Girl Out of Water

by Nat Luurtsema

  I’ve never seen the appeal in smoking, but right now I’d love to fling a cigarette out of the window with a world-weary gesture, like: Hey, it’s just another TV gig.

  Pete Senior opens his window, flicks his soggy cigarette out with a world-weary gesture … and follows it with a gob of spit.

  Less TV Star, more Loitering Outside William Hill.

  I eye up the posters for upcoming gigs. I’ve never been to a gig here (or anywhere else, if I’m honest) but Lav’s been to a couple with her mates.

  “Oh, I’ve been here,” says Roman. “I came for a football sticker swap meet years ago. They made us queue outside in the rain for three hours.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I say.

  “Nah, we only stayed forty minutes, did all our swaps in the queue and by the time they opened the doors we’d gone.”

  “All right,” wheezes Pete’s dad, “let’s park up.” He puts the handbrake on and swings himself out of the cab. Really? Here?

  We clamber down and join him. It looks as if we’ve just parked in the middle of a square – you know, the sort of place where people eat sandwiches, drink a coffee with friends and don’t park trucks?

  “You lot go get in the queue,” says Pete’s dad, wrestling with the doors at the back. “I’ll unload.”

  “Should we help?” Roman asks Pete.

  “Heavy work, lads,” Pete Senior sniffs.

  “Don’t bother offering,” Pete tells him, walking away. “When my dad looks at me he just sees a seven-year-old in a tutu.”

  Pete did ballet as a kid? Roman sniggers. I don’t think I was meant to hear that. I hang back so he doesn’t realize I did.

  “Shut up, Ro. You never heard of Billy Elliot?”

  I want to join in but I still don’t feel like one of them so I don’t risk it.

  At the front of the queue is a massive opening into a huge warehouse-like area.

  You could park a plane in there and lose it when you came back from your shopping.

  We peer in. It’s full of cameras, and men with walkie-talkies, and young women with clipboards, and big black floor-to-ceiling curtains partitioning off different sections. I’m nervous at the thought of being in the middle of that madness.

  But that won’t be for a while, because first we have to queue.

  The line is about five deep; the people at the front are sprawled on the floor as if part of a disastrous sleepover. They’re giving off a nasty whiff – sports sock full of egg – and look mad around the eyes.

  We walk along the queue, looking – hoping – for the end of it. We walk and we walk, and the queue just keeps on … being. After we follow it around the building for over five minutes, it no longer looks like a queue, more like the population of a medium-sized country with a whimsical sense of humour said, “Hey guys, let’s stand in a sausage shape today!”

  There are a lot of dogs in dresses. This is going to be a day I’ll never forget. (Which can be a good thing or a bad thing. I’ll also never forget the day I had chicken pox and got a scab up my nose.)

  A ferret wearing a tiny cowboy hat darts at Gabe’s ankle, teeth bared.

  “Anastasia, no!”

  Its owner, a skinny teenager with flesh tunnels in each ear, scolds the ferret and scoops it up.

  By now we’re at the end of the queue. I think Gabe would rather be further away from the ferret.

  “Who calls a ferret Anastasia?” wonders Roman.

  “The sort of person who dresses it up in a cowboy hat,” Gabe replies.

  Pete looks worried. “I hope there are some normal people here, and we’re not just auditioning for a freak show.”

  Now he worries about that?

  “Underwater synchronized dancing probably fits right in,” mutters Roman, who seems to be losing his nerve. I have to do something.

  I give a little peep on my whistle and they all look at me.

  “Let’s sit and wait and stay focused,” I tell them with a confidence that I do not feel. Thankfully no one argues back.

  I pull on another jumper and wriggle into my sleeping bag. After a few minutes of squirming I finally slide into a comfy position. I look up to see all the boys watching me.

  “Have you never queued for a gig?”

  We sit there for ever. OK, forty minutes, but that’s a really long time to sit on the ground. The queue keeps moving forward tiny bit by tiny bit, which is such a pain in the butt – literally – cos I’m shuffling along on it every thirty seconds to keep up.

  Eventually the boys take pity on me and drag me behind them like a bag of rubbish.

  I will really need to wash my hair tonight, I think as I feel it scrape along the tarmac.

  More and more people join the queue behind us, so at least we feel like we’re ahead of someone. Then I see an unwelcome sight: an upside-down view of Debs, Cammie, Melia, Nicole and Amanda walking past us. Cammie stops when she sees Pete. I sit up and knock a sweet wrapper out of my hair.

