Girl Out of Water

by Nat Luurtsema

  Who would pass me a note, though? Unless it’s Carbs Girl with a warning about this bread roll. Oh fine, I’ll read it. But if it’s mean, I’m demanding home-schooling.

  Hi, this is the guy from the swimming pool yesterday. The one with the rude brother. I’m sorry Roman upset you, that was stupid – I sent a messenger in case you don’t want to talk to any of us. Can we try again? I get that it seems weird, but this means a lot to us. We’ve been dancing together since we were kids and we’d love to be on TV together. And I think you could be the person to help us. How about £20 a session? Know it’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got – and a +1 to the BHT final…?

  Gabriel

  Ha. Gabriel and Roman. Someone’s parents knew they had a couple of winners on their hands, didn’t they?

  My pride is still bruised, and why does he assume I like BHT? What is up with that? You don’t just assume everyone likes mud-wrestling, do you? Actually, I bet watching mud-wrestling is a lot less upsetting than watching an underdressed woman dance with her overdressed dog.

  But twenty quid. I do need money. I’m never going to become socially acceptable if I continue to dress like I’ve got the flu. Dad can’t give me any while he hasn’t got a job and Mum has higher bills now there’s four of us (and one is busy dismantling everything we own).

  Gabriel put his phone number at the bottom, so I save it to my contacts, which now has THREE boys in it (though the other two are related to me).

  I text him.

  OK, when do you want to meet?

  It looks pretty unfriendly, but then I don’t want to sound keen – I’m remembering Lav’s rule. I hover my thumb over my phone, debating how to make it a bit nicer. Maybe an emoji? Probably not the poo with a smile, though it’s pretty multi-purpose…

  Too late, my thumb accidentally hits send and I watch my unfriendly message whoosh away. He replies immediately. I would’ve waited a while to look unfussed, but he doesn’t even bother to pretend.

  Brilliant! Tomorrow, 7pm at pool?

  Cool. It’s a date. Or, you know … something that couldn’t be less like a date if it tried.

  10

  Weeez! I cannot BELIEVE you’re a swimming coach! Are you the new Debs? Are you wearing teeny tiny shorts? When the wind blows, do you feel it in your kidneys? That’s how you know they’re too small. I’m terrified about what I’m going to come home to. New news: they get us to eat raw fish here, it’s gross!! Like eating the inside of your mouth. You gotta try it, no calories and all protein, apparently. Hashtag fact of the day, and you’re welcome.

  Han x

  Aargh! It’s my first underwater training thingy in half an hour and Mum’s thrown all my clothes in the wash. Why does she do this? I run to the laundry basket in the bathroom – nothing in there – so I hurry back to my (our) bedroom, keeping a tight grip on my towel as it’s currently the only outfit I’ve got.

  Maybe with the right shoes I can style it out.

  Lav is lying on her bed flicking through a magazine so shiny it’s bouncing light around the room.

  “Laaaaav?”

  She looks up but doesn’t take her headphones out.

  “Please can I borrow something to wear? I’ve got to get to my … job.”

  She languidly pulls out one earbud. “You have a job? Cool! But of course you can’t borrow my clothes. Best of luck with everything.”

  “No, no, please!” I say before she puts her headphone back in. “Not your nice clothes, obviously, just like some sports stuff…”

  “Sports stuff?” she repeats, as if she’s never heard these words before but suspects they’re dirty.

  “Something you’d sleep in, but I’d wear out,” I explain.

  “Oh. Yeah, third drawer down.”

  She hesitates.

  “Your hair?”

  “Yes?”

  If she says the word “pubic” I. Will. Cry.

  “Come here,” she says, reaching on to her shelf for a pot of oil. She pours a little drop into her hands, stands in front of me and starts smoothing it gently through my hair. This is all very surprising.

  “Thanks, Lav, this is … nice of you.”

  “It’s good to see you cheer up, instead of lying on your bed pretending you’re not crying.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I was going to start hanging fairy lights off you to lighten the mood, but I thought you’d electrocute yourself with tears.”

