by Julie Solano
“Pip? What’s going on?” Brody puts his hands to my shoulders, “You look like a butterfly caught in a net. You know you’re shaking right?”
“I’m fine Brody, really. I was just remembering that night. I’m okay.”
“Kaitlyn Woodley, it’s been two full weeks. You are still shaking at the thought of him? Has anything else happened to you?” Brody pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls his lips into a straight line.
“Nope, nothing Brody.”
“Pinky swear,” he holds out his little pinky.
I start to extend my pinky toward him, but drop it. I can no longer cover the truth. “Well I’ve gotten a couple texts,” I mumble. I drop my eyes and cover them with my hand.
“Wait . . . Did you just say he’s texted you? You haven’t told me about this?” concern overtakes his tone.
“I’m pretty sure they’re drunk texts since they come in at like three in the morning. They just say stuff like he misses me and he wants me back.”
“Come? Say? Is this still happening? When was the last text, Kaitlyn?”
“Well, I found one on my phone this morning. It’s no big deal.”
“No Big Deal? This dude broke into your house and slit your teddy bear’s throat. Give me your phone. I want to see it!” he commands, holding his hand out to take my phone.
“I deleted them . . . all of them.” I pause for a second, looking at his somber face. “I haven’t responded to any of them. There’s nothing to show you.”
Brody takes a deep breath and releases it in a huff as he throws his head back. “What am I gonna do with you Kaitlyn Woodley? How am I going to keep you safe if I don’t even know what I’m dealing with?”
Trying to break the tension ricocheting between us, I pinch his cheeks in between my hands, just like we used to do when we played “Chubby.”
“Look at me Brody.” I tug down on his face so his eyes gaze right into mine. “I’m a big girl now. I’m not that little Pip Squeak anymore. You don’t have to protect me from Pistol’s big, bad texts. Besides, if I thought I was in any kind of real danger, you would be the first person I would call. You know that, right?”
He pauses for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. “I hope you’d tell me. I couldn’t live with myself if I let anything happen to my best fffriend,” he chuckles. Instantly his tone becomes serious. “You have to tell me if he texts you again. Got it?”
“Got it.” I solute, accepting his command.
He grabs my hand and pulls me in. “Come here you little Smart Ass. Let’s snuggle it out.”
Our bear hug is interrupted when the lunch bell rings. “Oh man. I’ve gotta go grab my stuff. The vans leave in ten minutes.”
“Same here, the guys are probably already loading onto the bus. Wish us luck Pip. If we win this one, it’s Championships baby!”
As I squeeze him hard, not wanting to let go, an idea comes to me. “Give me your best catching hand,” I whisper. Without hesitation, he holds out his left hand. I pull a pen out of my pocket, set my necklace on his hand and outline my horseshoe on his palm. Around the outside I write, Catch the lucky one. Then I kiss it and squeeze it shut. “I’m sharing my luck with you today. Now, go pick axe those Panthers.”
“You’re something else, Girl.” His dimple pops when he smiles down at me. As he opens the door to the janitor’s closet, Brody insists that I text him about my races. “Kick some booty, now,” he cheers as he steps out of the closet.
Knowing we are in full view of everyone, he leaves me with a high five and a wink.
“You’ve got it fffriend,” I say, giving him a discreet fist bump. Both of our faces are lit up from the rush of our brief, secret encounter. As I watch Brody walking away toward the door, I notice Caden glancing my way from across the room. He has a suspicious look on his face, but just shakes his head as his eyes drift from mine. When he catches a glimpse of Brody headed out toward the quad, I watch him jog over and slow to a stop. They walk out the door together. I can tell something is up, and I can’t help but wonder if he saw us coming out of the janitor’s closet together.
I don’t have time to think about my brother’s overprotective nature right now. I’ve got to get out to the vans before I miss my ride. I grab my gear from the locker, and jog out to meet my teammates in the parking lot. We load up quickly and hit the road for the two hour ride south.
