“Okay, please don’t tell me you really don’t know who Marina Tide is. Her dad is Flynn Tide, that famous guy we watched that show about during Shark Week?”
“The oceanographer?” I ask. “I remember now. But I didn’t know he had some super-cool kid.”
“Well, he does, and she goes all over the world saving stuff in the ocean and has her own pet dolphin, Skipper, who swims along next to their boat. I watched about a hundred MeTube videos of her the week I was out sick with strep throat. I can’t believe I never told you about it!”
Stella boots me out of my computer chair and pulls up a web page with Marina Tide front and center. She’s in the middle of the ocean with her long, blond hair slicked back with water, and she’s smiling like her face is about to split open. And it’s easy to see why: She’s got her arms around a dolphin like he’s an oversized Labrador retriever with fins for legs. The caption says “Marina Tide and her best friend Skipper.”
“‘Famous deep-sea explorer Flynn ‘the Fin’ Tide has devoted his entire life to ocean conservation,” Stella reads. “‘With his daughter, thirteen-year-old Marina Tide, Flynn travels the world on his ninety-foot trawler, the Sea Angel…’ A trawler is a kind of private airplane, by the way.” Stella nods her head so confidently that I feel bad correcting her.
“Actually, it’s a boat,” I say. “My Grandpa Winston used to have one. But it wasn’t ninety feet long! That’s bigger than my entire house. I could totally live on a boat that size. I only puked once on that Disney cruise we took two years ago, and I’m pretty sure that was because of the nasty shrimp cocktail my mom made me try.”
I shudder just thinking about the Pink Puke Fiasco.
Stella clicks back to the Pinkerton website.
“Pinkerton does have a swim team,” she shouts. “You should join!”
I think about this for a minute. I do love to swim. My favorite is being underwater and just floating there like a big X. It’s like you’re part of the water and totally by yourself and nobody can bother you. Only that’s not true because last summer, as I was enjoying that free-floating feeling at the community pool, I got yanked out around the neck by an overeager lifeguard. Happy free-floating feeling? Over.
“I don’t know,” I tell Stella. “I mean, I’m a great swimmer and all, but I’m not sure my technique is all that good.”
“That’s what practices are for! Hey, look. Team tryouts are this Monday afternoon at the Mountain View community pool,” she squeals, pointing to the big red circle on the online calendar. “Are you going to do it, Mags? You should totally do it!”
“Why not?” I tell her. “Maybe if I get really good, I can travel the world and swim with dolphins and save some big important coral reef.”
“Saving a reef is probably seriously good karma,” Stella says with a laugh.
My Auntie Fi taught me and Stella all about karma. You know, what goes around, comes around? Like, if you sneak into your sister’s room and search and search until you find her diary and then read it from cover to cover, you shouldn’t be surprised if you wake up the next morning with a pimple the size of a grapefruit on your chin. That just means you stirred up some bad karma. It happened to Stella once.
“I might need some extra-good karma to make the team,” I tell Stella nervously, eyeing the Pinkerton Minnows team photo. “Look at the shoulders on her,” I say, pointing to a girl who looks like she could beat my dad in an arm-wrestling match.
“Well, if this little squirt made it, I’m thinking you’re not going to have a problem,” Stella says, pointing out a tiny girl in the front. The photo is sort of fuzzy, so I squint to get a better look at her. She’s half the size of most of the other swimmers and has a big, bright, friendly smile. She’s probably somebody’s little sister that they let squeeze into the picture because she’s so darned cute and sweet. That’s my theory, anyway.
Turns out, my theory is about as far off the starting block as you can possibly get.
Chapter 3
When I Belly Flop Before I Even Hit the Water
“Well, I think that pep rally on Friday made it pretty obvious,” I tell Elizabeth as we’re being shuffled through the lunch line. “Oh, no thank you…” Squish, slop, drip. I try to pull my tray from the lady with the ladle but she’s holding her side with a kung-fu grip. “I’m sorry. I wanted my rice without gravy, please.” The lady with the ladle ignores me so I take my tray.
