I swear I wasn’t trying to make them look stupid, as Pete suggests afterwards through a bloody tissue (Roman kicked him in the face). I wasn’t trying to kill anyone either, though I accept, if that had been my aim, I’d have been pretty happy with how the evening went.
But I’m not happy with it, I’m quietly devastated. I sit on a bench at the side of the pool as Pete lists off the many reasons why he wants this week’s twenty quid back. He twists a tissue up his nose to leave both hands free for gesticulating. My stupidity demands a lot of hand gestures, apparently.
I bow my head and mutter “sorry” every time he pauses for breath.
“All right, that’s enough.” I didn’t notice Roman come back from the toilet. He’s finished being sick now. (Gabe accidentally headbutted him in the stomach.)
Gabe isn’t unharmed either. I hadn’t really factored in enough places to breathe, so he got dizzy and had to be fished out of the pool.
There’s a silence. I seize the opportunity. “I thought you were better swimmers!”
Three pairs of eyes swivel towards me. The mood isn’t friendly.
“OK. I didn’t mean it like I’m blaming you. I honestly thought it would be good. I’m really sorry.”
My voice cracks and trails off. I feel a tear slip down my cheek.
“I can come up with an easier routine! I mean a better one. A better one.” I’m begging them now. No one is looking at me, not even Gabe. I pick up my rucksack and head for the door.
I walk slowly, giving them time to calm down and stop bleeding and retching long enough to say it’s OK, let’s try again.
When I finally reach the door, still no one has said, “Come back, Lou! Sorry we’re lame swimmers! This is all our fault, now we think about it, but please could you give us an easier routine for our feeble abilities?”
First Debs, now them. People are hard-hearted round here.
I sit on the grass verge for twenty minutes waiting for Dad. The boys don’t come out in that time, which is a shame cos I’d sat on the ground so I’d look pathetic and sad.
Dad’s car pulls into the car park and I stagger stiffly to my feet, brushing wet grass off my bum. I get in the passenger seat.
“Daa-aad…”
“He turns a worried face to me. “What?”
“I think I got sacked.”
He lights up with sympathy. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”
“It sucks so much!”
“You feel really embarrassed, but angry, too.”
“Right! I know…”
“And the surprise, that makes it worse.”
“Totally does.”
We bond all the way home about being treated badly. We agree that we are the most unappreciated, brave people we know. We pull into the driveway. Dad turns off the engine and sits, looking like he’s thinking carefully about his next words.
“When you get dumped dumped,” he says slowly, “it’s even worse because they may well have seen you naked.”
“That would be so much worse!”
“Yes, it is. If someone who has seen your bum rejects you, it’s extra hurtful.”
“I’m never going to take my clothes off in front of anyone,” I say emphatically.
We get out of the car.
“Wait, Dad, was that the sex talk? It was a bit brief.”
“It was efficient! In ten seconds I turned one of my girls into a nun.”
“Ha. Good luck with the other one.”
15
You got dumped?! Weez, you’re having proper Boy Trouble now. Are you honestly never going to take your clothes off in front of anyone? I guess you won’t have to buy matching underwear, so there’s a saving! Your mum said when she joined match.com she bought so much lingerie they knew her by name in Bravissimo!
HANNAH! I have to wash my brain now!
Sozzlecopters. Forget I ever said that. How are your folks?
Good. Think I’ll keep them. How are yours?
Ugh. If I find a receipt, I’m getting a refund. SO MUCH PRESSURE! If it wasn’t for you and Candy Crush I’d chuck my phone and get some peace.
I trudge into school the next day feeling like I’ve got DUMPED written on my forehead. Typical, Dad drops me off just as Roman and Gabe’s mum does the same. Displaying the sort of perfect timing they can’t achieve in a swimming pool, I think, and smirk meanly.
