the cleavage of her vest. “Like a killer slut,” I say.

She looks back at herself and the gun wobbles. “If anyone touches my boobs, they could die. Literally.”

It's finally Saturday evening and full dusk outside the bathroom window. We haven't had our first trick-or-treater yet, but I'm guessing any minute now. Mom and Dad are setting up chairs outside. It's become a tradition for all the neighbors to gather in the cul-de-sac and sip spiked hot chocolate while passing out candy.

I'm so ready for a party. For a major distraction. Dad talked to the doctor's office this morning and they promised to call today.
But today is now tonight and still no phone call. I need something else to concentrate on, and a gun in Jen's cleavage seems like a good choice.

“You're not really going to wear it like that, are you?”

“Please. I'm not a tacky serial killer.” She pulls the gun free and sticks it in the back waistband of her pants. “What do you think?”

“More tasteful, but it covers the tramp stamp.” We spent nearly an hour applying glitter tattoos in the space of our lower back, just above our panty line. Mine says
I DARE YOU
. Jen's says
WICKED
.

The iPod is on and playing Taylor Swift. In rhythm, Jen turns to study her tattoo, trying different ways to angle the gun. “I wonder if it was this difficult for Bonnie every time she went out with Clyde.”

“Don't forget we also have machine guns.”

“I know.” Sadly, she cradles the plastic gun in her palm. “This little baby isn't menacing, but it shoots Silly String, and I don't want to give that up.”

“Fashion or firepower,” I comment. “Sometimes we just can't have it all.”

The party doesn't start for another hour, but we've been getting ready ever since the meet ended this afternoon. Horizon won and sealed our spot at the top of the district.

Jen had an amazing day. First in the 200-yard free and second in the 100 free. She hugged me after the 100 and I had to fight back tears.

“I know this is complete torture for you,” she said, her head bent so our foreheads touched, her wet arms across my back—two cold spots chilling my sun-warmed skin.

“It's okay. It's also completely wonderful for you.” I squeezed her shoulders.

For years, guys have ribbed her for those shoulders, for the bands of muscle—for being stronger than them. But Jen never lets it get to her. Now, for the first time, I wish I had some of that strength. “You know I'm pretty coordinated,” I said. “I can feel crappy for myself at the same time I feel happy for you.”

“Yeah?”

I pulled back so she could see into my eyes. “Yeah.”

That helped me get through the day until the guys' 100. Like last week, you could feel the competition between Connor and Alec. The tension rippled through everyone when they lined up, and when the race ended, the gasps were shocked and loud.

Alec beat Connor.

It was close, literally three-tenths of a second between them, but Connor was furious after the race. I told him the same thing everyone else told him—he'd had a bad start off the blocks. It happened to everyone at least once. And it was the truth. He'd been slow to get in the water and Alec had touched him out.

But even now, hours later, I'm still wondering if that's all it was. If maybe it had something to do with the inhaler I found in Alec's swim bag. Coach should know about that—I need to tell him. I'm not sure why I haven't.

“Brown or black?” Jen asks.

I blink, coming back to the present. She's holding up two eyeliners. The brown matches her eyes, but I point to the black. “Go double thick, top and bottom.”

She leans in toward the mirror and I can't help smiling. It's half the fun of a party—getting ready. Even Jen, who never
wastes time with extra primping, sat still while I painted her nails Graveyard Gray. We straightened each other's hair, the heat of the clamp adding a gloss that's made Jen's hair nearly black and mine a deep, shiny brown. For once, Jen agreed to nix the pony holders, and we're wearing our hair long and loose.

Our costumes turned out perfect. We found matching pinstripe vests that look good on both of us, even with Jen's muscles and my slender build. I'm longer in the torso, so mine is just short enough to show off a flash of belly button. I'm wearing gray trousers and Jen's got on black skinny jeans. I tried to get her to wear stilettos, but in the end, she went with her boots. “I can't go on a killing spree with uncomfortable shoes.”

I'm dusting bronzing powder over my cheeks while Jen smudges on the black eye pencil. “So,” she asks, “has Connor told you what he's dressing up as?”

“Not yet.” I dab a little perfume in my cleavage.

She raises her eyebrows.

“What? I read it in a magazine article.”

“Let me guess,” she says dryly. “Tips for losing your virginity?”

“I don't need tips.”

“No,” she agrees, “because any girl can get laid. All she has to do is say yes. It's a proven scientific fact.”

“Really? You found that in a scientific journal?”

“Yes,” she lies. “With pictures. Huge, overdeveloped hormones. Tiny pea brains.”

“Connor does not have a pea brain.”

“When it comes to sex he does. You could spray baby poo between your boobs and he'd still say yes.”

I roll my eyes. “It's perfume, Jen. Not a neon sign that says ‘Sex Here.' ”

“Good. Because you want your first time to mean something.”

“It would mean something with Connor.”

She's quiet for a second. I can tell she's working up to something. When her eyes meet mine in the mirror, the humor is long gone. “Do you love him, Ab? Really?”

I see his face in my mind. His blue eyes. The feel of his hand when he sweeps it up my arm. His sexy smile.

He's lazy
. Alec's words jump into my head and I shut my eyes for a brief second, short-circuiting whatever neuron that came from. But mixed feelings I can't sort out are working through me. I know we're perfect together, but is it because we both swim fast? Why does something feel wrong lately? Is it me? Is it him? Or is it the two of us as a couple? A flaw, like a thick heart wall that you can't believe because it doesn't make sense?

I
need
things to make sense. “Before all this happened,” I say, “it felt like that was where it was going. Maybe it still is. It's all mixed up.” I see the flash of worry in Jen's eyes. Is she worried for me—or is she in love with Connor?

I'm suddenly aware of a muffled ring. My breath speeds up as I open the door. It's the phone. There's a cordless up here, but I have no idea where it is. Under a pile of clothes, probably.

“You have to get that?” Jen asks, surprised.

“It might be the doctor.”

I'm halfway down the stairs when the ringing stops. “Hello,” I hear my mom say, puffing for air. She must have had the front door open. I stop where I am, just around the corner in the stairway. I can't see her, but I can hear. “Yes, hello, Dr. Walters.”

I sink quietly down and sit on the edge of the step. I dig my toes into the brown carpet, curling them under until I can't see the Graveyard Gray on my toenails.

“Thank you so much for the call. No, no problem. This means so much to my family.”

I hear a soft footfall behind me and then Jen is sitting down, nudging my hip so she can squeeze in next to me.

I meet her questioning gaze and nod.

She grips my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back. In seventh grade, we went to a swim camp in California, just Jen and me. Jen had read a report that the most dangerous time on a plane was takeoff, when the fuel tanks were full. “We have to concentrate,” she said. “And help the pilot fly.” And we squeezed our eyes shut and held hands and together we helped get the plane safely off the ground.

As we hold hands now, it feels like that. Like if we hold on tight and focus, everything will be all right.

I listen, straining not for the words but for the tone of Mom's voice. For a clue. And then I hear it.