“Made what pretty obvious?” Elizabeth whispers.
“That we have to pick something. Anything. We can’t hang out here in no-man’s-land much longer,” I explain.
“Oh, uh, okay…I guess you’re right,” Elizabeth stammers, picking up an apple and placing it on her tray. She’s really very agreeable, which is something I kind of love about her.
“I think I’m going to join the swim team,” I announce, wedging myself between a guy from the chess club and a boy basketball player. Elizabeth does the same across the table. “You should do it with me!”
“Oh…I…I don’t know,” she says timidly, opening her carton of milk. “I’m not that great of a swimmer.”
“Who cares? That doesn’t matter!” I say, leaning across the table. “I mean, okay, I won’t lie to you. I’m pretty good. Better than pretty good, I guess.” I picture myself accepting my first-place ribbon at Camp Itchy Bitey. That really was awesome. “But that’s not the point! It’s just about being on the team—no matter how good you are.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Elizabeth agrees, stabbing a Tater Tot with her fork. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“Then it’s settled. Tryouts are this afternoon at Mountain View Pool. We can go together!” I explain, spreading a see-through napkin across my lap. I know there’s really no point to a napkin like this, but I try to maintain high standards of good manners—even at RJPMS. “And I’m wearing this super-cute ruffled tankini my mom got me on sale at the end of the summer.”
“That sounds perfect. I’ve just got a plain, old navy one-piece,” Elizabeth says, looking a little disappointed.
“Again!” I say, encouraging her. “It doesn’t matter how good you are, and it doesn’t matter what you wear. It’s just about being on the team!”
After school we swing by my house and then Elizabeth’s to get our gear and head over to Mountain View Pool together.
“This hill is a killer, don’t you think?” I ask Elizabeth, huffing and puffing and finally getting off to walk my bike.
“We moved here from Denver so the hills don’t really get me too bad,” she says, pedaling effortlessly up the steep grade.
“Too bad Pinkerton doesn’t have a cycling team!” I yell as she passes me like I’m standing still.
Elizabeth waits for me by the door to the gym while I lock up my bike. Once inside, we see a bunch of parents and kids yelling and elbowing their way toward a folding table in the middle of the foyer.
A pair of large double doors slams hard against each other.
“I need everybody, and I mean everybody, to take ten steps back and form a civilized line,” booms a voice moving to the other side of the table. Pretty intense for a swim team called the Minnows. Aren’t minnows, like, the tiniest, most harmless, most sure to be eaten by other fish in the sea—or the lake, or the river, or wherever it is they live? As everyone scrambles to form a line, I see the body that’s attached to that big voice. It’s a man, more like a giant, probably seven feet tall. Okay, maybe not that tall, but the dude is massive, with broad shoulders and the longest arms I’ve ever seen. Last year in school, we learned about the great albatross, a bird that has a wingspan of more than eleven feet. Fingertip to fingertip, I bet this guy’s is about the same.
“That’s Coach King,” Elizabeth whispers, sliding into place next to me. “I hear he’s a little scary.”
“I think you heard right,” I whisper back. “And why is everyone so worked up? It’s jus
t a silly swim team.” That would have been fine, no big deal, if the whole crowd didn’t shut up right at the moment I said, “silly swim team.” A sea of heads whirl around and stare me down. I feel like a gazelle about to be pounced on by a bunch of hyenas in one of those too-scary-for-normal-TV nature shows. Elizabeth takes a tiny step away from me, and I can’t blame her. I look past the line of kids and parents (why didn’t I ask my mom to come with me to this?) to see Coach folding his extra-long arms and peering around the crowd at me.
“And what’s your name, miss?” he asks. I can’t tell if he’s fuming or not, which makes me even more nervous.
