In Deep (21 page)

But I can't let anyone get the last word on me. Especially not if it's Gavin. I can't let anyone throw off my control.

When I finally lift the phone, all it says is
good luck tomorrow.

Charlie.

I stare at the message, my heart racing.

thanks
I type back, holding my breath, eyes blinking, feeling weird.

I put the phone back down and ignore my own shaking. After that, I calmly walk down the hall, draw the bath, and sink into the bubbly warm water. I soap up my arms and my legs, and shave everything slow. The whole time, I force myself to breathe, put myself in that blue expanse of water where there's nothing but me, floating. Deep, deeper, so, so deep.

I think about floating. That is all I think.

EXCEPT I DON'T FLOAT. INSTEAD
I lie there in bed, thinking of Charlie, and Grier, and Van trying to push us all, and stupid Gavin and his mind games, and how I called Kate a sheep. I think of John Wilkes Booth on the run after shooting the president, and of Maria and her happy family. I think of going downstairs and trying one of Mom's pills again, and then I think of how shitty it made me feel and how that can't happen. I think of my disappointed teachers, of college, and parties, and sex, guys playing guitars, friends I had once, and ones I have never had. I think so much, I press my hands against my eyes, and then I still can't stop thinking. I am not calm. I am not floating. I am nowhere near the water, and I feel like I'm going to drown.

I jerk awake at 6:05, panicking that I've slept through my
alarm again, though it won't start buzzing for another half hour. Relieved, I try to assess how I'm feeling. Tired isn't exactly the word. I've been plenty tired in the last few weeks, and this doesn't feel like that. Perturbed, more like. Wary. Like something's going to jump up on me at any minute. A message from a phone. A backstabbing friend. A memory or an unwanted dream. My own weakness.

“Quit freaking yourself out, pussy,” I say into the dark room.

The unflinching sound of my own voice helps me get up and start the routine. Van likes to say you only make this path by walking, and I know the only way I'll win this race today is by doing it. Instead of visualizing myself floating now, it's time to see myself winning, see myself achieving the times I need to bring me to State. No matter what else is lurking in my mind, I shove it away to do my breathing. I do my stretches. I go downstairs, where Louis hands me a plate of egg whites and a glass of grapefruit juice he squeezed himself. I'm doing everything right. I'm doing it all.

•  •  •

When we get to the pool, I smile and nod at everyone. It's a way to fool both yourself and them into thinking you're relaxed. I do it at every meet. It usually works. People nod back, but mainly everyone's got their earbuds in, listening to whatever tunes they need to get themselves pumped. Even mine are in, though it's more for show than anything else. I never need music to get
amped for a race. More often, I need it to help calm me down.

Today, though, there's nothing but silence. Nothing but me.

I sit on the bleachers with my teammates, and we watch the parents moving to their seats, greeting one another, many of them wearing jerseys for their different schools or clubs. The other teams come in, all of them blank-faced and not watching us just as much as we are blank-faced and not watching them. Next to me, Shyrah's leg starts jittering up and down. I reach out and touch his arm lightly to make him stop, and he smiles, apologetic. I understand—I'm on edge too. Not about Gavin, since the college bracket isn't until this afternoon and we won't be around to see them swim. Not even about Grier really, because by now it's clear she's not coming and is probably off the team. Instead it's the paranoid feeling I had this morning: the feeling that something's waiting to jump out.

Van comes back from greeting the other coaches, and we circle around him for his final pep talk. He tells us about focus. He reminds us about hard work. He says the things he always says about nothing mattering but swimming well, and that chasing ribbons and medals aren't what we're here for. He says the things that always work, because he's right. But then his voice shifts.

“As I know you've suspected, I found out for sure yesterday afternoon that Grier's decided to take a permanent break from the team.”

Phoebe makes a sound of protest, but a look from Kelly
stops her. I feel a few of the others shifting their gazes to me.

