Coming Up for Air

by Nicole B. Tyndall

  I turn to him. “There’s a song you don’t know?”

  Becca sighs, incredulous. “It’s from Waitress.” When we don’t react, she adds, “The musical? Sara Bareilles?” She looks at us and decides we’re hopeless. “My choir group performed it last year? It’s a huge hit on Broadway!” Her phone buzzes. “Hold on, it’s Greg.”

  Becca takes her boyfriend’s call and leaves the room.

  Ty hits his pen rhythmically onto his notebook. “I really have to stop agreeing to come over here after school. Homework on a Friday is criminal.”

  “She’s such a good influence,” I agree with dismay.

  “Ugh,” he groans, “it’s the worst. Except that my science grades are basically the highest they’ve ever been.” Science has never been Tyler’s strong suit, and this class is in addition to our chemistry class. But I loved regular bio so much last year that I convinced Ty and Becca to sign up for this one too. I’m still sort of surprised that Ty agreed. Maybe he just didn’t want to be left out.

  “Yeah,” I answer, “and between the two of you, I might not totally fail the math on the ACT.” We’ve been studying together a lot this fall, and I’m praying Ty’s and Becca’s precalc expertise will save me.

  “You still have months to work on those practice tests, Hads. And I don’t think your photography program will mind if you’re not the best at the Pythagorean theorem.”

  He’s talking about Great Lakes University, and I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m almost certain he’s wrong. It’s a supercompetitive liberal arts school, and a total long shot. But they have this killer photography program, and I’m dying to go there. I’ve been working hard since freshman year, when my photography teacher told me about it. Students get to spend a semester in Paris. Anytime I want to give up on remembering some elaborate formula, I picture myself in a beret, snapping shots of the hilly, Montmartre streets. It makes the decision simple: keep studying. I want to see what those places look like in real life.

  “I hope so,” I reply. “And you’re totally going to get into Columbia College.” Tyler wants to enroll in their music-business program.

  “And Chicago isn’t too far from Great Lakes U.”

  I feel my grin spread. “Well, I obviously can’t go to school too far away from Lakebook’s first-chair trumpet player.”

  “You know, Hads, of all the ways you describe me, that’s definitely the coolest.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

  “Would you prefer eighth-grade second-place mathlete?”

  He gives me a level look. “No. No, I would not.”

  “How about—”

  He cuts me off. “Badass guitar player? That would work. Or even accomplished pianist, if you’re feeling fancy.”

  “Nah.” I smirk. “I like mine better.”

  Ty makes a good-natured, disapproving face, then nods toward Becca’s room. “Hey, um, Becs is working tonight, and I think Greg was out sick today, but I’m up to hang if you are. We can forget about school stuff. Want to come over later? After your dinner, I mean. We could camp out on the couch and have a Kill Bill marathon?” Then he furrows his brow. “Or, wait, should we pick something else? ’Cause of all the crappy shit the producers did to Uma Thurman?”

  I love that Ty considers that kind of stuff, but in this instance, I think it’s okay. “Nobody should miss seeing Uma kick ass. It’s not her fault they’re shitty.”

  He smiles. “So you’re in?”

  “Yeah.” I glance out the window, taking in the bluster moving through the trees. “Staying in sounds good.”

  Becca comes back into the kitchen, her fuzzy pink sweater catching my attention. She tends to dress somewhere between a sorority sister and a Disney princess. Her phone is still pressed against her ear, and her expression is pained.

  “Is Greg all right?” Ty asks.

  “One second,” Becca says into the phone. Then she looks at me. “Hadley, um, don’t kill me.”

  “Why would I kill you?”

  “Greg is supersick. Like, you don’t even want the details.”

  I can see the question forming on her face. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She pouts, an expression dramatic enough for the stage.

  “Does the concept of Friday night really not mean anything to you?” I ask.

  “I know. I know. But he doesn’t want to be alone. And working the meet will count for your NHS hours just as easily for you as it does for mine.”

