I tell her I’m going to stop training, and how it’s actually exciting because maybe I’ll find something I’m really good at – something cooler than swimming – and I immediately feel bad as she starts trying to help.
“International supermodel?”
“Yes, well, obviously,” I say. “That’s Plan B, but I’m scared of flying.”
Hannah chews thoughtfully on a cube of jelly. “The thing is,” she says, “you’ve been swimming since you were, like, eight…?”
“Seven,” I correct her.
“Right. So there’s so many options you haven’t explored! Loads of things you could be amazing at!” She’s so excited by how brilliant I’m going to be. It makes me feel tired and irritable and not very brilliant.
Suddenly a shadow looms against the side of the tent, and Hannah’s dad, Damien, calls our names. He unzips the front door.
“Are you girls smoking?” He looks at us narrowly.
“No!”
“Make sure you don’t, it’s a filthy habit.” He zips us back up and leaves Hannah and me rolling our eyes at each other. Her parents are so weird. You can’t just randomly bark at your daughter, “Don’t do drugs! Don’t smoke! Don’t get pregnant!” and call it parenting.
I laugh out loud, remembering how last month Dad thought Lavender was pregnant because she was so tearful and shifty. He very sweetly said we could cope with anything as a family.
Lav cried, hugged him and confessed she’d left her eye shadow in her jacket when she put it in the wash and now all his work shirts were glittery.
I suddenly remember I’m in the library, laughing like a loon by myself. The librarian narrows her eyes and a gang of girls stare at me as if I’m insane. I duck down behind Swimming for Women and the Infirm and pretend I’m engrossed. Oh look, she’s floating and pointing a toe. What an athlete.
The rest of the day is OK; it doesn’t get better but it doesn’t get worse. I had been dreading going back to school, thinking everyone would be all, Oh my God, you came last in the time trials? But Hannah got through? That’s so embarrassing for you, are you OK? What are you going to do now? What’s that coming out of your eye? Are you crying??
But, I hate to say it, Lav was right. No one cares. I don’t think anyone even notices.
And if that makes my first day back at school sound a bit boring, then: bingo! That’s cos it is.
I see Lavender heading towards the car park at the end of school with a gaggle of mates. I want a gaggle. I join her and give her friends a little wave as they leave, which they’re too cool to return.
They’re the sort of people who always make me feel sweaty and worry that I smell of food or have something between my teeth.
“How was the first day?” Lav asks.
I give a bland little meh.
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
I have to admit it. “Yeah, no one really cares. It’s not a big deal.”
“No, about Amelia Bond’s hairy face mole. She looks normal, but you know something’s missing.”
“Like there’s a ghost on her face?”
“Yes!”
4
The next few days get a bit less meh – I make an effort to chat to people in my classes and they’re not unfriendly. It’s just that everyone already has friends and they’re not looking for new recruits, so I spend my lunchtimes hanging out in a largely empty library. I even read the occasional book – seems rude not to – but it’s not the same as having a real life friend.
By Thursday I’m thoroughly bored of eating a sandwich hidden in a book, and all morning I’ve been thinking about going to see Debs.
Six and a half weeks is the longest I’ve gone without seeing her in years, but I felt shy after the time trials. She says things like “Silver is just first place loser!” – I’m not sure how she’d treat an actual loser.
Plus I didn’t feel I could just turn up on her doorstep and say, “Hiya! Let’s ignore the twenty-five-year age gap and hang out! You can blow your whistle at me and I’ll wear a verruca sock if that makes it less weird.”
There’s a public pool next to my school. I’ve been stumping my way up this path every morning for years, with a heavy sports bag on my shoulder and sleep crust scratching at my eyes. Today I head here with my sandwich instead of the library, rubbing my eyes out of habit.
It seems empty, but I can hear some noise from the changing rooms. I wonder if it’s the girls I used to train with. We weren’t best friends, but after a lonely week I’d be really happy to see them now. As long as Cammie isn’t there. She’s rude, posh and mean. She always intimidates Hannah and me and we hate that she does.
