Goldfish (14 page)

I sink deep inside my sleeping bag. All this hard work for nothing! After a few seconds, I poke my head back out to see what's going on. They've fallen silent. Roman and Gabriel are staring at Pete in utter astonishment.

“What?” I demand, pushing my hair out of my face. “What have I missed?”

“Pete just apologized,” whispers Roman.

“Do it again,” says Gabriel incredulously.

“Oh, shut up!” snaps Pete. “I'm sorry, OK? I really thought my dad would come through for me.”

“To be fair…” I say slowly.

“Oh, seriously, Lou, can you not?” interrupts Pete. How is
everyone
allowed to make fun of him except me?

“I wasn't going to!” I protest. “I was going to say that he got a gigantic truck across town, carrying a quite big and” (I hiss this bit) “
stolen
fish tank in it,
and
he managed to put it together, sort of. Your dad did all that because he loves you (and is criminally reckless), but it's still amazing.” I trail off, suddenly becoming shy again.

Pete's dad ambles up.

“No good, then?”

We hesitate.

“It's brilliant, Dad, thanks,” lies Pete, and hugs his dad, who gives him a surprisingly comfortable hug back.

“Thanks, Pete!” we all say with big fake smiles.

“Good,” says his dad. “Call me when you need me. I'll be in the pub.”

“Aaahh,” says Gabe as we watch Pete Senior wander off. “I love to hear those words from the man who's driving me home in a ten-ton truck.”

There's a shrieking, scratching noise behind us, and we turn around just in time to see the tank collapse in on itself. A raggedy cheer and a round of applause rises up from the line.

So it's come to this, I sigh to myself. Plan B—as in Bloody Stupid.

I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and divest myself of a couple of sweaters. I'm walking to my doom, and I don't want to look like a laundry basket that sprouted legs. I've been formulating a desperate idea for the past ten minutes that I really hoped I wouldn't have to put into action. I head toward the TV cameras at the front of the line.

I see Debs from the back; she's standing just inside the entrance to the aircraft hangar. She's leaning on one leg slightly, hand on hip. Even when she's relaxed, Debs always looks ready to pounce and kill. Which doesn't help right now.

“Debs?” I say. She doesn't turn around. She's watching her girls give an interview to two smooth-faced men holding microphones.

“COACH!” I yell, and she wheels around. Instinct.

“Can I talk to you?” I ask.

“Not now.” She turns back, dismissing me. Hannah would do this so much better than me, but she's not here, so it's up to me. I grab hold of my inner Hannah and take a deep breath.

“Durbs!” I announce in a reedy shout. Oops, spit bubble in my throat.

Ahem.

“Debs!” I shout less froggily. “I'm sorry I didn't swim fast enough at the Olympic time trials. I'm sorry that after all your coaching and hard work, I just wasn't good enough! I'm a failure!” The camera hovers over to me.

“But now I've coached a team of swimmers for this show, and it's helping me feel confident again! I just want a chance to show what we can do and make my gran proud. My gran who … died.” I shield my eyes so I don't cry (very little risk of that TBH—both my grans are fine). The crowd around me murmurs sympathetically. I've seen this show; I know how it works. I lift my face out of my hands and do Big Eyes at Debs.

“So please, Debs, can we borrow your—bespoke pool?” The world goes very quiet as I stare at her and wonder what she'll do next.

Debs has a peculiar look on her face and I realize she doesn't know what to
feel,
let alone fake. I really have got her on her weakest area here. Genius, Lou! And only a little bit humiliating for me, but no worse than having tampons flicked at your head.

“That's a beautiful story,” says one of the presenters, putting an arm around each of us. From the look on Debs's face, I'd be surprised if he gets that back in one piece.

“Great backstory. I know we can't wait to see these two former Olympic teammates become rivals today.” He's not really talking to us; he's twinkling at the camera. Debs looks homicidal, so I say, “Thanks, Coach!” and run off.