  Her big, puppy-dog eyes are impossible to say no to. “Ugh, all right. Just let me ask if I can keep the car longer,” I say. “Remy might kill me for no-showing, but whatever. It’s already her second breakup since school started.”

  I’m normally more sympathetic to my sister, but my own boy problems are still a little fresh. My ex, Noah, ended things in August, right before he went off to school. It wasn’t exactly a shock, but I have to admit, it hurt more than I expected. And ever since, every time Remy is upset over some guy, I kind of feel like I’m reliving my own issues.

  “You’re the best, thank you!” Becca gives me a quick one-armed hug, leaving me in a cloud that smells like her hair spray, and then returns her attention to her phone, moving out of the room again.

  Ty looks at me. “You’re a good friend.”

  “We both know she would do it for me.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “She would. And no worries, we can raincheck Uma.”

  “No, let’s just do it after. The swim meet can’t last all night, and some part of our Friday should be fun.”

  His mouth curves. “All right, cool.”

  I text my siblings in our group chat, asking about the Jeep. My phone buzzes, seconds later.

  Judd: I’m at that Magic the Gathering competition all night, so it’s cool with me.

  Remy: Fine, whatever, I’ll just drown my sorrows alone.

  Judd: You have Mom, Rem.

  I feel a wave of gratitude for my brother, always the peacemaker.

  Remy: No, she bailed. She got her wine delivery thing, and her and Dad are with the neighbors.

  Judd: Dad’s drinking wine?

  Remy: No, he brought one of those jugs of beer he likes. Craft something? I don’t know. Who cares? The point is that everybody is abandoning me.

  I grimace at the thought of Remy alone and click to video chat with her. Easier to read how bad her mood is. A few seconds later, there’s a cheerful bing, and my sister’s face fills the screen.

  When Remy’s not mid-breakup, she’s usually so put-together that looking at her makes my T-shirts and air-dried hair feel frumpy. But not right now. My sister’s dark curls are in a frizzy knot on the top of her head, and her normally perfect eyeliner is smudging all over her cheeks. Paired with the sharp look in her eyes, she’s downright scary.

  “Ugh, Rem, you look…upset.”

  “You mean I look like shit,” she snaps.

  “I didn’t say that!” But like…kinda. “Are you okay?”

  “Well, no, Hadley, I told you. Wyatt—” Her voice cracks as her eyes go glassy.

  Uneasiness sloshes in my stomach. “I’m sorry….”

  “Look, it’s fine. I’m not exactly shocked that you don’t get this, with your dating strike or whatever.”

  “I’m not on a dating strike, Rem. That’s not a thing. I’m just taking a little break. Junior year is important for college apps.”

  “I’ve heard your little speech, Hads.”

  I swallow my frustration. “And I do get it, Remy. I just went through the same thing.” Except Noah and I dated for five months, not five minutes. “Give me a little credit, please?”

  “Yeah, sorry, whatever. It’s just not a good night for everybody to be so freaking busy.”

  “I’m not trying to blow you off. We didn’t even have any plans other than dinner!
But Becca just—”

  She interrupts me. “Whatever. I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m watching Bravo, and Abigail said she could come over later, when she gets off work.” Abigail is not only Remy’s best friend, but one of Judd’s closest friends too. I feel a wave of relief that she won’t be alone.

  “Okay, well, I really am sorry. And it’s not like I’m going to a party or something. I’m working a swim meet for NHS.”

  Remy’s eyes narrow, attention suddenly focused. “Wait. The boys swim meet?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because if it’s the boys’ team, that means Braden Roberts will be there.”

  I can’t keep all these random guys straight. “Who? I thought you were upset about Wyatt?”

  “I am! Ugh, Hadley, you’re so clueless sometimes. You must know who I’m talking about; he’s like one of the hottest guys in your grade.” It’s an effort not to look at Ty, wanting to roll my eyes at her dramatics. “He’s new, totally crushed the captain’s record at tryouts….Don’t you watch the morning announcements?”

