Sink or Swim (14 page)

DON'T HOLD YOUR BREATH

IT SAYS ON
the leaflet from Coach Grubman that Carbondale, Illinois, is an easy three-hour drive from Decatur. You could have fooled me. Sitting in the back of my mom's pickup, I could swear it's more like three hundred. I'm wet, I'm tired, and I have been bounced around so much I feel like loose change in a washing machine.

“We're almost there!” my dad calls from inside the cab.

“Great!” I look out from my perch in the back and see nothing but miles and miles of desolate plains and an occasional scraggly tree. Carbondale is famous for exactly three things: large coal deposits, really bad weather, and the best middle school swimming team in the central United States and possibly the universe.

We didn't have to rent a special airport van after all. The folks in my dad's office were too busy to come. And Mrs. Pagliuso had an appointment to have her hair done, so she stayed in town. Or at least that's what she told my mom. Since she thinks I robbed Mr. Hollabird, she probably didn't want to come.

Sam and Lucille are driving up with Sam's parents. So it's just me, my parents, Dave, Aunt Harriet, and Uncle Marvin. Usually the team mascot goes on the team bus. But I'm way too big to even get through the door.

We pull into the lot in front of Carbondale Middle School and park in the area marked
MEMBERS OF THE SWIMMING TEAM AND THEIR FAMILIES ONLY.
My mom hops out, carrying a big picnic hamper full of her best healthy snacks. She whips out her camera and snaps a picture of the sign. She is planning to create a scrapbook commemorating what she calls “the beginning of Charlie's adventures in competitive sports.” In my opinion, being a mascot is neither competitive nor a sport.

“Won't this look great on the cover, Charlie?”

“Yeah, Mom. It's perfect.” I grab on to the loading gate at the back of the truck with my claws and start dragging myself out.

“Oh, look! Aren't they cute?” Mom aims her camera at a couple of incredibly tough-looking members of the Carbondale swimming team heading toward the building. They have on beat-up motorcycle jackets that say
CATFISH RULE
on the front in large embroidered red letters. Across the back of each jacket a neon-yellow catfish wearing leather boots, brass knuckles, and a menacing sneer on its face sits astride the team motto
ADVERSUS EXITUS OPTIO NON EST
, which loosely translates from the Latin as “failure is not an option.” Sam and Lucille and I took an extra credit Latin for beginners course last spring. The ancient Romans had about three million ways to let you know they were planning to kill you.

“Need a hand, son?” My dad holds on to my short stubby arm and helps me steady myself. I am so carsick I can barely walk in a straight line. I could upchuck at any moment. I am already dressed in the bottom part of my Sardine costume. My stiff, rubberized Sardine tail scrapes the ground behind me like a train wherever I go. I guess this is what it must feel like to be a bride.

My real tail sticks out of a big hole my mom made in the side of my team mascot outfit. I carry my Sardine head in my claws. I slip it on and catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass doors to the gym. My painted-on smile looks very confident. My real face underneath is anxious and scared. I am dreading what Principal Muchnick will do to me when I don't confess to the crimes I didn't commit.

I just can't do it. It would make life so much easier if I could tell that lie, but I don't think I could live with myself if I did.

My mom pulls out her camera and points it at me. “For the scrapbook? I promise I won't get carried away.”

I cock my fish head to one side and try to look peppy, but as she snaps my picture, all I can think about is Stanley deserting me in my hour of need, and how much I don't feel like jumping around in front of hundreds of people and screaming stupid pep cheers.

My parents, Dave, Aunt Harriet, and Uncle Marvin smile and wave their
GO SARDINES
pennants at me. Finally they all join the rest of the fans heading in to watch the meet.

As I turn to leave, I smell orange blossoms mixed with garlic and just a hint of rotten tomatoes. Principal Muchnick rushes over. Doc Craverly follows close behind.

“You have three hours and twenty-five minutes left to take advantage of my generous opportunity, Drinkwater. Here's a friendly little suggestion for you: COME TO YOUR SENSES AND CONFESS!”

The principal's cell phone rings. He presses it to his ear. “What? Are you sure? That's terrible, Coach Grubman. Yes. Uh-huh. I see.” He hangs up, looking distracted. “Larry Wykoff missed the team bus this afternoon. Coach called the Wykoffs, but no one was home. And the boy isn't answering his cell phone. Have you seen him, Drinkwater?”

“No, sir.” If I know Larry Wykoff, he got Velcroed to Rachel Klempner and can't tear himself away.

“Let's get going.” Principal Muchnick grabs Doc Craverly by the arm and drags him into the building. I am about to follow when Mr. Arkady glides over to me.

“Goot evenink, yunk lizard,” he says. “You're certainly lookink very interestink tonight.” He waggles his pencil-thin eyebrows at me. “Vutt are you supposed to be dressed up as, son?”

“A Sardine, sir.”

“Uff course you are. You look exactly like a sardine.” He chuckles. “Only a teeny bit bigger.”

“Mr. Arkady, what were you going to tell me about your student? I really need to know. My friend has left, and I have so many unanswered questions.”

“Yunk lizard, I vill tell you everytink I know venn the time ees right and vee are alone.” Mr. Arkady gestures to the crowd gathering in the parking lot, lowers his voice, and motions for me to bend down so he can whisper in my earflap. “I haff a leetle surprise vaiting for you after the meet,” he says mysteriously. “In case you vurr tinkink uff rushink home tonight aftervurds.”

“Can you give me a little hint, sir?”

“I'm afraid not,” he says. “I vouldn't vant to ruin it for you.” He swoops into the visitors' entrance to the gym.

Is Mr. Arkady going to surprise me with a critical piece of evidence supporting my innocence? Or a souvenir commemorating my debut as team mascot?

