Breath Like Water Page 7

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  298 days until US Olympic Team Trials

  “WHAT ARE YOU working on?”

  I glance up from my math textbook to see Harry standing over me. He gives me a tentative smile, nothing like his usual cocky grin, and suddenly my tongue feels too big for my mouth.

  It’s almost nine o’clock. I’m sitting on the floor in the natatorium lobby, doing homework while I wait for Mom. Everyone has already gone home. Dad picked up a last-minute shift at the restaurant, Mom has class and Nina doesn’t have her own car so she can’t come to get me. I wish I’d known earlier so I could have caught a ride with Amber or Jessa, but I didn’t see Dad’s text until they had both left. I was annoyed by it at the time, but now I’m grateful. Who knows if Harry would’ve ever talked to me again if he didn’t find me sitting here?

  This is the first time he’s intentionally struck up a conversation with me since Tucker’s party. The bus doesn’t count, because I talked to him. I’d hoped that might change things, but it didn’t. I’ve been focusing on swimming and trying not to think about it, but every time I look at him I feel the bruising ache of regret. Why did I have to ruin things? Why can’t I ever get out of my own way?

  “Hi,” I say, giving him my brightest smile. Speak more words, Ramos! But my lungs feel like those uninflated oxygen bags in airplane safety videos. They say air is flowing, but how is that possible? I can’t seem to get enough to choke out a sentence. Not that I’d know what to say if I could.

  It’s stupid, but it doesn’t occur to me to answer his question. I’m so happy he’s talking to me I can’t even remember what it was.

  “Can I sit?” Harry asks, slinging his swim bag over his shoulder.

  “Sure!” Okay, that was way too much enthusiasm.

  He flops down next to me and flips the cover of my textbook over so he can read the title.

  “Advanced Algebra II. So you’re one of those dumb jock types, huh?”

  “Guess so.” Oh my God, my chest is on fire. My body is exhausted from today’s workout, but I feel like I’ve been electrocuted, sparks flying through my veins.

  My traitorous stomach picks that exact moment to complain. I haven’t eaten since lunch. Harry digs through his bag until he unearths a couple of energy bars.

  “Want one?” he offers. “Gotta feed the beast.”

  “God, yes, thank you!”

  Harry gives me an energy bar, then taps his against the one in my hand. “Cheers.”

  I laugh. “Cheers.” Then I tear open the thin foil wrapper and take the daintiest bite I can manage given how ravenous I am. Harry finishes his in two swallows.

  “I know these things have a ton of calories, but I always feel hungrier after I eat one.” He peers at my notebook. “208.”

  I stare at him.

  “The answer to the problem you’re doing,” he says. “It’s 208.”

  I close the textbook and shove it in my bag. “How did you figure that out so quickly?”

  Harry shrugs. “I’m good with numbers.”

  “One of those dumb jock types?”

  “Exactly. Why are you still here? Practicing starts again?”

  I shake my head. “My mom’s picking me up, but she’s running late.”

  “If you want, I can drive you.” He dangles his keys from his finger, making them jingle. “Unless you’d rather sit here working on differential equations.”

  From his tone, I sense he means something like, Unless you don’t want to spend time with me, but he’s too proud to say it. I wonder if he feels as weightless and fizzy with nerves as I do.

  “Nope,” I say, getting to my feet. “Let’s go.”

  I tell myself it’s the ride home I’m excited about, but I’ve never been a very good liar.

  As we walk to his car, Harry keeps squinting at me. I’m not sure why, but I follow his line of sight straight to my chest.

  “Eyes up here,” I joke, pointing to my face, then regret it. He’s being polite, offering to drive me, and here I am making it awkward. I’m hopeless.

  But I don’t want him to look at what I’m wearing. I found this ratty old GAC sweatshirt in my locker, and that’s what he’s staring at. I remember with horror what I usually look like after practice.

  “I was just thinking,” he says. “What the hell is an aqualion, anyway?”

  “Something Dave made up. You should ask him.”

  “I would,” Harry says. “I’m honestly so curious, but he’s not a big fan of mine right now.”

  “The rubber ducks still?”

  “You’d think he’d be over it, but no.”

  Harry’s car is nicer than any car my family has ever owned. Our school district is huge, covering several towns of varying socioeconomic statuses. We Ramoses are solidly middle class. Harry, I realize, might be well-off. I climb into the passenger seat and take a quick look around, expecting to see a lot of garbage strewn about the floor, due to: boy. But it’s tidy.

  “He made me stay late so we could have a ‘talk’ about my ‘dedication to the sport,’” Harry says. He tosses our swim bags and my school backpack onto the empty backseat, and then hands me his phone so that I can plug my address into his GPS app.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. I shoot Mom a quick text to tell her I’m getting a ride home. The last thing I need is for her to show up, find me missing and assume that I’ve been kidnapped.

  “Basically, he thinks I goof off too much and don’t take swimming seriously enough ‘given my enormous potential,’” Harry says with sarcastic air quotes.

  He backs out of his parking space and sets off across the empty lot with no regard for the lines on the asphalt.