I follow the sounds and it takes me to the girls’ changing room. I push my way through the heavy door and get a big whiff of chlorine and shampoo.
The door shuts loudly behind me and fifteen half-dressed girls with wet hair go quiet and stare at me. The silence hangs, heavy and awkward and smelling of feet.
Not such an exciting smell any more. Oh, and there’s Cammie. Brilliant. One foot up on the bench, moisturizing her legs, she’s halfway through a story and looks up to see who’s dared to interrupt her.
A couple of girls give me a small smile but they look a bit embarrassed. It’s weird when semi-naked people are embarrassed for you.
I suddenly feel I’m not meant to be there, this isn’t the welcome I’d expected. Everyone goes back to getting dressed. Cammie picks up where she left off, loudly. Following her lead, everyone ignores me.
“All right, Lou?” says a tall, muscly girl who’s drying in between her toes. She says it quietly; she doesn’t want everyone to hear.
One person cares! (But I can’t remember her name. Aargh!)
“Yeah, I’m good, thanks.” Mellie? Probably not, who would call a kid Mellie? It rhymes with Smelly.
“I … uh … just came to say hi. So … hi.”
“Hi,” says Smelly. (Mella? Maybe.)
“And also I forgot my … this. Yes, this.” I’m babbling to fill the awkward silence as I open my old swimming locker and find a dusty nose clip. “Excellent,” I say and pop it in my pocket.
Cammie frowns and says, “Why do you need that?”
There’s a shocked silence and a couple of embarrassed giggles, swiftly muffled. (It would’ve been more polite to NOT LAUGH, but whatever.) My heart starts beating harder and I can feel my ears going red with anger, but I don’t let it show.
“Just to block out that smell, Cammie. You reek of hair removal cream.”
Zing!
Shame I only think of it before I fall asleep that night.
My actual sassy retort is to smile weakly and leave, closing the door gently behind me. Ooo, burn.
This place is my home, or it used to be. But clearly my pathetic performance at the time trials makes me an embarrassment to the team. Wish Lav could’ve seen that. Her and her “no one cares, it’s not a big deal”.
I seethe about how shallow they are. I’m full of rage about how the world isn’t all Winners or Losers – we’re all just people, guys, special snowflakes with a lot to offer the world!
To enjoy this self-righteousness I have to forget that I was exactly like this until a month or two ago. Lalalalalala, let’s just ignore that uncomfy fact.
I head for the pool to find Debs, the closest thing I’ve got to a friend after Hannah. As I enter the pool area I can hear the splashing of the next swim class. These guys are younger but they’re still good. I watch them dart through the pool with swift movements and slightly wonky tumble turns.
Debs is striding up and down in tiny shorts (all year round, tiny shorts – maniac) shouting at anyone who stops. You can’t stop during training; your muscles cool down and you’re less effective, so you’ve got to just power through the pain. Debs always said that was one of my great strengths.
She spots me and I wave.
She shouts something that I can’t hear over the thunderous noise from the pool.
“Wha
t?” I smile and point at my ears.
“No outdoor shoes.”
Um. Right.
“I’ll go, then. I just came to say hi!”
She gives me a brief smile and goes back to watching the swimmers. She was never one for the soft and cuddlies, but I was expecting at least a hug, with perhaps a circling back pat at the end? (I would like a hug with a circling back pat at the end, dammit! I deserve one, I’ve had a very hard summer and she should understand that.)
She doesn’t look up again, but that’s cool, she’s busy and I don’t want to be paranoid. I sit on a bench at the back of the viewing platform and eat my sandwich. (Quickly, as the humidity makes it soggy. Bit gross.)
I try to add up how many hours I’ve spent at this pool: an hour a day before and after school five days a week, plus the odd lunch hour, then two hours on a Saturday morning, pretty much every week since I was seven. My mind boggles and I get out my phone to use the calculator.
I think: a) no wonder my hair is so crispy, that’s a lot of chlorine, and b) I can’t do maths either! What I don’t know would fill a barn, as my gran would say.
