Goldfish (8 page)

But twenty quid. I do need money. I'm never going to become more socially acceptable if I always dress like I've got the flu. Dad can't give me any while he hasn't got a job, and I bet Mom has higher bills now that there are four of us (and one is busy dismantling everything we own).

Gabriel put his phone number at the bottom, so I save it to my contacts, which now has
three
boys in it (though the other two are related to me).

I text him:
OK, when do you want to meet?
It looks pretty unfriendly, but then I don't want to sound too excited—I'm remembering Lav's rule. I hover my thumb over my phone, debating how to make it a bit nicer. Maybe an emoji? Probably not the poo with a smile, though it's pretty multipurpose.…

Too late! My thumb accidentally hits Send and I watch my unfriendly message whoosh away. He replies immediately. I would've waited a while to look unfussed, but he doesn't even bother to pretend.

Great! Tomorrow, 7 at the pool?

Cool. It's a date. Or, you know … something that couldn't be less like a date if it tried.

 

chapter 10

Weeez! I cannot BELIEVE you're a swimming coach! Are you the new Debs? Are you wearing teeny tiny shorts? When the wind blows do you feel it in your kidneys? That's how you know they're too small. I'm terrified about what I'm going to come home to. New news, they get us to eat raw fish here, it's gross!! Like eating the inside of your mouth. You gotta try it, no calories and all protein apparently. Hashtag fact of the day and you're welcome.

Han x

Aargh! It's my first underwater training thingy in half an hour and Mom's thrown all my clothes in the wash. Why does she do this? I run to the laundry basket in the bathroom. Nothing in there, so I hurry back to my (
our
) bedroom, keeping a tight grip on my towel, as it's currently the only outfit I've got. Maybe with the right shoes I can style it out.

Lav is lying on her bed, flicking through a magazine so shiny it's bouncing light around the room.

“Laaaaav?”

She looks up but doesn't take her earbuds out.

“Please can I borrow something to wear? I've got to get to my … job.”

She languidly pulls out one earbud. “You have a job? Cool! But of course you can't borrow my clothes. Best of luck with everything.”

“No, no, please!” I say before she puts her earbud back in. “Not your nice clothes, obviously, just like some sports stuff…”

“Sports stuff?” she says, as if she's never heard these words before but suspects they're dirty.

“Something you'd sleep in but I'd wear out,” I explain.

“Oh. Yeah, third drawer down.”

She hesitates. “Your hair?”

“Yes?”

If she says the word
pubic,
I. Will. Cry.

“Come here,” she says, reaching onto her shelf for a jar of oil. She pours a little drop into her hands, stands in front of me, and starts smoothing it gently through my hair. This is all very surprising.

“Thanks, Lav, this is … nice of you.

“It's good to see you cheer up, instead of lying on your bed, pretending you're not crying.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I was going to start hanging fairy lights off you to lighten the mood, but I thought you'd electrocute yourself with tears.”

I stand silently while she massages oil into my hair. Hannah and I used to make fun of Lav behind her back for being a ditzy “boy-centric,” as a teacher once said. But if this last week has taught me anything, it's that I am
not
the brains of the family.

My head and face burn hot, and the rubbing isn't really helping. It's like Lav is determined to bring all my shame out in one massive blush.

“Thank you!” I say, pulling away from her before my head explodes.

“That's OK,” she says. “We'll figure out your hair this week, then work on your skin.”

She has a way of making me feel like an old car she's going to fix up.

I run downstairs and out the front door, hearing Mom call something as I slam it behind me. It didn't sound like “Good luck.” Oh no, wait, it was “Don't slam the door.”

Whoopsy.

I run down the road and up the embankment toward the swimming pool. The number of times I've run this route, I could get there with my eyes closed, though I don't try it. I don't want to get hit by a car before Lav's “worked on” my skin.

Life is full of surprises, I muse, and a sudden draft around my midriff proves me right. My top doesn't reach my trousers. This is the last time I borrow Lav's clothes.