I jump in the van and crawl back to the third row next to Daemon. I’m not happy about my seating assignment at all. It stinks that the coach assigned seats, since no one will voluntarily sit next to a couple annoying kids, and our French exchange student. I really want to sit by Jenna right now, but she has to sit up front next to the most irritating, squirrelly girl on the team, Miley. Jenna scoots as far over toward the door as she can get. Fidgeting back and forth, trying to peek around Jake, who’s sitting in the middle row, she glances back over her shoulder, and opens her mouth, air gagging herself with her finger. She holds up her phone and mouths “text me.”
I mouth back, “Saving my battery . . . Have fun up there.” With those parting words, I send Jenna a sarcastic grin, slip on my headphones, and settle back into my seat. I close my eyes and lean back, trying to avoid any interaction with Daemon. As I sit peacefully, listening to my music, the smell of rotten eggs starts drifting up my nose. I knew this ride was going way too smoothly. I roll my head to the left and pop my eyes open, “Really? You’re gonna sit here and crap your pants right now?” I ask incredulously.
Daemon smirks back at me wiggling his eyebrows. “Don’t worry Princess, there’s a lot more where that came from,” he growls in his sappy French accent, winking at me and pinching my side.
At his touch, a stinging pain shoots through the skin covering my ribcage. It feels like I just got stung by a wasp. “Ouch, you Asshole! What was that for?” I scream.
“Miss Woodley, watch your French, you Hamburger!” I hear Coach Hendryx shout from the driver’s seat.
I twist my face into a sour grimace and glare at Daemon. He’s chuckling when he says, “We can do a lot better than just “watch” your French. Why don’t you let me show you how it’s done?” He sticks out his tongue and swirls it around in the air, directing his fantasy make-out session right at me. My gag reflex kicks in as I watch him move his hands around and wiggle his fingers, like he’s holding onto the back of my head.
“That’s disgusting Daemon . . . Enjoy your little fantasy, cuz that’s all it’s ever gonna be.”
I start to gag as a fresh dose of gas enters the atmosphere. The smell begins to creep its way around the van. My teammates seated around us start bouncing up and down and waving their hands in front of their faces. Windows start popping open left and right,
“What the hell did you eat today?” Jake turns around and yells back toward our seat.
Daemon laughs, “Lactose intolerant, Dude. They served free chocolate milk and taco boats for hot lunch.” He turns toward me and belches right in my face. I swear I can feel my hair blow back over my shoulders. “Why fart and waste it when you can burp and taste it?” he laughs.
Disgusted, I curl up in a ball and turn away from Daemon. I take out my phone to text Jenna, when I see an unread message.
Pistol:
Nice pic inside the janitor’s closet today. Why are you putting me through this Kaitlyn? You know what? I’ll see you soon. Next time you hook up in a private place, it’ll be with me . . .
Oh my goodness. My heart skips a beat from the fresh shot of adrenaline. How in the heck did he get a picture of me inside the janitor’s closet? My mind races for an explanation of how Pistol could’ve gotten a picture of me at school. Did someone else see us in there? Is he following me? It’s been over two weeks . . . Why does he still care? Anxiety is beginning to claw at my stomach, and I wonder if I should talk to Jenna after all? I know I haven’t told her about any of his texts, but it’s kind of starting to feel like Pistol’s a creeper . . . like the stalking kind . . . and I did promise that
I’d let her know if anything else happened. I decide to text her.
Me:
Jenna, you’ve got to figure out a way to get back here and talk to me. Pistol is starting to scare me a little.
No sooner do I hit send, then I hear Jenna’s voice arguing with Coach Hendryx, “Look at her back there! She’s doubled over ready to puke. I have to trade places with Daemon, or she’s not going to have a chance of qualifying today. She’s green!”
Relief washes over me when I hear Coach’s reply, “You’ve got a point, Kid. Why don’t you have Kaitlyn come to the front. She can squish into the middle. No one should have to smell that French Taco Boat the whole way there.”
I take a deep breath of relief, forgetting the aroma that is currently surrounding the back seat, and wretch in response. “Ohhhh, get up here Woodley!” I hear Coach grunt to the back.
I throw my head back, “Praise God!!!” I groan, grabbing my stuff and heading up to the front of the van.