  “Not really.”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do without me next year.” She shakes her head, and I must not look convinced, because she adds, “I’m just trying to warn you, okay? That guy, Braden—he’s friends with Wyatt, and from what I’ve heard, he’s even worse than him. And Braden was a dick to Chrissy, who’s literally the nicest. Apparently, our school is overflowing with assholes.”

  I scoff. My sister and I don’t exactly have the same taste in guys, and this information isn’t exactly relevant. It sounds like she wants me to gossip more than anything else. “Maybe you should go on a dating strike, Rem.”

  Remy rolls her eyes. “I don’t think so. It’s my senior year, and I plan on living that shit up. And my show’s back on, so I’ll talk to you later.”

  The screen goes black.

  I look at Ty. “Well, that was…predictable. But it looks like I’m off the hook.”

  Ty opens his mouth to answer, but then Becca comes barreling back into the room. Before I can even tell her I’ve gotten the all clear, she starts on me. “Okay, so, Hads. You’re going to be selling tickets. It’s supereasy. They’re five dollars apiece, and you just keep track of how many you’ve sold—tickets are numbered—and how much cash you’ve taken in. At the end of the meet, everything has to balance.”

  “Like our shift report at the restaurant?” I ask.

  “Exactly.” She nods.

  “Yeah, all right. When do I have to leave?”

  She grimaces.

  “Are you kidding? Right now?”

  “No. I mean, Coach does prefer that you’re early. But you have a solid five minutes before you have to go,” Becca says.

  “You are so lucky I love you.”

  “I really am.” She beams, giving me a swift hug and then throwing her ponytail back behind her.

  I let out a deep sigh.

  “Later, Butler,” Ty calls to me. “See you tonight.”

  * * *

  When I get inside the school, there’s a table set up for me in the hallway at the pool’s entrance. I’ve never been to a swim meet before, so I’m not exactly sure what to do. And because I followed Becca’s instructions and arrived early, there aren’t tons of people here yet; mostly just a group of guys in team sweats, their families, and some significant others.

  A muscular bald man with a whistle around his neck approaches me. “You don’t look like Becca Gomez,” he says. I don’t think there’s a staff member at this whole school who doesn’t know Becca.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m filling in for her. I’m Hadley, um, Butler.”

  He nods. “Coach Jones.”

  “Is this my station?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am.” His voice echoes down the hallway. “Did Gomez talk to you about what to do?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m all set.” I take my jacket off, set my camera on the table, and settle into my seat.

  “All right, well, let me know if you have any questions.” He taps his fingertips against the table.

  “Thanks. Um, good luck? Tonight?” I’m not sure what the right terminology is for a swim meet. The only school events I usually go to are in the auditorium—Becca’s shows or Ty’s concerts. Somehow, Break a leg feels like the wrong thing to say.

  Coach, unfazed, continues down the hall.

  “There he is!” one of the swimmers shouts as the school doors open.

  A tall, broad-shouldered guy walks inside. “Hey, man. You ready?” Instead of a varsity jacket, he’s wearing a leather one. The collar is up in the back, pressing into the nape of his neck where it meets his blond hair. The way he moves—with long, sure strides—makes it easy to picture him in the water.

  “I’m ready to see if you live up to the hype, Roberts,” the swimmer replies.

  At his name, I sharpen my attention.

  The guy my sister warned me about, Braden Roberts, answers with unmistakable confidence. “I always live up to the hype.”

  When he walks by my table, he meets my eye. Then he smirks. Like because I’m looking at him, he caught me at something. It’s suddenly clear to me what Remy meant about bad news.

  Before I can think how to react, Coach Jones’s voice booms, “All right, team, in the locker room! Now! Let’s go!”