I’ve never sat in the viewing area before. I watch the swimmers and feel drowsy at the repetitive splashing, broken up with occasional short, sharp pips from Debs’ whistle. After all these years I know exactly what each sound means. “Go faster, you’re slowing down, I’m watching you, keep your arms crisp, don’t drag those legs! Always. Swim. Faster!”
Debs doesn’t have a sound for “You’re doing really well, guys, and remember it’s just a sport, let’s have some fun!” I snicker to myself at the thought of what that would be – a snotty squeak as she choked on her whistle.
My head droops in the warmth. It’s dull watching people swim and I think about the hours my poor family spent up here on these uncomfortable benches, slapping supportive looks on their faces like they could not possibly think of anywhere else they’d rather be on a Saturday morning.
“What, the park? On this sunny day? You must be kidding. Let’s go and sit somewhere noisy and damp. I’m happy to hug the dishwasher – or we can watch you swim again.”
Dad and Lav can both sleep sitting up; they probably learned how to do it here.
My phone vibrates. I bet it’s Hannah. I want to tell her about the girls in the changing room. Then I realize that if she walked in there, everyone would be excited to see her.
I stare at the water until my eyes go blurry and I force myself not to blink, when I have that unmistakable feeling that someone’s looking at me. I must look demented, like I’m in a staring competition with water.
I glance over my shoulder. There’s a field outside the swimming pool, and right now there’s a boy in it. He’s a few feet from the window but close enough for me to see that he’s good-looking, small and sort of cool-without-trying. His skin is so clear he looks like a model. I finger my chapped lips.
He’s kicking a ball against the wall and looking up at me while he’s doing it. I’d lose a tooth to a misaimed kick if I tried that. I stare at him gormlessly.
Just then a bigger version of him walks past the door. Ah, I knew he looked familiar: he must be related to Roman Garwood. Roman is two years above me; he is basically physical perfection, and if I had more of a grasp on sex (so to speak) I’m sure I’d be feeling all sorts of rude things for him.
I don’t know Roman, but I’ve overheard him talking to older girls and he’s quite rude – blunt, and a bit prickly. (Why does that make him more attractive?)
Roman takes his jumper off to reveal broad shoulders and muscular arms. The shorter boy catches me staring at the aforementioned muscles and smiles. Even by this week’s low standards this is embarrassing. I give him a small, no-teeth smile back.
This smile says, “Yup, I was staring at your brother like a dog at a sausage, let’s never mention this again.”
A third boy joins them, pulling off his jumper too, which makes his T-shirt ride up over a muscled chest. I examine my cuticles: it’s hard to know where to look around here.
The new guy, also quite ridiculously handsome, is fidgety; he pulls his T-shirt down, takes the ball off Small Roman and starts doing keepy-uppies. The three of them seem dejected and look like they’re arguing in a half-hearted way.
Actually, I recognize that third boy! He’s not at our school any more, he must be a few years older than me. But a couple of years ago, when he was still in sixth form, I had won some big county competition. I’d been messing about in the car with Mum, wearing my medal and pretending her Ford Focus was doing a victory parade for me. (You had to be there, but it was pretty LOL, guys.) I’d forgotten to take the medal off when she dropped me at school, so I sneaked in late to assembly still wearing it. This guy saw me and said something that made everyone around him stare at me and then laugh till they couldn’t breathe.
I’ll never know what he said – he probably wouldn’t even remember – but it ruined something important to me.
Pete. That’s his name.
Remembering that is the last straw for me and I shoulder my rucksack and head back to school. I doubt Debs even looks around. I keep my head down and don’t talk to anyone, don’t answer any teachers’ questions for the rest of the day. Operation: Make Friends is on hold, possibly for ever.
I suspect this school is tragically and unluckily full of dickheads and is no place for me to find a friend. Maybe I’ll just sit tight and hope Hannah flunks out of training camp.
I don’t mean that.
I think I do.
She could just get a muscle injury. Not disabling, but permanent, so she’d have to give up on her dreams and I’d have someone to talk to at lunchtime. (No, you’re selfish.)
