Alan Cole Is Not a Coward

by Eric Bell

  He stops talking, his eyes widening. “So,” he growls. “That’s what Fatison is doing with you. He’s teaching you to swim. You measly little—well, you’ll still never do it. You’ve got one more day to actually pass the test. You can’t even take a shower without getting nervous. How are you supposed to swim two lengths of a pool?”

  “I’ll do it,” I say.

  Nathan laughs again, finally standing up. I wince. “Where is this coming from? Where do you even get off telling me you’ll do anything? You, goldfish extraordinaire? You’ve never done anything exceptional in your life, and you never will. You’re a—”

  “Stop it!” I scream.

  Both of us stand completely still. Nathan’s mouth hangs open, frozen in midsentence.

  I recover first. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” I say, breathing heavy. “We don’t have to live like this. We’re not—we don’t have to be enemies.”

  “Yes, we do,” Nathan says, all the fake friendliness gone from his voice.

  “Why?” I plead. “It’s not—I’m not Dad!”

  Nathan recoils, like I’ve struck him. “You don’t get it. That’s just like you, to be so oblivious. You’ve never understood. It’s all your fault.”

  “What is? Nathan, what is my fault?”

  “You don’t even remember!” Nathan growls. “That’s the worst part. Before you ruined it, Mom was . . . happy. She smiled real smiles, and hugged me, and after school she would take me to the playground and let me swing on the swings for hours. Even Dad was happier. He came home sometimes with toys for me to play with. He got me my first atlas. He was . . . proud of me.”

  Nathan jerks his head to the side so I don’t see him wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

  “But think back: when you got really sick painting that stupid sunset, you got Dad sick too. He screamed at you, then at me when I came home. He kept saying it was your fault, all of it! Mom and Dad, they changed. When was the last time Dad was ever proud of me? Or Mom gave me a real hug? Everything used to be better, until you came along.”

  I swallow. “That’s not the whole story. Our grandparents died that day, and Dad was too sick to visit them. He thinks he could’ve saved them if I hadn’t gotten him sick. Mom told me.”

  “Oh, she told you, but not me! You’ve always been the favorite child. Like everyone forgot what you did.”

  “But I didn’t do anything! I never knew the truth until two days ago. Listen to me!”

  My brother looks away.

  “And Dad doesn’t like either of us,” I say. “Dad doesn’t like anyone! You really think I’m his favorite?”

  “Not just Dad’s,” Nathan says, very quietly.

  I shake my head. “You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. We don’t have to fight. Together, me and you can stand up to Dad. We can—”

  “You really think so?” Nathan asks, bleeding sarcasm onto the carpet. “You really think it’s sunshine and rainbows, huh? You’re even dumber than I thought. You’re even dumber than Dad, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Please,” I say. “Stop this.”

  Nathan growls, “Don’t tell me what to do.” He lunges at me, but I jump out of the way, and he winds up crashing into his desk, scattering all his little toys. He smashes his hands on the desk. “I can’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “I don’t know how. . . .”

  “But you do,” I say, taking a reluctant step toward him. “You saved my sketchbook. Why do you keep pretending you’re someone you’re not? Why do you keep pretending you’re Dad?”

  Nathan turns to me, and there’s such a mania, such a fiery frenzy in his eyes, I could melt if I stare at them too long. “Don’t you ever compare me to him.”

  Before I can say anything else, Nathan shakes his head back and forth, and when he opens his eyes again they look a little clearer. “This game is to decide the best Cole,” he says. “Once and for all.”

  So that’s it. That’s why he was freaking out so bad a few days ago when I did those tasks. He’s being literal—he really thinks this is the way to see who’s the better brother, the better son. The better person. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “You need to stop this.”

  “Stop it?” Nathan laughs. “I’m not stopping it. We’re in this for the long haul. Cole versus Cole, brother versus brother. Winner takes all.”