  I stand silently while she massages oil into my hair. Me and Hannah used to make fun of Lav behind her back for being ditzy and “boy-centric”, as a teacher once said. But if these last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that I am not the brains of the family.

  My head and face burn hot and the rubbing isn’t really helping. It’s like Lav is determined to bring all my shame out in one massive blush.

  “Thank you!” I say, pulling away from her before my head explodes.

  “That’s OK,” she says. “We’ll sort out your hair this week, then work on your skin.”

  She has a way of making me feel like an old car she’s going to fix up.

  I run downstairs and out the front door. Mum calls something as I slam it behind me. It didn’t sound like “good luck” – oh no, wait, it was “don’t slam the door”.

  Whoopsy.

  I run down the road and up the embankment towards the swimming pool. I’ve run this route so many times I could get there with my eyes closed, though I don’t try it. I don’t want to get hit by a car before Lav’s “worked on” my skin.

  Life is full of surprises, I muse, and a sudden draft around my midriff proves me right. My top doesn’t reach my trousers. This is the last time I borrow Lav’s clothes.

  As I run I feel an unfamiliar sensation … it’s my hair bouncing! It’s never bounced. Crunched, maybe.

  I round the corner, hurdle over a few flowerbeds and burst into the swimming pool to the sound of cheering. I wheel around to see what I’ve interrupted. Is there a race on? But no, it’s the three boys, cheering me!

  “Here she is!” announces Gabriel.

  That is such a great way to enter a room. I beam. Then I dial the beam down a little. Don’t be too keen, Louise. Be cool.

  I cough. I am cool.

  “See you at the bottom,” says Roman, pulling his tracksuit off. I blush. I am so pathetic. (Roman said “bottom” at me! Ha ha. I’ll tell Han.)

  “Not yet!” I assert, fiddling with my rucksack to hide my blush. “I need to see how strong you are as swimmers before we start doing anything underwater.”

  “Why?” asks Pete brusquely.

  I look at him hard. Maybe it’s the run, maybe it’s the fact that my hair bounced, or maybe it’s the cheering, but I feel some of my old confidence return.

  “Because while some people like to believe that ‘anyone’ can swim, they can, in fact, be wrong.”

  Pete doesn’t say anything but looks like he’s biting back a nasty remark.

  “And sorry, I don’t know your name…?” (I do know his name. I am being extremely petty. But it’s fun. And I haven’t been splashing around in much fun lately, so I deserve it.)

  “Pete.”

  “OK, Pete,” I say, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet and feeling like a mini-Debs. I can see Gabriel stifling a smirk behind him. “I’m Lou and I’m in charge of you while we’re in this pool. And I don’t want you to drown. So I need you to show me that you can swim. Please.”

  Pete sighs and slides into the water.

  “I’ve been swimming for years,” he scoffs. “I’m probably faster than you. Don’t get weird about it, but men are stronger than women, you have to admit.”

  “Excuse me,” I tell him, and grab my rucksack and head for the changing room.

  As I push through the door I can hear Gabriel say, “Stop being rude to her. If she goes we’ve got no one else.”

  I march back out of the changing room a few minutes later wearing my swimming costume. I step up on the divi
ng block and look down at them. “Four lengths, front crawl?” I snap on my swimming cap.

  “Uh…” Gabe begins.

  “Nope!” I beam at him. “Time to race.”

  They all step up on diving blocks beside me and I nod at the minute clock.

  “Let’s go at twelve.” I watch the second hand slide towards the top and then dive, hard. It feels a little unfamiliar, sensations you forget about like the feel of water slapping against your armpit. I’m slower these days but still faster than three cocky civilians. Probably. Hopefully.

  I start to feel winded on the third length but I think of Pete scoffing at me and push onwards. Finally I slap my hands against the side of the pool and lift my head. I’m aware that no one is next to me and I get a stomach-lurching fear that they finished ages ago and are already out of the pool, playing keepy-uppy with a float or texting their girlfriends. Unsportspersonlike!