  “That does sound like Dave,” I say.

  “He said that unless I can get my head out of my ass and start working harder, I should reconsider whether I belong at GAC.”

  “He’s kicking you off the team?”

  “More like putting me on probation. He’s just trying to scare me.”

  “It’s kind of true, you know,” I say. Harry gives me a sharp look. “I wouldn’t put it the way Dave did, but... I watch you at practice sometimes and you’re fast, but it doesn’t seem like you care that much about swimming, or the team. Why do you stay if you don’t like it?”

  Harry smirks. “You watch me at practice sometimes?”

  “Not...in that—you know what I mean,” I sputter. “I watch a lot of people at practice.”

  “Sure, sure. Well, I do like the team,” he says. “It’s the whole swimming industry that I hate, and people like Dave, who think winning races is the only thing that matters. Let’s face it—most of us aren’t going to the Olympics. If we’re going to work like dogs, don’t you think we should have fun doing it?”

  “To be honest, swimming’s not something I do for fun.”

  “You can’t be doing it for the money—not much of that in this sport. Glory, then?”

  “Maybe. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No. And for the record, I care about swimming,” Harry says. “I just try not to care too much because if I do it’ll make me miserable. I know that from experience. But I don’t want to get kicked off the team.”

  “Good. That would suck.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a great swimmer,” I tell him. “It would be a real waste of talent if you did.”

  He stares out the windshield at the road, frowning. “Can I ask why you left the party, or would that be a real waste, too?”

  I release the breath I’m holding. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask about that.”

  “Sorry, I assumed you’d tell me,” he says, his voice tight with irritation. “Like, explain or something. I figured you had a good reason. But now I’m thinking maybe you don’t? Or, I guess, not liking me enough to stick aroun
d is a good reason. Is that why?”

  I can’t say I don’t like him because I do. But I can’t say that, either. So I don’t say anything at all, which is probably the worst of the options, but I honestly don’t know what to do.

  “Got it.” His shoulders stiffen and he grips the steering wheel so hard the leather squeaks.

  For a few minutes, the only person speaking is the woman who narrates the GPS app. My head starts to ache, and my chest feels hollow and empty. I can’t let him think what he’s thinking. It’s not true, and it’s not fair, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. But how do I explain what I felt at that party, what that story about Kara Walker dredged up in me? How do I make him understand all the fear I carry around on my back?

  It seems like too much to share with a boy I barely know.

  “That rubber duck thing—you know I did that for you, right?” Harry says.

  “You pretty much told me you did. Was I not sufficiently grateful?” I ask. He can’t possibly think that one grand gesture I never asked for entitles him to something from me.

  “No, that’s not—I didn’t mean it like that. You don’t owe me any gratitude.”

  I stare out the window at the night-drenched road, avoiding my reflection in the glass. My shoulders are sore from practice, and the left one throbs like a warning: Stop embarrassing yourself.

  “I’m saying this all wrong.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not mad about the party. I know the Flow is super dumb, and I get that I can be...a lot. Not everyone’s all in for this.”

  He gestures to himself, and I almost say, I think plenty of girls are all in for that, but I don’t.

  “It’s hard being the new kid,” he continues. “You have no idea where you fit in. But when I was around you before, I felt like—this is going to sound so weird, but when I saw you practicing your start, working so hard after a long practice just to get it perfect, I understood that complete and total fear of having fucked up and never wanting to do it again. I feel like that, too. All of the time. It’s not about swimming. It’s other things, with me.”

  “What other things?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain. I guess my point is, I liked that about you. Your relentlessness. I thought we might have something more in common than favorite bands and TV shows and swimming. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’d like to find out. I’d like to be friends.”

  “You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS woman says.

  Harry pulls into my driveway and kills the engine. I know I should say something, but I feel like I’m being dragged out to sea by a strong current—completely overwhelmed and incapable of finding my way back to shore. Thank you won’t cut it. I’d like to be friends, too is only part true. So I act on pure, mindless impulse and hug him.

  I. Hug. Him.

  After a small hesitation, Harry hugs me back, and then we’re holding each other awkwardly, like children. The gearshift is jabbing me in the ribs and my seat belt is cutting into my neck, but when I try to tear myself away, it’s like separating two pieces of Velcro. Neither of us seems eager to let go.

  “This is a surprise,” Harry says into my hair. His voice is muffled by my curls.

  “I should call my mom and let her know I’m home,” I say, finally pulling away.

  “Definitely, go do that,” he says. And there it is: the Harry Matthews smile. Like the sun emerging from behind a cloud.

  He sits back in his seat. He looks a bit thunderstruck, like he’s not quite sure what just happened. I’m not, either, but I feel like the door that slammed shut inside of me when I left the party might be opening again. It’s terrifying. But I don’t want to close it again.

  “See you tomorrow, Susie,” he says.

  I smile. “Bright and early.”

  * * *

  I stand on the porch until Harry’s taillights disappear around the corner. The door opens and Nina pokes her head out. Lulu wiggles through her legs and jumps on me, barking hello.