“Oh! Me?” I answer back, tightly clutching the bedazzled tote I made at art camp last summer and making my way to the front of the line. “I’m Maggie. Maggie Malone. That’s Maggie with two Gs, and Malone is spelled just like ‘alone’ except there’s the M in front so it’s not really all alone. Get it?” I say with a grin, but I get nothing. Tough crowd. And this is not good because when there’s an awkward silence, I feel an uncontrollable need to fill it with words. “Technically, I’m Margaret Flannery Malone, if you need that for your files. My friends call me Maggie. My family is Irish—Scotch-Irish, actually, and my Granny Malone? She came over on the boat way, way back—”
“Got it,” Coach stops me before I have a chance to take him through the Flannery side of the family tree.
“You can go back to the end of the line now, Margaret,” he says, making notes on his clipboard.
Well, that was kind of awful. The worst part is, I have no idea how much more awful things are about to get.
Chapter 4
When I Make a Splash (and Not in a Good Way)
It takes me forever to stuff my crazy head of hair into my swim cap, and it’s still sticking out in about thirteen places. But if there was an award for cutest swimsuit, I’d totally win it. We’re lined up waiting for instructions by a white tile wall that surrounds the indoor pool, and I scope out the competition. Everyone else is wearing boring old one-pieces so my hot-pink and neon-yellow ruffled tankini really stands out. I try not to act like I realize I’m the only one here with a sense of style.
“Cute suit,” says a tiny voice from behind me. I turn around and smile. It’s the adorable little girl from the swim-team photo!
“Aw, thanks,” I say. I want to say something nice about her suit too, but it’s this old, faded gray thing and I just can’t lie. It’s a curse sometimes, honestly. “I like your goggles,” I say instead, which is a pretty silly thing to say since there’s really nothing special about them. But I like them better than the suit, so at least it’s true. She gives me a toothy smile.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Brianna King,” she says shyly.
“I’m Maggie Malone,” I reply. “My real name is Margaret, but everyone calls me—” Coach interrupts me with his big booming voice.
“Jenkins, King, Malone, O’Connor, on your blocks!” he shouts. Elizabeth and I swap nervous glances. Elizabeth’s last name is O’Connor, which when you say it all together makes it sound like her name is Elizabetho Connor, but who cares about that right now? I’m just glad that her name puts her on the starting block next to me. I feel a little bad when tiny Brianna steps up onto the block on my other side. I mean, I really want to make the team but I don’t want to crush her like a bug or anything. I smile at Brianna but she just adjusts her goggles and looks right past me. She must be so nervous she can’t even see me.
“Swimmers, on your mark,” Coach calls. I notice that Brianna drops to a crouch position and puts her hands by her feet. The poor thing looks like she’s trying not to fall into the pool! I hope she doesn’t. That would be so embarrassing for her.
“Get set,” Coach shouts, and since I have a great sense of rhythm and I know go comes next, I time my plunge perfectly. I nearly lose my bottoms when I hit the water, but I hike them up quickly and I’m pretty sure nobody saw anything. Well, maybe a tiny sliver, but definitely not a full moon. I coast clear down to the bottom of the pool. I just love it down there. It’s so peaceful and quiet. I pull through that water, giving it everything I’ve got. Man, am I flying! I’m like an underwater eagle slicing through this water! Or a submarine wearing a jet pack! I’m a mermaid, a graceful, nimble water nymph!
I start to wonder why I didn’t go out for the swim team at Sacred Heart, or even the community All-Star team. After all, I’m practically a fish! A sailfish, to be exact. We learned in biology that those are one of the fastest fish in the ocean. They can swim up to eighty miles per hour! I’ll bet I’m going at least half that fast right now—and I’m just getting warmed up! I wonder if I’ll win a medal this year, or maybe even a trophy.
I’ve never won a trophy in my whole life, if you don’t count that baby gymnastics class Stella and I took when we were in preschool. “Everyone’s a winner!” was the Tumbling Tots slogan, and if you stuck it out for the whole twelve-week session, you got a junky plastic trophy. Mine broke in the car on the way home from the last class. Anyway, I’ll bet if I got a real one for actually winning something, my mom would get me one of those trophy shelves like Stella keeps all of her soccer trophies on. Or if it was a medal I could frame it in a cute shadow box with my Camp Itchy Bitey ribbon… Focus, Malone. You’re in it to win it today. Glide like the wind!