As I run, I feel an unfamiliar sensation.… It's my hair bouncing! It's never bounced.
Crunched
, maybe.

I round the corner, hurdle over a few flower beds, and burst into the swimming pool to the sound of cheering. I wheel around to see what I've interrupted. Is there a race on? But no, it's the three boys, cheering
me
!

“Here she is!” announces Gabriel.

That is such a great way to enter a room. I beam. Then I dial the beam down a little. Don't be too eager, Louise. Be cool.

I cough. I am
cool
.

“See you at the bottom,” says Roman, pulling his tracksuit off. I am so pathetic I blush. (Roman said “bottom” to me! Ha ha. I'll tell Han.)

“Not yet!” I assert, fiddling with my backpack to hide my blush. “I need to see how strong you are as swimmers before we start doing anything underwater.”

“Why?” says Pete brusquely.

I look at him hard. Maybe it's the run, maybe it's the fact that my hair bounced, or maybe it's the cheering, but I feel some of my old confidence return.

“Because while some people like to believe that ‘anyone' can swim, they are, in fact, wrong.”

Pete doesn't say anything but looks like he's biting back a nasty remark.

“And, sorry, I don't know your name…?” (I do know his name. I am being extremely petty, but it's
fun
. And I haven't been splashing around in much fun lately—I deserve it.)

“Pete.”

“OK,
Pete
,” I say, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet and feeling like a mini-Debs. I can see Gabriel stifling a smirk behind him. “I'm Lou and I'm in charge of you while we're in this pool. And I don't want you to drown. So I need you to show me that you can swim. Please.”

Pete sighs and slides into the water.

“I've been swimming for years,” he scoffs. “I'm probably faster than you. Don't get weird about it, but men are stronger than women, you have to admit.”

“Excuse me,” I tell him, and grab my backpack and head for the locker room. As I push through the door, I can hear Gabriel say, “Stop being rude to her. If she goes, we don't have anyone else.”

I march back out of the locker room a few minutes later wearing my bathing suit. I step up on the diving block and look down at them. “Four lengths, front crawl?” I snap on my swimming cap.

“Uh…” Gabe begins.

“Nope!” I beam at him. “Time to race.”

They all step up on diving blocks beside me and I nod at the minute clock.

“Let's go on twelve.” I watch the second hand slide toward the top, and then I dive, hard. It feels a little unfamiliar, sensations you forget about, like the feel of water slapping against your armpit.… I'm slower these days, but still faster than three cocky civilians. Probably.
Hopefully.

I start to feel winded on the final length, but I think of Pete scoffing at me and I push onward. I slap my hands against the side of the pool and lift my head. I'm aware that no one is next to me, and I get a stomach-lurching fear that they finished ages ago and are already out of the pool, playing keepy-uppy with a float or texting their girlfriends. Unsportspersonlike!

But I hear splashing behind me, and my stomach unknots. After a few long seconds, Pete slaps his hands down beside me, Roman a second later on the other side. Roman, panting hard, looks genuinely impressed. Pete even manages a rueful “whatever” shrug. I smile. Normal service has resumed.

We turn around, wiping water out of our eyes and ears, and watch Gabriel swimming toward us. He's just started the final length—he's not a bad swimmer, but he's slow and clearly exhausted. I don't feel like being cocky anymore.

“He's been ill,” says Roman suddenly.

“What?”

“Gabriel. He had ME for years. You know, myalgic encephalomyelitis?”

“Is that when you're tired all the time?”

“Yeah. Sometimes he didn't leave the house for months.”

So that's why I hadn't seen him before.

“It's amazing he's back in school, but he's not very fit,” Roman goes on.

This is an understatement. We have time for quite a lengthy medical conversation while Gabriel finishes the race.

“Is this going to be OK?” Roman says, looking from Gabriel to me as if I have all the answers.

“Yes,” I lie.