They don’t say hi. No matter, they never did anyway. Gabe and I make eye contact and he gives me a fleeting smile. Between him and Melia, I’ve got two secret, silent “friends”. My birthday party will be quite the riot.
I take my phone out – nothing. Hannah and I are chatting a bit more, but there’s nothing on WhatsApp. Dad’s sent me a photo of his most recent job rejection. “Dear Murk,” it begins.
Only the coolest people get dumped, Dad writes underneath. Lots of love and best wishes, Murk Brown. (Do I sound like a paint colour?)
As in, “We’re going to paint the toilet Murk Brown”? I reply.
I sit by myself in physics. Operation: Make Friends is on hold for now. For once I don’t mind having no one to talk to, I’m not in the mood to chat. I get out my physics book and doodle on it a list of reasons why it’s for the best that I’m not working with the boys any more:
(1) I don’t have to worry about being cool in front of them. (Hanging out with these boys is stressful – I always worry I’ll reveal how lame my life is when they talk about parties and I have nothing to contribute except the funny thing that happened when me and Mum went to the car wash. A dog walked through it and came out soapy, it was hilarious and I tell it well, but it’s a tragic insight into what I do on a Friday night.)
(2) More free time? (Oh, whoopee.)
(3) No more money. (Hmm. More space in my wallet??)
Once morning lessons are done, I head off to the canteen. Standing in the queue I notice that Melia is behind me, and without Cammie for once.
I decide to turn around and smile at her, and if she smiles back I will upgrade this smile to a chat. Then from a chat we’ll move towards eating lunch together. Then we’ll just be a hop, skip and a jump from a sleepover! Then we’ll kick Cammie out of school and everyone will be happier without her. (Cue music and balloons.)
OK, better not get ahead of myself. First I have to trick Melia into chatting to me and enjoying my company. I swivel round and realize I’m too close, like I’m swooping in for a kiss.
I step back and open my mouth to say “Hey!” or “How’s it going?” or “What’s up, dawg?” (Probably not the last one).
But she’s looking down at her phone. I know she’s seen me turn around for this brilliant chat we were about to mutually enjoy, but she’s blanking me.
I bet she’s scared Cammie or Nicole or Amanda will see us talking and make fun of her. I bet that’s it. I can even see her glance around the canteen for them. I bet they had a go at her for saying hi to me in the changing room the other week. Argh! Where do people get off being such mad control freaks?
Whatever. I’m going to have this chat whether she likes it or not, she can’t ignore me. (She can ignore me. This could get extremely awkward.)
“How’s it going?” I say.
“Cool.”
“Great stuff. Bit of a queue again.”
“Yeah.”
This is like milking a tortoise. No, blood from a stone; that’s the saying.
“Any plans this weekend?”
“Not really.”
I persevere, but it’s like she’s holding up a big Banter shield. She deflects my chat with things like “nightmare” and “classic” while I babble on, and everything she’s saying means nothing. I get the distinct feeling she’d walk off if she wasn’t waiting for food.
“What you going to do, eh?” is the most I manage to get out of her before she goes back to looking at her phone. I stare at the top of her head for a few minutes, then get distracted by something awful happening on the other side of the cafeteria.
Roman is talking to
Cammie.
Not flirting: actually talking. She’s nodding and he’s gesturing at Gabriel, who’s standing back like he doesn’t want to get involved, and I have a sudden – possibly mad – fear that he’s replacing me.
I feel so angry and jealous. Before I know what I’m doing, I leave the queue and I’m striding towards them. Gabe looks up as I approach and the surprise on his face brings me back to my senses before I march over there and bounce Roman and Cammie’s stupid pretty heads together.
So, what I actually do is blush bright red, march towards the most popular people in my school looking like a beetroot-faced killer, then at the last minute skip round them and run out of the cafeteria.
Even before the doors swing closed I can hear a sudden gale of surprised laughter.
“What was that?” a boy hoots, and I march down the corridor with no idea where I’m going. I’m just embarrassed and I want to be by myself.