“That still shouldn't affect your performance today, and she told me she didn't want it to either. I know there have been some other adjustments this month too, like working out the right schedule with the college trainers, all of which you've handled really well, so I know you'll take this in stride. It's been a boon to me, actually, your dedication, in spite of the challenges you may have felt. So before you get out there, I want to thank you, personally, and say that I'm always proud of you, but right now, this moment, I am especially so.”

Something's wrong with his voice. I look up at him, catching the end of his grimace before he straightens out his expression. He clears his throat and goes on.

“I just want you each to know that no matter what, I believe in all your abilities because I've seen what you can do. And I respect and value each of you, not just as swimmers but as people, too.”

It's a weird speech. Not that weird, I guess, but Van's wobbliness is. I keep watching him as we put our hands in the center of the circle, say our victory chant, and then throw our hands up in the air and break, but the only thing that seems odd about him now is that he won't make eye contact with me.

•  •  •

There are a few minutes for a last trip to the bathroom, so most of us head that way. I stay in the stall until everyone's left, puzzling
over Van, and Grier dropping the team. Not that I care. She's been hating on swimming way before all this, so it isn't much of a surprise, but it's weird knowing I could potentially now never see her again. Weird how sentimental Van's being too. Weird also that since Gavin left my house for dinner, I still haven't heard from him. That Charlie, after what I did, still wanted to send me good thoughts last night.

I let myself out of the stall. Go to the sink and lean into the mirror, close.

“Stop thinking about them,” I tell my reflection. “It's time to focus on you. You don't need her. You never did. You are a better swimmer than her and everyone else, and that she can't hack it is only her fault. She wasn't even your real friend before all this, just a fun escape. And Gavin is a dick who you've already bested. You didn't care about Charlie until just over a month ago either, so stop thinking about that stupid message and what it might mean. It means good luck. That's all it means. And you don't need luck. You are the best swimmer here, and you got that way without all of them. On your own. So go out there, and fucking forget it. You go out there, and you swim the way you've built yourself to, and nothing else.”

I stand up straight, pulling my shoulders back tight and squeezing hard. I clench my quads, right, left, right, left. I scowl at myself in the mirror, my brows twisted with contempt. I meet
my own gaze, unafraid. I am not weak. Look at all this shit I can take.

I wait there until I know I can walk out of the bathroom and leave it all behind.

Everything else can go fuck itself.

I HAVE TO SIT THROUGH
three races before it's my turn, but watching how everyone else succeeds and fails helps take my mind further off anything but swimming. As they move through the water, I pretend I'm moving with them. By the time I'm walking up to the block, it's almost weird that my suit isn't wet like theirs. I roll my shoulders, loosen my neck. I check where Van's standing: in the middle of the pool to my right, where he gives me a solemn nod and a thumbs-up. The buzzer sounds, and we all step up. On the block, I stare down the lane, picturing myself in the final fifty, the closest girl a whole length in my wake. Another buzzer sounds, and we lean over, fingers to the edge. I am seeing myself winning. I am seeing nothing else.

And then—buzz.

Leap.

Stretch.

Pull.

The water surrounds me. I pull and pull and pull and pull.

Turn, push, breathe, and pull again, the whole time thinking only one, clear, invigorating thing: Fuck everyone else. Fuck everything but this.

At the second turn, I can see the girl to my left inching closer. Van's waving three fingers in the air at me from the side, which means
Go faster
. So I do. Kicking strong, feet together, rising up, and coming down. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. My whole body is doing only this one thing.

Final turn. I can't see anyone anymore, but I'm not worried. All I see is the blood thrashing through my arteries, oxygen pouring into my giant lungs, my whole body working through the water. And then I see my hand touching the wall, and I see the board.

My time. My name in first place. And then bits of darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. I toss my head to make them go away. The girl next to me reaches over the lane divider. As we shake, our hands look like they're detached from us, made of rubber. We're both breathing hard, but I can't get enough air. Somewhere I hear Louis's loud, sharp whistle in the crowd—a sound of pride from far away. I pull myself out of the pool, and the black spots get bigger. I've won, but something's not right.
Van is smiling, clapping me on the back. I look at the board again; my name there in red.