I don't know what they're trying to do. I don't know if it's even got a name or if it's just Drowning to Music. But I'm involved now, and as I watch Gabriel swim his final lap, I know I'll do whatever I can to make this work for him. Them, I mean.

Gabriel reaches the edge and staggers to his feet. He can't breathe; he's red in the face, but he's smiling. “You have no idea, but that's good for me,” he pants.

“That's good for me too,” I lie. I'm getting better with practice. “Easily good enough! Yep!”

 

chapter 11

We all dry off, put sweatshirts on, and have a talk about what they want to do. They show me some of their dance moves. If anyone walked in right now, it would look like they were showing off to try to impress me. Tragically, no one does.

People only walk in on me when I'm crying or picking up tampons, apparently.

The boys are really good—Pete and Roman can do a ton of strength holds and flips, and Gabriel is less strong but bendy and wiry. I can see them doing this as kids, Pete and Roman as best friends for years, letting Roman's little brother join in. Even Pete seems less intimidating when I imagine him as an eight-year-old landing on his head after another backflip turns into a back flop.

As they bounce around on their hands, it turns into a competition between Pete and Roman. I get the feeling most things do. I watch while their faces go redder, but they refuse to give up first, while Gabe stretches out a cramp.

“Did they say anything else … the tryout guys?” I ask, mainly to distract them so one of them will fall over and we can get back to training.

“Just that they had enough dancers,” Pete says in an upside-down gasp.

Gabe and I look at each other, OK, it's not the most helpful advice.

“And,” comes a voice from under Roman's sweatshirt, which is currently sliding down his torso and revealing … ahem, never mind. “They said that we had a strong look.”

Pete slowly topples over into the water wings box.

“Careful!” I call over. “They're covered in wart remover strips.”

Pete scrabbles out of the squeaking pile, making retching noises while Gabe and Roman laugh. I don't think I've ever been funny in front of someone who wasn't family or Hannah. I always feel hilarious
inside
, but the message never seems to get out.

“So…” Pete turns to me, rubbing his neck. “You don't know what you're doing, then?”

I stand up for myself. “Pete, dancing underwater isn't a Thing. I'm happy to help, but it's synchronized swimming without all that pesky breathing. Do you have any idea what you'll perform in?”

“Swimming trunks,” says Gabe promptly. “Ideally?”

Pete ignores this, though it makes Roman laugh.

“My dad works at the aquarium,” Pete says, like it's obvious. “They have these spare tanks, and we're going to borrow one.”

“OK,” I say slowly. “By ‘spare' you mean…”

“In an unlocked warehouse.”

“And by ‘borrow' you mean…”

“Well…”

“Steal?”

“Don't be dramatic.”

“Well, I can't see any problem with that plan at all. Great stuff.”

I rub my stomach, which has clenched hard at that news. Like I don't have enough to worry about. An ill swimmer, a grumpy one, and one I'm too shy to look at; a sport I think we're inventing on the spot; a local team already through to the final (and they're “really hot,” so woo for them) …

 … and now we'll be performing in a stolen tank that's probably full of old fish poop.

I reach for my phone to Google
illnesses from fish poop?

“Sorry?” Pete is looking pointedly at my phone. “Do you have time for that?”

He's right.
Rude
but right. I need to concentrate—we have a
lot
to do.

The boys slide back into the water, and I put thoughts of fish poo to one side. I've made a playlist for their training sessions. I was up all night choosing songs that were cool but, you know, not too cool; not self-consciously cool. But still cool. (It was as exhausting as it sounds.)

I rub my tired eyes—they feel like boiled eggs—and pop my phone into Lav's portable speakers. (I did ask her permission. Very quietly … when she was in another room.)

“I made a playlist, guys!” I announce to the group. It's hard teaching people who intimidate you. You find yourself calling them “guys!” a lot. I press Play and get them to do some leg stretches while they tread water. I watch their faces for any early signs of sneering, but no one even mentions the music. It must be OK.

School has taught me that people make fun of you when something is lame and stay silent if it's acceptable.