Back in the library. My old Plan B. Except this time I don’t even have a sandwich to hide in my book.
My book.
I get out my big notebook and stare at the routine again. With hindsight, it does look like it should be called A Fancy Way to Drown. But that’s OK, because I suddenly realize I have a secret weapon.
I WhatsApp the boys.
Meet me at the pool at 7 tomorrow. If you don’t feel we’ve made progress by the time we leave I’ll give you last week’s £20 back.
I stare at it before pressing send. It’s missing something. I move the cursor to the front of the message and add:
I’m sorry. You ARE good swimmers. For boys.
The ticks appear, so I know it’s sent at least. I wait half an hour, then head back to class. All through afternoon lessons I keep checking my phone, but no one replies. In desperation, at 4.30 p.m. I type:
Those girls can’t coach you, they’re the competition! Plus, do you really want to flip upside down and choke on your own snot in front of girls you fancy?
Bullet-proof logic, and they seem to agree.
Gabriel
I’m in! It’s good to nearly drown, makes you appreciate life ;)
Roman
Go on then.
Pete
Same.
16
I can’t wait for the next day to pass so I can show the boys the new routine. So of course, every minute, every second, draaaaags. Mr Peters calls me up to his desk after double English, which I spent scribbling sneakily in my notebook.
“Lou,” he says. “I promise, lessons don’t drag when you pay attention. I was talking about Hamlet, one of the greatest stories in the world. And you were staring at a tree.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. He has a way of telling me off that makes me feel so guilty. This is the sort of emotional blackmail I was trying on Debs and the boys, but I don’t have Mr Peters’ gift.
He nods at Hannah’s empty chair. “Are you missing Banquo’s ghost?” he asks.
“I know why that’s meant to be funny,” I tell him kindly.
“You could’ve laughed!”
“LOL.”
“Go away, Louise. And stop killing time, participate!”
If only he could see me now, I think as I set up a flipchart easel at the swimming pool that evening and sit my big notebook on it. Totes participating.
I arrange my fat marker pens at the bottom and wait for the boys. They arrive a minute later and all stand in front of the notebook. Finally Roman states the obvious.
“It’s blank.”
“Yes,” I say. “I want you to tell me what you like doing and what you’re good at, then I will build a routine that you will enjoy. A routine just for you, to complement all your skills. And – I’m sorry, that’s what I should’ve said the other day. Not—”
“I thought you were better swimmers!” the three of them echo back at me. Oops, I possibly hurt their feelings with that. I hold my hands up in a sorry gesture. But it’s worked, they’re already softening. They reach for pens and start doodling.
“And,” I say, pulling off my jumper because I’ve already changed into my swimsuit, “let me give you some ideas.”
I dive in from the side and start showing them barrel dives down to the bottom of the pool, and some shapes I can form while I’m down there. When I surface, Pete is shaking his head.
“I can’t hold my breath that long!”
I bite back something I want to say but don’t dare.
“You could if you quit smoking,” Roman tells him sternly.
Bingo. That’s the one.
I get them to hop in the pool and try out some easy exercises, then see if we can combine some to make them a little harder.
“Is there something we could do that lets us catch our breath between dives, something on the surface? Surface-work? If that’s a Thing?” Gabe asks.
We all shrug at each other. Sure, surface-work: that sounds plausible.
I pretend to think as I pace casually over to my bag and peek at something hidden inside. It’s Swimming for Women and the Infirm.
Surprisingly helpful if you’re trying to teach yourself synchronized swimming and Wikipedia doesn’t offer much. But if the boys knew it would hurt their pride, so ssshhh.
The session goes so well, we even walk out together. It’s like we’re friends. (If you glance at us quickly, from a distance.)
“So, shall I work on the routine and we’ll meet in two or three days?” I ask slyly.
“Go on, then,” says Roman. “And thanks.”