That night Dad makes us savoury pancakes because Mum is out on another date. I lie about how well school is going (I’m sure Lav knows the truth but she says nothing) and head upstairs after watching a film with Dad.
I lie in bed listening to Lav texting and WhatsApping (so many pings!) and settle down to sleep. I can hear Mum come in. She must’ve had a few drinks because she’s a bit loud, clattering around getting her shoes off.
I know, without even checking, that Dad was waiting up for her. She heads straight to the kitchen, immediately in full flow, ranting about her evening. Not a great date, I guess. I hear Dad laugh, the fridge clunks and there’s a tiss tiss as two beers are opened.
I hear them chatting and laughing as I drift off. It’s nice. I’m glad they’re still friends. I remember when we were younger and they’d have polite conversations over our heads, Mum gripping my shoulders so tightly it hurt. I remember…
Suddenly: “Just to block out that smell, Cammie. You reek of hair removal cream” pops into my head.
And a minute later: Melia!
That girl’s name is Melia.
Thanks, brain.
5
The next day I wake up feeling less pathetic. I’m going to have a chat with Debs. I was her favourite swimmer, I will make her care about me again! I’m going to catch her when she’s not busy, first thing in the morning before lessons start. I head downstairs. There are four empty beer bottles in the kitchen. Mum and Dad will be grumpy this morning – glad I’m missing that.
I leave Dad a note saying I’m walking to school and head off, feeling adventurous in the chilly, damp morning.
I go straight to Debs’ office, which is unlocked and has coffee cooling on her desk. Excellent: she should be back soon. I sit in a chair (although not the one behind her desk; I wouldn’t dare). She takes ages. I’m stuck eyeing up her bookcase full of trophies for fifteen boring minutes. Eventually she walks in.
“There you are!” I shout.
“Aargh!” she shouts back. OK, that was a bit of an ambush.
She holds her heart and looks irritably at me as she heads to her seat and flips open her laptop.
She doesn’t seem delighted to see me, which is pretty flat lemonade from a woman who threw me in the air when I won gold at the County Cham
pionships last year. No one has attempted to throw me anywhere since I was in nappies, and even then there were probably anxious people yelling, “Lift with your legs, not your back!”
“Nice summer, Lou?”
NICE SUMMER? How very dare she!
“Not great, Debs.”
“Have you spoken to Hannah?”
Woohoo, someone else who wants to talk about Hannah.
“Yeah, she seems fine. Now I…”
“I hear she’s shaved a second off her personal best in individual already. I’ve said if she stays focused she can almost certainly take another one off, although of course it won’t be as quick as the first improvement, it never is.”
She looks at me intently as she talks about Hannah. Now I have her full attention. I feel small. I look down at my hands and pick at a cuticle.
“Aaaaanyway, Debs.” (Back to me, please.) “It’s weird not training every evening, I don’t really know what to do with myself.”
I’m hoping she’ll understand and say something helpful. I look up from my hands and all I get is a view of the top of her head. She’s checking her emails.
“Yeah, my last lot of burnouts said the same. I think they all got boyfriends!” She laughs as if she’s said something funny. I must’ve missed that bit.
“I’m a burnout?” I say, noticing how wobbly my voice has gone. She finally looks up.
“Lou, are you upset with me?”
“No,” I lie. “Are you disappointed with me?”
“No,” she lies. “But your turns weren’t tight enough and your backstroke was nowhere up to your usual standard – your arms just weren’t strong enough on the day. So you got the result you got. You burned out. It happens.”
I stare at her. “OK, Debs, only winners welcome in here, I get it.” I stand up to leave, really slowly, giving her time to yell, “LOU! I didn’t mean it to sound like that! Of course I don’t care if you win or lose, we’re pals. I was just being Tough Love with you because I care and I want to help you get over this.”
I bend down and tie my shoelaces in silence, then retie them again, because emotional outbursts can’t be rushed. Especially from a woman with the tenderness of a rock.
Girl Out of Water Page 3