  I stand up straight. “Then I’ll stop it. I’ll stop you. This is the end, Nathan. I—I’ll—”

  He laughs again, and his laughter follows me out down the hall. I hear it clear as day until he slams his door shut.

  When I get to my room and shut my own door, I’m shaking, head to toe. I peer through my blinds at Big Green, oddly still today. I try to control my breathing. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . in . . .

  I know what I need to do.

  I need to get my friends back.

  Nathan can’t take them from me.

  I grab my phone from my pocket and go to type a text, but no. This deserves a (gulp) phone call.

  The call goes straight to voice mail. “Hello, this is Madison Wilson Truman. I am unable to get to my phone right now, but if you’d please leave a detailed message after the tone, I will return your call as soon as I am able. I hope you have an outstanding day.”

  Beep.

  Oh God. I didn’t—“Madison, it’s, uh, it’s Alan. Listen, I—I—I’m not going to say I’m sorry again, because, I mean, I should’ve deleted the picture, but it’s my brother, he’s the one who took it and put it up, I didn’t have anything to do with that, so I guess—”

  I take a deep breath.

  “You can hate me forever if you want. If you don’t want to . . . be my friend ever again, I get it. But I really hope you still do, because I still want to be your friend. Tomorrow I’m going to go out there and try the swimming test, and—and it’d really mean a lot to me if you were in my corner, coach. You and me and Zack, we’re friends, and friends stick t-together, and—and—”

  I move the phone away from my mouth so the hiccup doesn’t come across.

  “We can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep—b-being victims. We need to . . . to stand up for ourselves. You need to come in to school tomorrow, and—and hold your head up, and say, ‘My name is M-Madison Wilson Truman, and I’m who I am, and I’m a good, honest, kind person, and nobody can tell me otherwise,’ and I’ll stand there and be in your corner, like you’d be in mine, because—because we’re losers, and losers—”

  “Thank you. You have reached the maximum time permitted for recording your message. Good-bye.”

  A dial tone buzzes in my ear.

  I blow my nose, dry my eyes, and hope to God—or whoever feels like paying attention—that he gets the message.

  Next up: Zack. But when I look back at my phone, there’s a text already there.

  r u goin 2 beat him 2morow

  I blink a few times, then text back, very slowly, my thumbs moving one key every three seconds:

  better than zero.

  NINETEEN

  Bus 19 goes a little bit faster Thursday morning to Evergreen Middle School. Maybe it’s me, counting down the seconds until show time, but the bus lurches and jostles even more with every pothole than usual. I stare out the window, watching the cars drive by, imagining what my own drawing of a busy suburban street would look like. All the movement and shading and emphasis slips through my fingers, leaks onto the bus floor. I can’t paint lying down anymore. It’s time to paint standing up.

  The doors open. We’re here. I walk slowly at first, then I pick up the pace, one foot in front of the other. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . I walk by the bulletin board where Madison was humiliated, stopping long enough to see if anyone new is on the chopping block today. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . I make it to my locker, peering inside, amazed at how anyone, let alone a twelve-year-old boy, could fit in there for hours . . . in . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .

  “Well,” a voice behind me says. “I’m surprised you didn’t
stay home.”

  Madison has his arms crossed; when he speaks, his voice is softer, higher. “Did you get my message?” I ask.

  “You’re a bit of a rambler,” Madison says. “Are you still planning on taking the test?”

  I nod.

  “Even though we didn’t meet yesterday? You still think you can do it?”

  I look down, but nod.

  He runs a hand over his hair. “Does it even matter? You still won’t beat your brother. He’s—”

  “Hey, Fatison!” someone yells from down the hall.

  Madison shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and continues. “He’s up on you five to two.”

  “Five to three,” I say. “I made someone cry.”

  “Who—” He clears his throat. “Well, I’m glad I could help you,” he says sarcastically.

  “I can do this. I won’t let him do this to me anymore. To anyone.”

  Madison sighs. “Best of luck. I wish I could’ve been more help.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re my coach. You were amazing.”