  * * *

  For the next hour, ticket sales ebb and flow, and from my seat outside the pool, the meet mostly consists of a lot of echoing and cheering. I spend my time reviewing pictures on my camera from a yearbook shoot I did last week. When the event finally comes to a close and the last lingering attendees head out, I stand and open the cash drawer to count the money.

  “Miss Butler,” Coach Jones says by way of greeting, “I’m going down to the office for the key to lock up. Almost done with that? Anything I can help with?”

  I barely look up, nodding and continuing to count as I answer. “I’m good; almost done.”

  “Okay, just drop it in the office when you finish.”

  “Will do.”

  The sound of Coach’s squeaky shoes fades, and I continue with my task. After a few moments of quiet, I hear a door creak open, followed shortly by a loud whisper. “Now!”

  The entire swim team, clad in matching sweats, explodes out of the locker room and out the side exit of the school. The last guy out is carrying a bundle in his arms.

  “What the hell?” I mutter out loud.

  Through the glass door, I can see the boys run to the last group of cars in the parking lot. They pile in and let the tires screech as they peel out.

  Sighing, I restart the counting of my stacks of bills. I’m almost done, and my heart rate is almost back to normal, when a voice behind me mumbles, “Hey.”

  I jump, scared out of my thoughts. When I turn, Braden Roberts is standing in the middle of the hallway.

  In just his Speedo.

  Reflexively, I take a step backward.

  This—okay, not-bad-looking—guy is wearing nothing but a green swimsuit, sneakers, and a towel.

  And that towel—which could have been used to cover some skin but decidedly is not—ropes around the back of his neck, not hiding anything. I don’t even realize my eyes are moving down his body, until I have to jerk my gaze away at his hip bones, stopping before I see anything else—anything…bulgy.

  “Um, hi,” I answer, trying to suppress the burn on my cheeks. Oh my god. Cheeks. Don’t think about cheeks! But I can’t stop the voice whispering in my head: What does the back look like?

  I almost laugh out loud.

  Stop it!

  I make a promise to myself to behave like someone who can see all this boy-skin without totally losing her shit. Not that I’ve ever had the opportunity before. Me and Noah kept things pretty PG. But I definitely don’t want to give th
is guy the satisfaction of a reaction. Not after Remy’s warning. Or after the way he smirked at me.

  I stand up straight and, forcing my eyes from his body to his face, realize I have to add an item to my list: a smile. He’s also wearing a shit-eating, you’re-totally-busted smile.

  Freaking hell, get it together, Hadley!

  He holds that gesture for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and my blood cells climb over one another to get to my face. I shove them back down, readjusting my attitude, putting it in place like a shield.

  He starts to explain himself. “So I guess the team has a tradition of stealing the new guy’s clothes and taking off while he’s in the shower? First-meet hazing, or something like that.” He lifts his phone in the air; they must have texted him this information. “But if you ask me, the captain’s still a little pissed I knocked his name off the record board.” He’s clearly proud of himself. “I was hoping somebody was still here.”

  “Um, all right, well, Coach is in the office.” I expect him to head over there, but he doesn’t move. “I’m pretty sure the rest of the team left together. I’m not sure how you missed it. They weren’t exactly quiet.”

  Braden shifts his weight to his other foot and thoughtlessly rubs at his left shoulder. I try not to notice the way his fingers dig into the muscle. The whole thing is irritating, the way he looks completely at ease, basically naked, in a hallway that was full of students only hours earlier. A hallway I walk every day. I mean, he’s essentially living the most common nightmare of all time. I should be the one who gets to act casual.

  I try to call him on it. “You know, you do a have a towel. You could cover up.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You’re right. I could.” But he doesn’t.

  “But you’d rather show off?” I counter.

  He studies me for a moment. “Was that a compliment?”

  “Um, no?”

  “But it wouldn’t be showing off if you didn’t think I looked good.”

  God, he really is obnoxious. “You know, this is a really crappy way to get somebody to help you.”

  He laughs. “You’re right.” He pauses. “So, the thing is…I sing in the shower.”