  “Where’s Mom?” Nina asks. “I thought she went to pick you up.”

  “I got a ride.”

  I pat Lulu on the head and slip into the house. There’s a delicious smell wafting out of the kitchen. It’s Nina’s night to cook. She’s pretty good at it; she went through a phase where she binge-watched YouTube cooking tutorials and experimented on us for months, with mostly positive results.

  “Enchiladas?” I ask. They’re her specialty, and my favorite.

  She follows me into the kitchen. “Who drove you?”

  “Someone from GAC,” I say, like it’s no big deal, when in fact it is the biggest deal. Nobody’s ever told me they liked my relentlessness before. Usually, when someone uses a word like that to describe me, they don’t mean it in a good way. I’m practically floating.

  I dump my swim bag in the mudroom and shoot Mom a text saying I’m home. Then I grab plates to set the table for dinner.

  “A boy someone?”

  “Were you watching us?” I ask, glaring at her. Nina’s always been such a snoop.

  “Maybe. There’s nothing good on TV right now.”

  Nina opens the oven to check on the food. She sets the timer and leans against the counter, staring at me as if it will make me spill. Lulu parks herself near the oven and whines until I pet her.

  “What’s the deal with the dude? Are you dating him?”

  “No.”

  “But you like him. I saw that hug.”

  I hate that she was watching. This thing with Harry is confusing enough without Nina squeezing me for details or, worse, telling me what to do about it. I know what she would say if she knew. She’d tell me to go for it; YOLO; I’m too careful; I worry too much. But it’s not that easy to go against every instinct you have and dismantle the walls you built to keep yourself safe. You can’t just decide to be a different person and pretend your fears don’t exist.

  “It’s none of your business,” I tell her. “Leave me alone.”

  “But none of my business is my favorite kind of business. You know, if you have questions about that sort of stuff, you can always ask me,” Nina says. “I give great advice.”

  “Says who?”

  “Trust me. I’m an expert on boys. I’m very experienced and wise.”

  Experienced, sure. Nina has a different boyfriend, like, every other week. We can tell there’s a new guy by reading the changes in her. If he’s goth, she wears all black and talks about getting a tattoo; if he’s into football, she commandeers the TV every time the Bears play. If he’s got a sweet tooth, she bakes; if he’s vegetarian, she gives up meat. She has no idea what she wants yet, or who she wants to be. And if that’s the way she likes it, great, but it’s not for me.

  “Let’s not forget humble,” I say.

  “Come on,” Nina whines. “You never talk to me about stuff like this. Let me help you.”

  Nina doesn’t want to hear about my life. She and I joined GAC together back when we were kids, and when she was still swimming, we talked all the time. After she quit, lured away by new high school friends and activities, it was like she stopped caring about me.

  She doesn’t care about this, either. She’s just bored. And much as I’d love her to take an interest in my life, I’m not going to girl-talk for her entertainment.

  “I don’t need help,” I tell her.

  “You never do,” she says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not supposed to mean anything. It actually means that you expect everyone in this house to build their lives around you and your sport and your dream, but God forbid any of us ask a question or have an opinion.”

  Nina shakes her head. “You were such a sweet kid, Susannah. When did you get so selfish?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  297 days until US Olympic Team Trials

  “THIS
IS GOING to be super weird, isn’t it?” I ask.

  Amber, Jessa and I are standing at the locker room entrance as our teammates stream through the doorway, suited up and yawning into their hands. I’m afraid to step onto the pool deck, certain that now he’s had time to think through the awkwardness of last night’s conversation, Harry won’t want anything to do with me. And I can’t get what Nina said out of my head. If I’m selfish, it’s because I’ve had to be. No one else is going to fight for my dream. But I don’t want to hurt people, and I can’t figure out how to protect them while still protecting myself.

  “It’ll only be weird if you make it weird,” Jessa says. Sarah Weller bumps her as she pushes past us. Jessa scowls at her back, then adds, “So, probably.”

  Amber smacks her. “It’s going to be fine. He said he wants to be friends, right?”

  “Yeah.” I twist my goggles in my hands. “But I bet he thinks I’m so strange.”

  “You’re not strange,” Jessa says. “In the scheme of things, what’s one guy? Someday, when you’ve got Olympic gold hanging around your neck, you won’t even remember his name.”

  Amber groans. “The two of you, I swear. How did I end up with the most unromantic friends on earth? If a girl I was into liked me back, I’d quit GAC tomorrow. And not because relationships and swimming don’t mix, just because I’d finally have something better to do.”

  “Shut up, you wouldn’t quit,” I say with a laugh.

  “Maybe I would,” Amber grumbles.

  “I barely have enough hours in the day to sleep. There’s no time for boys,” I say without conviction.

  “Nobody has time for a boyfriend,” Jessa says in that all-knowing tone she sometimes puts on with me. “Until they’ve got one. Then they don’t have time for anything else.”

  “You know what’s going to affect your future?” Amber snaps. “Not going to practice. You can’t hide in the locker room all day, so take a breath, put your big-girl pants on and get out there.”

  * * *