  But I hear splashing behind me and my stomach unknots. After a few long seconds, Pete slaps his hands down beside me, Roman a moment later on the other side. Roman, panting hard, looks genuinely impressed. Pete even manages a rueful whatever shrug. I smile. Normal service has resumed.

  We turn around, wiping water out of our eyes and ears, and watch Gabriel swimming towards us. He’s just started the final length – he’s not a bad swimmer but he’s slow and clearly exhausted. I don’t feel like being cocky any more.

  “He’s been ill,” says Roman suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Gabriel. He had ME for years, you know ME?”

  “Is that when you’re tired all the time?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes he didn’t leave the house for months.”

  So that’s why I hadn’t seen him before.

  “It’s amazing he’s back in school, but he’s not very fit,” Roman goes on.

  This is an understatement. We have time for quite a lengthy medical conversation while Gabriel finishes the race.

  “Is this going to be OK?” Roman says, looking from Gabriel to me as if I have all the answers.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  I don’t know what they’re trying to do, I don’t know if it’s even got a name or if it’s just Drowning to Music. But I’m involved now, and as I watch Gabriel swim on his final lap I know I’ll do whatever I can to make this work for him. Them, I mean.

  Gabriel reaches the edge and staggers to his feet. He can barely breathe and he’s red in the face but he’s smiling. “You’ve no idea, but that’s good for me,” he pants.

  “That’s good for me, too,” I lie. I’m getting better with practice. “Easily good enough! Yep!”

  11

  We all dry off, put sweatshirts on and have a talk about what they want to do. They show me some of their dance moves. If anyone walked in right now, it would look like they were showing off to try and impress me. Tragically, no one does.

  People only walk in on me when I’m crying or tidying up tampons, apparently.

  The boys are really good: Pete and Roman can do a load of strength holds and flips, and Gabriel is less strong but he’s bendy and wiry. I can see them doing this as kids, Pete and Roman as best friends for years, letting Roman’s little brother join in. Even Pete seems less intimidating when I imagine him as an eight-year-old landing on his head after another backflip turns into a backflop.

  As they bounce around on their hands, it turns into a competition between Pete and Roman. I get the feeling most things do. I watch while their faces go redder, but they both refuse to give up first. Gabe stretches out a cramp.

  “Did they say anything else … the try-out guys?” I ask, mainly to distract them so one of them will fall over and we can get back to training.

  “Just that they had enough dancers,” Pete says in an upside-down gasp.

  Gabe and I look at each other. OK, it’s not the most helpful advice.

  “And,” comes a voice from under Roman’s sweatshirt, which is currently sliding down his torso and revealing… Ahem, never mind. “They said that we had a strong look.”

  Pete slowly topples over into the armband box.

  “Careful!” I call over. “They’re covered in verruca plasters.”

  Pete scrabbles out of the squeaking pile making retching noises, while Gabe and Roman laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever been funny in front of someone who wasn’t family or Hannah. I always feel hilarious inside, the message just never seems to get out.

  “So.” Pete turns to me, rubbing his neck. “You don’t know what you’re doing, then?”

  I stand up for myself. “Pete, dancing underwater isn’t a Thing. I’m happy to help, but it’s synchronized swimming without all that pesky breathing. Have you any idea what you’ll perform in?”

  “Swimming trunks,” says Gabe promptly. “Ideally?”

  Pete ignores this, though it makes Roman laugh.

  “My dad works at the aquarium,” he says, like it’s obvious. “They have these spare tanks and we’re going to borrow one.”

  “OK,” I say slowly. “By ‘spare’ you mean…”

  “In an unlocked warehouse.”

  “And by ‘borrow’ you mean…”

  “Well…”

  “Steal?”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “Well, I can’t see any problem with that plan at all. Great stuff.”