  “Amazing,” Madison says bitterly. “A real coach would’ve gotten you into shape in half the time, and a real coach wouldn’t have gotten pictures posted of himself—posted of—”

  “Madison, you can’t—”

  He holds up a hand and walks into homeroom, without me. Shaking my head, I follow.

  To my surprise, seated in the desk to my left is Zack, busy looking up at the ceiling. I rush over. “Hi,” he says with a broad grin. “You’re taking the swimming test today, right?”

  “Forget that,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh,” Zack says. “Yeah, I’m fine. It was kind of fun, actually. I wanted to see how long I could go without making a noise, but then I had to pee, so I started to hum. Lucky for me Mr. Jackson was walking by.”

  My eyes bug out. “You wanted to stay in there without anyone finding you?”

  “Sure,” Zack says. “New experience, right?”

  I look around, making sure Miss Richter isn’t watching, and lean closer. “Why didn’t you tell them who did it?”

  “I couldn’t see,” Zack says. “I was too busy trying to read the secret code in the ceiling tiles, and they snuck up on me. I didn’t think it’d be fair to call out someone I wasn’t sure was the culprit.”

  “But you know who it was.”

  Zack shrugs. “Probably. But anything’s possible.”

  I try to keep the annoyance from my voice. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too,” Zack says with a smile. “Hang on a sec.” He looks over at Madison, then walks over and says something to him.

  “Morning,” Connor says from my other side, taking out his gum. “Did I hear that right? Are you taking the swimming test today?”

  I turn red. “Oh, uh, maybe.”

  Connor gives me a big smile. “Good for you, man. I know you can do it.”

  Still, in spite of everything he said before, those stupid butterflies in my stomach flutter to life when Connor smiles at me. The crumpled-up false-start cretpoj, sitting in the bottom of my backpack, calls my name. I nod. “Th-Thanks.”

  Before I know it, the bell for first period rings. I freeze in my seat.

  “Alan,” Zack calls.

  I slowly lift myself out of the desk and make my way toward the pool. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .

  “You can do it,” Zack says. “You’ve got to be confident. You’ve been practicing every day for, what, a week?”

  “Less,” I groan.

  “Less than a week!” Zack cheers, oblivious. “I know Madison’s a good teacher. And you’re a good student! You’ll do great.”

  I freeze at the entrance to the locker room.

  “Here,” Zack says. He holds out my hand and places something small and round in it.

  A rock.

  I look up. “Zack.”

  “Just give it back to me when you’re done,” Zack says. “Keep it in the pocket of your bathing suit.”

  “It’ll fall out.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s never fallen out on me yet. I can’t watch you pass the test, but I’ll be there in spirit. I want to hear all about it after, okay?”

  I hold Zack’s most prized possession, the rock that was a gift from his dead father. The rock he’s loaning to me. The rock Zack thinks I’m worthy, special, strong enough to hold.

  Zack gives me a big hug, right in front of everyone, and he skips off. “Remember the odds,” he calls out.

  I look at the rock. It’s an ordinary-looking stone, round on one side and flat on the other, with gray and tan markings all over. But Zack knows it’s not ordinary. And I know it too.

  I change as fast as possible in the locker room, Zack’s rock nestled tightly in my right pocket. Before most of the kids come out, I walk up to Coach Streit.

  “I hope we won’t see a repeat of yesterday, Cole,” the coach says. “If that’s the case, it is going to be a very long year for you.”

  “Coach Streit,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking like it’s on a chiropractor’s chair, “I’d like to take the swimming test.”

  The coach squints. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Frankly, I’ve seen your progress in class, and it’s lousy. You’re not ready.”

  “Please let me take it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “You sound like your brother. I’m sure you heard what happened to him.”

  “I’m not like my brother.” I muster as much confidence as I can. “I’m me. And I want to take the test. Please.”