“Really, thanks,” adds Gabe. I will plan parts of the routine to be easier on him. I don’t want to exhaust him.
Pete holds out his hand. “The twenty quid?” he asks.
I look up, shocked. Is he joking? No, he’s deadly serious. I think! The moment hangs in the air and I’m so confused. Then Roman slaps him on the shoulder and laughs, and the three of them walk off to Pete’s car.
Oh, ha ha.
Gabe turns round to give me a little wave and an apologetic look. Pete’s nice, deep down, but there are a lot of layers of Rude Knobhead to chisel away first.
Dad picks me up. I feel guilty now I’m not fired any more, but he doesn’t feel that I’ve abandoned him.
“My employed daughter,” he says, ruffling my hair, “is going to buy me chips.”
“No she’s not!”
“Daddy’s so proud!”
“OK, but small chips. And no fish!”
17
Weez! Where are you?! I’m fed up. My times aren’t getting any faster.
Sorry! I’m here, I’m here. You’re just plateauing. Debs taught us that, it happens.
I’ve cut out carbs but every time they weigh us I get heavier.
You probably weigh more because you’re gaining muscle.
Yeah, muscle on my fat bum and gut.
SHUT UP, FATTY.
Han?
All too soon it’s the weekend again. This week has been OK. Mr Peters and I have agreed that I will participate in class and he will never make a Shakespeare joke again. He said he had a brilliant one about Bottom, but I was adamant.
English lessons are all right, actually – definitely more interesting than staring out the window. And we’ve had two swimming training sessions, so it’s almost like I have a Thing again! Although it’s not my Thing, it’s the boys’ Thing, I’m just helping them. Still, they need me (and my trusty copy of Swimming for Women and the Infirm).
I’m mooching around the house on Saturday morning as usual. Lav is getting ready to go into town. I’m lying on my bed watching her. I wish I had someone to go to the shops with. I could ask Lav, and she might take me with her, but her friends won’t like it and I’ll feel in the way.
I’ve already cleaned both cars and my half of the bedroom. Mum and Dad were watching me fearfully as I did this. They kept asking, “What have you done? Why are you sucking up? Have you killed someone?”
It was a relief when I finally put down the hoover and said please could I go to the try-outs f
or Britain’s Hidden Talent. It’s in the daytime, three weeks today, and I’ll be with two boys from school (and one boy who has left school and is in college and smokes… I don’t say). Yes, of course we’ll have an adult with us – Pete’s dad.
No, I’m not dating any of the boys, good grief. Lav backed me up on this. They have nothing to worry about there with me.
“Yet,” said Dad supportively.
Uh-huh. I’m sure I’ll be inundated with boys chatting me up aaaany day now. I rolled my eyes, but I know he was just being nice.
They agreed I could go so long as I promised to take my phone with me. (Like I’d leave it behind! I might miss Hannah telling me the calorie content of a peanut.)
My phone vibrates now. Probably another demand from Pete that I change the choreography of the swimming routine so it doesn’t mess up his hair. (I’m not even joking.)
It’s a WhatsApp message from Gabe saying that he’s just realized they’ll need some matching swimming gear for the try-outs and is there any chance I’m free today to go to the mall and find some?
There is a big fat wobbly chance I’m free!
I reply immediately: Love to, great idea!
Pete and Roman both reply saying they’re busy – of course they are – but I don’t care because they make me nervous anyway. I’ll have a much nicer time hanging out with Gabe.
“Muu-uum… Can I have a lift into town, please?”
“Your dad just took Lavender to the mall!”
I go to the top of the stairs; she’s standing at the bottom, looking irritable.
“I’m sorry, I only just got asked.”
Her eyes narrow. Mum-radar.
“By a boy?”
“Yes, but I swear not like that!”
“Oh, really?” She pulls a coat on and grabs her car keys. I take that as a yes and nip downstairs.
Girl Out of Water Page 8