I settle into the four inches of middle seat, sandwiched in between Miley and Jenna. Miley wiggles back and forth, elbowing me slightly, just to let me know that I’m crowding her. Already on edge, I glare at her and shake my fist, “Knock it off, or you’ll find yourself at the other end of this wrecking ball, Miley! Are we clear?” I swear I can hear Coach chuckle, as I watch Miley cower away, and turn back to her book, The History of Video Games.
Once Miley is off my lap, I pull out my phone and whisper, “Don’t kill me for not showing you these earlier.” I click on Pistol’s name, and start scrolling through his messages. I start with the last one I showed her.
Pistol:
I think he likes your Jack O’ Lantern pajamas as much as I do ;(
We never even broke up, you at least owe me a conversation.
I miss you.
I know it’s 3:00 in the morning, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Text me.
I miss being in there with you, I love watching you sleep.
Kaitlyn, please text me back. I need you.
God, you suck! Text me back, Bitch!!!
Ok, sorry, I’m just frustrated cuz I love you.
I’ll be in town tomorrow . . . call me.
How was your Butter-Flake Chill? You sure looked like you were enjoying it.
DAMN YOU GIRL!!! TEXT ME!!!!! ;(
I saw you in the parking lot today. That skirt is amazing with those cowgirl boots! I’d do anything to get those toned legs wrapped around this cowboy.
We need to talk.
I have to see you!!! Up close!!! I’m not going to keep begging!
Good luck at your meet today. I’ll be cheering for you. ;) haha
Nice pic inside the janitor’s closet today. Why are you putting me through this Kaitlyn? You know what? I’ll see you soon. Next time you hook up in a private place, it’ll be with me . . .
I guess there are a lot more than I thought, and when read consecutively, they sound pretty creepy.
With each new message she reads, Jenna’s head bows a little farther forward, and her mouth slightly drops. “Holy hell Kaitlyn, this boy is really hung up on you. Have you shown these to Caden or Brody . . . or better yet, your parents?”
“I told Brody today, that Pistol’s texted me a few times, but when he asked to see them, I said I’d deleted them,” I confess. “I just can’t get him in the middle of all of this. He needs to focus on his playoffs right now anyway. I know he’ll get himself in trouble, and I’m not willing to risk his future over an ex-boyfriend, who’s going to be over me by next week.”
Jenna studies the texts again, then shakes her head in disbelief. “Look at the pattern of these texts Kaitlyn. See this text, this text, and this text . . .” she points to the messages, “ . . . they have stalker written all over them! It’s almost like he’s following you.”
“Lower your voice,” I whisper, as I see Coach Hendryx cock his head to the side. His quick movement reminds me of a puppy, listening to an unrecognizable sound. “We’ll discuss this later,” I say, tipping my chin toward Coach. Then I mouth the word, “listening,” and point my finger toward the driver’s seat. At that, I hear Jenna let out a deep breath. Now that I’ve re-read his texts, I know I’ve made a mess of things by not telling my closest circle of friends. The disturbing thing is, I don’t know if I’m keeping this secret more to protect them, or Pistol. My stomach turns thinking about the whole situation. I bury my face in my hands, and comb my fingers through my hair. When I look up, I’m surprised to see we are pulling into the parking lot of Shasta. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself before getting out of the van. The meet is intense, to say the least. I have to get a handle on myself. As I walk through the gates, I glance down at the large concrete steps and into the crowded lanes of the warm up pool. They are dotted with distinguished swimmers from all over the north state. I feel butterflies shooting through my stomach as I make my way down the steps, scanning the pool deck. I feel a little intimidated as I scope out the larger teams, picking out familiar faces of swimmers I’ve met behind the blocks over the years. I look back to the pool, and psych myself out as I recognize many of the top swimmers in the league. Watching them loosen up, puts me a little on edge, as I convince myself that their warm up pace looks faster than my sprint. I’ve got to get out of this frame of mind. I’m defeating myself before the meet even begins.