“Hey!” A man with a walkie-talkie gestures to me. I hesitate, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “The pool will be here. Come and find us when you're a hundred away from the head of the line, OK?” I nod and run off to tell the boys.

 

chapter 21

My team is so pleased with me that they spend a ten on snacks from the local gas station and shower me in chips. An hour later, the chips are all gone and my hair feels salty, but I feel happy. This audition might actually happen. I make the boys stretch so their muscles don't stiffen up. They protest that they look stupid.

I nod at a woman dressed as a cow. This is not the place for shy people. Now get stretchy.

Roman keeps running to the head of the line to count back and see how far away we are from the front. Finally he sprints back, shouting, “Ninety eight!”

“OK, people, this is go, go, go!” I say, sounding a bit like Debs. We sprint to the entrance. I'm blinking in the unfamiliar darkness when a blank-faced security man puts his hand on my chest.

“Sorry, sir…”

I take out my hair clip, and my hair tumbles down.

He takes his hand off my chest
very
quickly and begins apologizing. I walk past him and find my walkie-talkie guy, who is standing on top of a big podium, shouting and pointing at things. Everyone's very busy here, in a sort of “Behold my busy-ness, marvel at my loud efficiency!” kinda way.

“Excuse me!” I shout up at him, my voice sounding all weedy in the aircraft hangar. I'm aware that the security guard will soon be hot on my heels.

“It's me, swimming-pool girl? Can we have a look at the pool we're borrowing, please?” He nods at me and whispers something stern to his wrist. I hope he's got a microphone up there; our last pool provider was a little mad; we need this one to be less so.

“OK,” he says, stepping down from the podium and heading toward us. He's listening to something in his earpiece and talking to us but looking three feet above our heads.

“They're just finishing up in there. The girls were doing a demo for the cameras.” He jerks his head toward a big black curtain behind him. I'm desperate to see Debs's routine, and I step forward without thinking. Wrists Man puts a hand up to stop me.

I can hear splashing and bare feet padding around in there, some murmured thank-yous, then silence. Wrists Man peers around the curtain and nods at us to go through, holding it open for us. Gabe plucks at my arm in excitement, I pluck his back, painfully hard, and we do “Eeee!” faces at each other. We step through the curtain and stop, dazzled by the bright studio lights.

The pool is a huge, freestanding circle, about twelve feet high. It dwarfs us, and it takes me a few seconds to walk all the way around it, running my fingers admiringly over its sides.

All the way around … its … sides.

The sides are made of black plastic. I can't see into the pool. Of course, because they're doing normal synchronized swimming. I'm an idiot.

I keep walking until I bump into the boys. Pete is resting his forehead on the side, looking suddenly very tired.

“You can't see in,” he says, though there's no need. Gabe picks at one of the edges.

“It won't come off,” he adds.

Roman thumps his head a few times against the side of the pool.

Debs appears. “Stop that. It's bespoke.”

We walk back outside in silence, past Wrists Man and the presenters, who look confused about the kids who skipped into the studio and trudged out minutes later, all hope gone. Once we're outside we turn left as if to rejoin the line when we realize there's no point.

“You didn't even
see
the pool?” Pete asks.

“No!” I say. “I couldn't, 'cause it was backstage and I didn't even think. I … I just thought I'd fixed everything,” I trail off miserably.

“Never mind,” says Roman, but he doesn't sound at all like he means it.

We head toward Pete's dad's truck, as it seems the only thing left to do. Mom calls as we walk. I answer and tell her what happened in a half whisper. Right now I feel like Pete and Roman are having to stop themselves from yelling at me. This isn't fair. I did my best. Gabe puts a comforting arm around my shoulders. (Luckily, I'm stooped with sadness, or he would have struggled to reach.)

Mom hangs up and, just as I'm thinking, Never mind, in a couple of hours I'll be in bed eating cheese on toast, I see that the megatruck has been booted.