  I rub my stomach, which has clenched hard at that news. Like I don’t have enough to worry about. An ill swimmer, a grumpy one and one I’m too shy to look at; a sport I think we’re inventing on the spot; a local team already through to the final (and they’re “really hot”, so woohoo for them) … and now we’ll be performing in a nicked tank that’s probably full of old fish poo.

  I reach for my phone to google “illnesses from fish poo”.

  “Sorry?” Pete is looking pointedly at my phone. “Have you got time for that?”

  He’s right. Rude, but right. I need to concentrate, we have a lot to do.

  The boys slide back into the water and I put thoughts of fish poo to one side. I’ve made a playlist for their training sessions. I was up all night choosing songs that were cool, but – you know, not too cool; not self-consciously cool. But still cool. (It was as exhausting as it sounds.)

  I rub my tired eyes – they feel like boiled eggs – and pop my iPhone into Lav’s portable speakers. (I did ask her permission. Very quietly … when she was in another room.)

  “I’ve made a playlist, guys!” I announce to the group. It’s hard teaching people who intimidate you; you find yourself calling them “guys!” quite a lot. I press play and get them to do some leg stretches while they tread water. I watch their faces for any early signs of sneering, but no one even mentions the music. It must be OK.

  School has taught me that people make fun of you when something is lame and stay silent if it’s acceptable.

  “Hey,” says Gabe, “you’ve got great taste in music.”

  “Thank you!” I casually push back my fringe in a gesture far more suited to Lav, but hey ho.

  I ask them to sink underwater a little to see if they can lie a foot beneath the surface without panicking. Most people struggle with that. Roman and Gabriel get it quickly, but Pete is a massive control freak and keeps thrashing about. I tell him it’s really hard to master, which seems to wave a flag on a temporary truce between us.

  While they’re practising sinking, I get dressed and then come back to stand at the side of the pool. I have the guys treading water and lifting their arms up to test their strength – and, yes, maybe I have found a whistle and perhaps it does give me a mild feeling of power. But it’s the only way to get their attention when they’re underwater. Honest!

  Suddenly the doors bang open and Debs strides into the pool area. (Can’t she ever just walk anywhere? And put some trousers on.)

  I look down at the outfit I borrowed off Lav. It’s about as small as what Debs is wearing. This is my new look: half-naked stalker. I quickly hide my whistle under my T-shirt, not that it offers much cove
rage.

  Debs is followed by Cammie, Melia and two other girls I know from swimming, Nicole and Amanda. If I was that pretty (and I can’t lie, they all look like a bloody shampoo advert) I would think I could find it in my heart to be a nice person. But Cammie, Nicole and Amanda are all actively mean – not just to me, to everyone. Melia is neutral; she doesn’t stop them, but she isn’t horrible herself. I’m not sure if that makes her a good person.

  The boys immediately drop their arms and start swimming about as if they’re just having a casual swim: nothing to see here, no biggy, guys. Which is great, except now I’m standing on the edge of the pool watching them like a total weirdo.

  “Hey, Pete,” says Cammie archly.

  “All right,” he replies.

  “Not bad, yeah,” she says, totes unfussed.

  The three girls watch this incredibly boring back-and-forth with looks on their faces, like: What’s going on here? Cammie and her exciting love life, eh?

  Debs takes in the scene, a wry smile on her face. “OK, Louise?”

  “Yes, thank you, Deb-or-ah,” I say tightly.

  “Just watching boys, are you?”

  Debs looks down at my outfit and her lips move as if she’s about to say something else, but she refrains. She’s got that Pete thing where you always think a withering put-down is just around the corner.

  It’s so unnerving, like being trapped in a car with a wasp.

  Would I have ended up like that if I’d got through to the Olympic training camp? Is Hannah going to? It makes me glad I didn’t get… Hmm.

  No, if I’m honest with myself I’d still rather be a horrible cow with a gold medal. I could always go into therapy later and sort myself out.

  “Are you coaching them for something, Lou? Good, good, fill the days.”

  “Coaching them?” I ask, stuffing down my rage and faking complete confusion. “For what?”