I work to shake off the nerves by reminding myself that I only have to swim two individual events, and two relays today. I have to push everything else out of my mind. Those races need to be my focus. I slip my headphones over my ears and crank up the music to drown out all of the distractions. I bounce up and down a couple times, pop my neck back and forth, perform some arm and leg stretches, and decide to head over to the warm up pool. Swimming the first few laps helps with the nerves. It calms me down and eases the anxiety brought on by Jenna’s and my conversation about Pistol’s texts. The water feels pretty fast, and I begin to regain confidence. I’m at the end of the lane, when I feel a hand come down on my head. It’s Jenna. “Hey, heat and lane assignments are posted. Come with me to look,” she says, tilting her head in the direction of the east wall.
Knowing it’s about time to get out anyway, I stop my warm up and join Jenna. When I check heat and lane assignments for the first event, I see that I’m seeded in the second heat. Ugh. This is not good news for my Fly. I know I have to win my heat to even have a chance at qualifying for Masters. I don’t think that’s even possible. I’m pretty sure I’ve already hit the fastest time I’m capable of this season. I study my competitors posted times. According to this sheet, I have to drop two full seconds to even make it into the top five. Oh, well. I shake it off, and go back under the pop-up tent with the rest of my teammates.
About an hour into the meet, it’s time for my 100 Fly. I’m standing behind the blocks, looking to the opposite side of the pool. The yard pool looks short, in comparison to the meter pool where I train at home. When the long whistle blows, I step up, and raise my head to examine the distance one more time. Oh, my God! My heart stops, when I swear I catch a glimpse of Pistol standing at the end of my lane. I recognize the boots, follow them up to a prize buckle and quickly catch the side of his face. He disappears behind the crowd before I can actually confirm that it’s him. Adrenaline shoots through my entire body, and the sound begins to blur from my ears, I faintly hear a muffled, “Swimmer’s take your mark.” I automatically drop to the block in response. Panicked, I manage to lock myself into position. As soon as I hear the buzzer, I reflexively fly from the block. The adrenaline from the sight of Pistol courses through my veins. I don’t even think about the movements. My body is on auto-pilot. There is so much fear running through my mind, that I’m not sure I’m even using my breathing pattern, let alone breathing at all. Before I know it, I’ve swum all four laps. I hit the wall, pull my cap off, and tilt my head back into the water, allowing my hair to flow back over my shoulders. My lungs are tight, my breathing is labored, and I’m shaking. I’m not su
re if it’s from the swim, or the panic that’s coursing through me. I look up, and see Jenna standing next to the block, looking down at me with her mouth hanging open. I stay in the water, waiting for the fly over start. I don’t see anyone at the block, so I look back toward the water to see that the rest of my heat is just now coming in. Hmmm. I had no clue that I was that far ahead of them. After the next heat takes off, I crawl out of the water, where Jenna is still waiting to greet me.
“Holy hell Kaitlyn. What got into you?”
I have no idea how Jenna has picked up on my anxiety. I’ve been in the water ever since I saw Pistol. I continue to tremble, as a warm tear runs down my cheek.
“Kaitlyn, why are you crying? You’re already the fastest flyer on our team, and you just completely obliterated your own record.” She grabs my arms and turns me around to face her, “Did you see the time on the Colorado? You dropped three flipping seconds, Kait!!!”
I stare back at her blankly, unresponsive to what she has just said.
She shakes her head, looking at me with confusion. “Did you hear me Kait? You dropped three . . . seconds . . . and creamed the entire heat!!! Wait, are you hurt? Are you okay? Why are you crying?”
I finally work up the nerve to speak, “I. Saw. Hhhim. Jenna. He’s here.”
“Who did you see? Who’s here?” she asks in alarm.
“Pistol . . . he was standing at the end of my lane before the race,” my voice quivers.
“Are you sure?” she takes me into her arms and hugs me. “You’re stressed. Maybe you’re just seeing things,” she rationalizes.
“It looked just like him, Jenna. But he ducked into the crowd before I could make sure.”
“There’s no reason for him to be down here right now. His sister doesn’t even compete in high school swimming. The valley doesn’t have a team, remember?” Jenna reassures. “I’m sure you just saw a look alike.” Then Jenna holds me back at arm’s length. “Listen to me Kait; I will search this entire facility, to make sure he’s not here. Stay next to Coach and help him time. Do not leave his side.”