It's the last thing I see before everything goes black.

•  •  •

I wake up. Mom is working my hand in hers and looking at me, scared. Louis is behind her, leaning down and gripping her shoulder. Van's bending over my other side. There's some kind of medic. She puts a mask over my face, and the rush of oxygen makes me light-headed again. I reach to swat it off.

But I can't lift my hand.

•  •  •

They're taking me somewhere. I'm moving. Mom is on the phone. There's something in my arm—some kind of tube.

“Louis is right behind us in the car, honey,” Mom says when she sees my eyes are open. I try to nod. She goes back to whoever she's talking to. The medic says something, but I don't hear it.

•  •  •

Dehydration, they tell us, after all the tests and they've assigned me to a room. Extreme exhaustion. They want me to stay here overnight, give me fluids, they say. They want me to sleep, make sure I'm balanced.

It doesn't make sense.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

I had it all under control.

Louis and Mom sit together by my bed, watching me. They already had their questions answered. By me, by the doctors.
I don't know what happened,
I tell them. That, and I'm fine.

Mom wants to know do I want anything; she's getting some coffee.

“You should just go home,” I say. “There isn't anything to do but sit here and watch these fluids drip into my arm.” Plus, I don't want her here, or Louis, either, looking at me, wondering what happened, when I don't even know. She tells me I'm crazy if she thinks she's leaving me by myself. I'm too tired to laugh, tell her she already left me a long time ago.

•  •  •

Van comes by, later. He has a card signed by the rest of the team. His face is worried, but he tries to hide it by smiling and telling me I did great. I don't know what to say except thanks, and that I'm sorry. He pats me encouragingly on the foot, and then he, Mom, and Louis go out in the hall and talk for a long time.

•  •  •

There isn't a lot else. At some point in the night I'm aware of a nurse coming in and something getting checked or changed. Mom on a cot next to me. Louis asleep in the chair. I want to fight it, but I can't, the dark sleep pulling me down.

•  •  •

The next day, they bring in breakfast, but I only want to eat the slippery, sweet canned peaches. Mom and Louis have
Chick-fil-A they bought down in the lobby, and the smell makes me sick, but I don't ask them to throw it out. The doctor comes in again, says everything's okay. I can go. There's paperwork that Mom and Louis handle. They insist on wheeling me out, though I tell them, over and over, that I can walk just fine on my own.

WHEN WE GET HOME, THERE'S
no mention of going to the cemetery. I head straight for the couch and stare at the TV, feeling bloated and hazy from all the stuff they pumped into me at the hospital. I still don't know what happened. I won, I made State, and yet I'm lying here feeling like a lame-o. I can't work it out in my head.

Mom and Louis make sure I have what I need, and then they go into their room and shut the door. Eventually there's the sound of the shower starting up. Louis comes in to check on me then disappears again to the back of the house. When Mom comes back, she's in a wrap skirt and what she considers a “cute top,” and she's brought out a plate of crackers, plus cream cheese with pepper jelly smeared over it.

“What's going on?” I pull myself up to a sitting position. Seeing her showered makes me realize I should probably take one too.

Before I can even lean forward to get up though, there's a knock at the door, and Louis goes to get it. Van's standing there, holding flowers and wearing pressed khakis, when I've never seen him in anything but shorts, even in winter.

“You guys plan some kind of intervention or something?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but Mom's guilty smile cuts me off mid-laugh.

“Van just wanted to come over and talk with you, honey,” she says, blinking at him then Louis. She hustles away quickly to put the flowers in a vase.

“How you feeling?” Van asks, sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Fine.” The way he's looking at me, the way Mom and Louis are being, sharpens my defensiveness. “I told you, I don't know what happened. But I guess it didn't matter did it, right? I mean, I won.”