I crane my neck up just a tiny bit, but I can’t even see Elizabeth or Brianna in the lanes next to me. I must be killing it! I sort of want to turn my head back and see how far ahead I am, but that would slow me down and there’s no way I’m going to blow this. Even from the bottom of the pool I can hear all sorts of yelling above the water, which must be the team rooting for me. It sounds like they’re blowing horns! Usually I can’t hear a thing when I’m this deep.
It’s so encouraging that I sail all the way to the end of the pool without even coming up once for air. With my arms above my head, I race toward the surface of the water and pop out, ready to soak up all of that delicious, thunderous applause.
Chapter 5
When I Discover I’m Swimming with a Shark
There’s no delicious, thunderous applause.
There’s not even polite clapping.
In fact, nobody is moving or making a sound anymore.
The other three swimmers are still standing on their blocks, shivering and staring at me with their mouths open. What the heck? Hanging on to the side of the pool, I shake the water from my ears and lift my foggy goggles onto my head.
“What’s up, guys?” I call out.
“That was a false start, Margaret,” Coach bellows back. “If this were a meet, that would be an automatic DQ. Please get back to your block quickly. And this time, maybe wait until after I blow the horn.”
“DQ?” I ask. An automatic Dairy Queen?
“Disqualification!” Coach roars. I nod and duck into the water, trying not to cry. This is so embarrassing. I’d like to just float here under the water, but I don’t since that’s not an option with everybody waiting for me. I’m totally out of breath when I climb back onto the starting block.
“On your marks, get set…”
I hit the water dead last after Coach blares that terrifying horn. I swim as hard as I can but this time it’s different with other swimmers in the lanes next to me. At first I think I’m seeing things, but tiny Brianna seems to be way ahead of me. Then I notice that Elizabeth has left me in the dust too. Obviously it’s because I started a little late. I’m sure I’ll catch up. But those two are flying across the top of the water like they’re sledding down an icy hill on a snow day. What in the world? I’m a good swimmer! And Elizabeth said she was terrible!
Everyone is out of the pool by the time I make it back to the starting blocks. Coach is bent way down and talking sternly to Brianna.
“O’Connor beat you by two seconds,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Two seconds!” Brianna is biting
her lip, looking like she’s trying not to cry. “But you’re both first heat, so you’ll have plenty of opportunities to outswim her.” Brianna nods and runs off to the locker room. Coach shakes his head angrily. I move over next to Elizabeth.
“Not that great of a swimmer, huh?” I say.
“Yeah, well, my dad is amazing. He actually won four gold medals at the Olympics…and my brother is really good too. Compared to them, I’m terrible,” she whispers with a shrug.
“Wow! That’s really cool! And I’d say you measure up just fine here,” I tell Elizabeth, giving her a hip bump that almost knocks her over.
She steadies herself and says, “I really do love the water. Thanks for getting me to do this, Maggie.”
“What are friends for?” I ask.
“Margaret Malone?” Coach calls me over, looking down at his clipboard.
“Yes, Coach?” I answer, wrapping my towel around my waist.
“Yeah, what was that?” Coach asks me.
“What was what?” I ask, confused.
“You swam under the water, Margaret,” Coach reminds me, like I don’t already know that.
“Yes sir, and you can call me Maggie, sir. And oh, that’s how I get around in the water the fastest and since we were racing…”
“What’s your best stroke?” Coach asks.
“Stroke? You know, I don’t really like those,” I explain and Coach just keeps looking at his clipboard. “They showed us ‘the strokes’ back at Camp Itchy Bitey, but honestly, they just slowed me down. So I usually just swim under the water since I’m also amazing at holding my breath. I won first place for that—beat out Willie Westheimer, who told everybody his lungs were twice the size of any adult human, which is a total lie, but—”
“Well, congratulations on your lung capacity, Margaret, er, Maggie, but that’s not an option. You’ve got to pick a stroke and get good at it,” Coach tells me.
Maggie Malone Makes a Splash Page 2