  Coach Streit gives me a long look. She sighs. Once everyone gets changed, she blows her whistle. “Clear out the first lane,” she says to the class. “Do warm-ups, but keep the first lane clear.” She nods. “You’re up. Don’t do anything stupid, please.”

  I climb in from the shallow end. Even though the rest of the class is supposed to be doing warm-ups, they’re all watching me. Ron whispers something to the girl next to him, and they both laugh.

  “What’s this?” Marcellus asks from above me.

  “Cole is taking the test,” Coach Streit says.

  Now the pool is abuzz. “He doesn’t know how to swim,” Marcellus says.

  Coach Streit shrugs. “There’s no harm in letting him test his limits. Be ready for when he can’t keep going.”

  Marcellus looks at me very carefully, then stands next to Coach Streit.

  I look down the big canal of pool before me, knowing I’ll have to swim to the end and come back without stopping. It looks so much longer now, so much vaster and deeper, like Moby-Dick is going to capsize my little speedboat any second.

  Everyone’s watching me. Everyone’s waiting. I can feel the weight of Zack’s rock in my pocket. I move my eyes to the locker room, where I could stay and wait and get another zero and not have to worry about this—

  —and there’s Madison, standing by the doors, watching.

  We look at each other for a bit. Slowly, very slowly, he raises his fist and gives me a thumbs-up.

  Like a bullet, I kick off from the wall.

  One arm over the other, turning my head sideways as I swim freestyle down the pool. I flutter kick, making huge splashes as I plod along, careful not to stop for anything. My hair gets soggy and flops around, but I can see just fine, and before I know it, I’m at the deep end.

  I can hear people squawking and yelling and even a few cheers as I flop onto my back, drunken penguin style, and paddle my way halfway across the pool. The ceiling lights look so bright, so intense, shining down on me. My arms and legs ache from (less than) a week’s practice, but I keep pushing, and Coach Streit blows her whistle when I reach the halfway point, which I know is the cue to start the breaststroke.

  Now for the real test.

  I pause to orient myself: arms pointed out, legs in the back. I propel myself forward, but it’s no good, and I get a mouth full of pool water. I choke a little. I can hear the screams of my classmates louder,
I can hear Coach Streit yelling encouragement, I can hear—

  Then I stop, because at the end of the pool, at the shallow end where I started, is the goal. The end result. The finish line.

  Like a superhero fighting an epic battle against a giant monster, I push out with my arms, slapping the water, waves crashing all around me, cascading into mini tsunamis. I am a titan. I am a juggernaut. I am powerful, tough, strong. I did this. I became this way through hard work and training and I am not a victim anymore.

  No more.

  The outside world—all those people, all those lights, all those sounds and distractions and judgments—fades away, and all I see is the goal.

  I look up.

  I keep looking up until I’m at the end, and I climb out of the pool, and I almost fall over as Madison tackles me to the ground, laughing and screaming, and all the noise rushes back in and the pool is a tidal wave of energy directed at me.

  I did it.

  Coach Streit blows her whistle a bunch, but nobody is listening, and soon I’m lifted to my feet, given claps on the back and hands through my hair and fist bumps and for this moment, I am king.

  I did it.

  I really, really did it.

  Madison is beside himself, pumping his fists into the air, fully dressed and dripping wet and hollering like a lunatic. I look at my friend, and he looks at me, and we grin and laugh. Everything is as good as—better than—it’s ever been.

  Of course, Madison winds up getting a detention for cutting class, but he doesn’t care. “I knew you could do it,” he says one last time as Coach Streit makes him leave. “I always believed in you. Even when things got—even when we—I always believed . . .”

  Once all the excitement wears off, Marcellus walks over to me. “Kid,” he says, “where’d you learn to swim like that?”

  I look up. “I had a good teacher.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Marcellus almost cracks a smile. “All right,” he says.

  Even Ron’s impressed. Well, I assume Ron’s impressed, because he doesn’t say anything mean to me. He just sneers in the locker room. I’ll take it.