I open the big green door to the visiting team entrance marked
MORITURI TE SALUTANT
, which is Latin for “those who are about to die salute you.” I'm beginning to wish I never took that Latin course in the first place.

I make my way up the long, cold concrete tunnel that leads to the changing area. My flippers slap noisily against the shiny cement floor. I push open the heavy metal door to the locker room. Row after row of giant fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling in heavy metal cages. A boisterous crowd of what appear to be dangerous felons mills around, cursing and pushing.

The Carbondale Catfish looked pretty threatening in the parking lot. Up close and half-dressed they look like maniacal killers out for their last night on the town before being sent to death row. The smell of chlorine is so strong it makes my eyes water and my large snout twitch.

As I make my way to the visitors' side of the locker room, Coach Grubman runs over to me. “There's been a change of plans, Drinkwater. Listen up.”

“I'm all earflaps.”

“This is no time for humor, Drinkwater. I just got a message from Larry Wykoff's dad. Larry's on his way to the emergency room in Farmingdale for some tests. Either he has an upset stomach from worrying about the meet and he'll be here in half an hour, or he's having an appendicitis attack. In which case you're going in for him in the four-hundred-meter freestyle.”

“
What?!
” I exclaim so loudly half the locker room turns to see what's the matter.

“You heard me,” Coach says. “If Wykoff can't make it, you're swimming in his place.”

“What about Norm Swerling? He's really fast.”

“He's already entered in three other races, Charlie. He's maxed out. So are all the other Sardines. You're the only one on the team who's legally allowed to take that slot.”

“But . . . but . . .” I stammer. “I don't swim. I have performance anxiety. I'm not competitive. I fall apart under pressure. I haven't mastered any of the strokes. I could panic and drown. This is not a good idea, sir.”

“I am well aware of your limitations in the water.” Coach Grubman winds and rewinds his rubber band around his thumb and forefinger and taps his foot. “So let's just pray that Wykoff gets here in time. But if we don't hear from him soon, you can change out of that Sardine outfit and get into your bathing suit.”

“I didn't even bring one!” I exclaim.

“Then you'll just have to wear the fish costume. Maybe it'll inspire you.”

I am dizzy and weak at the thought of swimming in an actual race in front of actual people. My enormous tongue is as dry as sandpaper and I am starting to lose feeling in the tips of my flippers. Early warning signs that a serious panic attack is waiting in the wings. I wander around the locker room aimlessly mumbling to myself. Larry Wykoff had better just show up soon. That's all I can say.

“Calling all Catfish and Sardines. Attention, please. The meet is about to begin.” The announcement over the loudspeaker echoes around the white-tiled locker room. “Please assemble under the exit sign and prepare to enter the pool area.”

Thirty-one swimmers, a gaggle of energetic cheerleaders, a small marching band, and one extremely anxious team mascot take their places.

“Eww! He bumped into me with his slimy tail,” one of the Catfish whines as I pass him to get into position. “Where do I get a tetanus shot around here?”

Quicker than you can say “although there is a slim chance someone could develop salmonella from touching me, developing tetanus from exposure to my scales is impossible,” the Carbondale marching band launches into a rousing chorus of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and one by one we parade out of the locker room and out to greet our fans.

We are greeted by the ecstatic cheering of about five hundred or so fans in the bleachers. For one brief, shining moment, all thoughts of Larry Wykoff vanish and I understand what Dave sees in this athletic competition thing. Then the second the cheering stops, I go right back to feeling bleak and afraid.

We all gather around the pool and sing the national anthem. We put our right hands (or claws) over our hearts and begin: “O say can you see, by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, whose broad stripes . . .”

I sneak a peek at the crowd. My parents and Dave sing proudly. So do Aunt Harriet and Uncle Marvin. I wonder if they're thinking about Stanley right now, and if he competed in any sports when he was my age. There's Sam and Lucille singing their hearts out on the end of the bench, and waving a pennant in their left hands in time to the music. Even Mr. Hollabird's here. His son, Grady, is swimming in the relay race today.

“. . . o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.” As the last note reverberates throughout the pool area, Coach Grubman comes over and taps me on the shoulder. “Hop to, Drinkwater. Get out there and do your stuff.”

Since I have never actually seen a team mascot “do his stuff,” the best I can do is run up and down the side of the pool, aimlessly waving my arms and kicking my legs. And yelling the one cheer I can remember from the pamphlet Coach Grubman gave me: “Sardines are smart and they're good for the heart. Catfish swim fast, but they won't last.”

Performing in front of large groups of strangers usually makes me nervous, and tonight is no exception. Plus, added to the terrifying prospect of making a fool of myself, is the distinct possibility of death by drowning.

My small band of supportive friends and relatives joins in my chanting, but everybody else in the gym barely notices the eight-and-a-half-foot-tall green scaly creature in the Sardine costume hopping around the pool area like a hyperactive kangaroo. I'm not sure whether it is better to be noticed and mocked by your peers or ignored and forgotten entirely. Both sides of that penny are pretty discouraging.

Suddenly the Stevenson cheerleading squad runs in, waving pom-poms and leaping around like a bunch of crazed Mexican jumping beans. Both Catfish and Sardines go wild with excitement. Grateful for the diversion, I skulk away and attempt to hide behind the bleachers.

Amy Armstrong, squad captain, leads everyone in a rousing cheer specially written for the occasion. “Fry those Catfish, put 'em on a platter, eat 'em all for dinner and you'll get a little fatter. Study little Catfish, learn learn learn, sizzle little Catfish, burn burn burn.” Hundreds of audience members join in, enthusiastically stamping their feet.

By the end of the cheer, the team has formed a human pyramid, topped by Amy Armstrong. She leaps into the air, touches her toes with her outstretched fingers, and lands in the waiting arms of several of her minions, not a single wisp of hair out of place.