Then I see Pete Senior weaving toward us with the snooty air of a drunk person who's trying to hide it, and I'm grateful that it has. Dad does this at Christmas: “Ah am
shimply
overwhelmed by all the festivitivitivi … turkey.”

“Oh, balls,” says Pete Senior, and gives the boot a halfhearted kick. He takes it very well, I must say, but I guess if you don't plan ahead, you're less fussed when plans suddenly change.

We stand around the collapsed fish tank while Pete's dad makes a series of phone calls to friends. Not standing too close in case it collapses further and also because a bored line of hopeful
BHT
contestants are taking selfies in front of it. They're all blatantly going to end up online, and I don't want to be tagged.

Not that I'm on Facebook. It's one thing to not have
loads
of friends, but there's no need to flaunt it publicly.

Pete's dad fetches us coffee from the gas station. Mine tastes like licking a battery and is not going to help my stomachache, but I feel so adult. Finally three cars turn up, driven by men who all nod at Pete before having huddled chats with his dad. They each take a shard of glass and wedge it in the back of their car. It's quite impressive, like ants transporting a leaf.

A leaf that will slice your head off if you brake too suddenly. I'm glad we're not traveling with them.

Hang on—how
are
we getting home? We look at each other as the last car leaves and realize, yup, our TV dreams have gone so badly wrong that we arrived in a megatruck but we're leaving by bus. Hello, Hollywood!

Hollywood Bowl, just off the traffic circle, that's my stop.

We ride the bus in dejected silence. I'm WhatsApping Lav. As I type, something rubs against my chest. It's my whistle, tucked under my T-shirt. I hold it for comfort.

“OK,” I say suddenly. “This wasn't our last chance. There is one more public tryout. It's next week, and we will be ready. We have one week to
find a tank
. We're ready, the routine is ready. We can do this.”

The boys look doubtful, as do the people around us on the bus. So I pull out my whistle and give it a quiet but encouraging peep.

“We CAN!” I repeat.

“Yeah.” Gabriel nods. “OK.”

“Yeah,” says Roman, starting to smile.

“Yes!” says a man sitting behind me, caught up in the mood of the moment. He is not joining the team.

After a pause, Pete shoots me his first smile since he saw Debs's
bespoke
pool.

One week—we can do this. I hold tight to my whistle. I am a coach and this is my team.

 

chapter 22

Lou

Oh god, Lav, DISASTER at
BHT
. I don't know where to begin.

Lav

I've got the headlines.

Lou

How do you know already??

Lav

Twitter.

Lou

AAARRRGGH!!! **Kills self**

Lav

No no it's OK, it's not that bad I swear.

Lou

Really? HOW?!

Lav

Most people are misspelling your name.

Lou

 … LOU?

Lav

People are idiots.

Lou

Are they misspelling Roman,
Gabe, or Pete?

Lav

No.

Lou

I feel awful.

Lav

This will all blow over. Remember when that upperclassman wet herself in assembly?

Lou

No.

Lav

Exactly.

No wonder Roman and Pete were so grumpy. They have cool to lose, unlike me. Still, I don't like the way they snapped at me when things went wrong. I was trying my best, and the whole thing is not my responsibility. I'm two years younger than them, and they treat me like their mom
and
a servant.

But I'm not going to get resentful about it. I've done enough feeling sorry for myself this summer. We just have to find a tank.

(However many times I say that, it still sounds ridiculous.)

That night I go to bed early, tired out after the five a.m. start and all the public humiliation. Thankfully, my parents didn't make me go through it all again when I got in. Dad just handed me a giant candy bar.

I lie in bed, feeling bizarrely optimistic despite everything. At least I'm not dealing with this alone.

I wish I could talk to Hannah about it. Lav isn't the same—she knows more than me, so it feels more like advice than conversation. Right on cue, she addresses me from the opposite bed. No “Are you awake?” or any of that polite nonsense. Lav has decided it's Chat O'clock, so Chat Hats on and off we go. She looks up from her phone, musing.