  Debs notices that her team has stopped and comes back to see what’s happening. “Oh, hello,” she says, vaguely drifting her eyes over everyone as if she doesn’t really remember us. Cheers, ex-favourite teacher. She recognizes the boys and I see her putting two and two together. So that’s what we were doing at the pool.

  “Are you going to queue?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. The girls smile a little, like: Oh how lol, but I can’t laugh or I’d crack my make-up.

  “We got through weeks ago,” says Debs smoothly. “We’re here to do interviews, dress rehearsal with our bespoke swimming pool … you know.”

  I nod, but I don’t know, especially the word “bespoke”.

  I hope it means “full of snakes”.

  “Uh-huh,” says Gabe. (Love Gabe, I’m so glad he’s picked up on the tone here. The other two are just dribbling over the girls. Please focus, team.)

  “Yah, we’ve got a free-standing swimming pool too.Ours is industrial, though, higher build-quality – well, you know…” he says, having an elaborate stretch and yawn to show how very unbothered he is.

  I’m quietly googling bespoke on my phone inside my sleeping bag so Debs can’t see. Oh, it just means someone made it for them. Well, someone is making our pool for us, actually, so…

  “Oi!!” comes a yell from behind.

  Great timing, Pete Senior.

  “Oi!!!” he says again, clearly keen for the whole queue to hear. “I’ve got yer fish tank set up!”

  20

  At the words “fish tank” I can see everyone in the queue starting to giggle and look around. There are people who put hats on their ferrets and dresses on their dogs and they are laughing at us.

  “Thanks, Dad!” yells Pete, leaping to his feet. Then he sees the tank and his face droops. I haul myself up using Gabe as a crutch, stumble over a few magazines and shuffle over to stand next to Pete. We stare together.

  Well. If one were to scrabble around for a nice thing to say (and let’s be nice, why not?), it looks a bit like modern art. It lurches and bulges wonkily at the sides. I can’t imagine it holding a small mouse, let alone gallons of water. And it’s really small – the swimming routine is going to involve a lot more cuddling than I’d choreographed.

  Also, how are we going to move it into the studio? Already a traffic warden is eyeing it up and reaching for his notebook.

  “We won’t keep you,” I say crisply to Debs and her team. They drift off with a couple of pitying backwards glances and sniggers.

  “Stay here,” says Pete to me, wearily. “Hold our place.” Happy to! His dad was tetchy when I asked him his surname, imagine how moody he’ll be when questioned about his crazy fish bowl. I watch the three boys slope away towards the wobbly upside-down greenhouse in the middle of the pedestrianized zone.

  My stomach is churning with cheese, pickle and worry. I fiddle with my whistle. Usually that bolsters my confidence, but right now I feel out of my depth. I think about calling home, but I’ve got no bars.

 
; Pete, Roman and Gabe finish talking with Pete Senior and walk back to me with the faces of men who have seen their own doom and know there is nothing left to do but face it with dignity.

  “Good news?” I say brightly.

  Gabe looks at Pete, who says nothing. Gabe fills me in. “We have no idea how we can move it from out here to in there. And, that tank is so small that if we attempt the triple dive someone’s going to end up pregnant. It can’t be me because I need to focus on my education.”

  I sink deep inside my sleeping bag. All this hard work for nothing! After a few seconds I poke my head back out to see what’s going on. They’ve fallen silent. Roman and Gabriel are staring at Pete in utter astonishment.

  “What?” I demand, pushing my hair out of my face. “What have I missed?”

  “Pete just apologized,” whispers Roman.

  “Do it again,” says Gabriel incredulously.

  “Oh, shut up!” snaps Pete. “I’m sorry, OK? I really thought my dad would come through for me.”

  “To be fair…” I say slowly.

  “Oh seriously, Lou, can you not?” interrupts Pete.

  How is everyone allowed to make fun of him except me?

  “I wasn’t going to!” I protest. “I was going to say that he got a gigantic truck across town, carrying a quite big and –” I hiss this bit – “stolen fish tank in it and he managed to put it together, sort of. Your dad did all that because he loves you, and it’s still amazing…” I trail off, suddenly becoming shy again.

  Pete’s dad ambles up.

  “No good, then?”

  We hesitate.

  “It’s brilliant, Dad, thanks,” lies Pete and hugs his dad, who gives him a surprisingly comfortable hug back.

  “Thanks, Pete!” we all say with big fake smiles.

  “Good,” says his dad. “Call me when you need me, I’ll be in the pub.”

  “Aaahh,” says Gabe as we watch Pete Senior wander off. “I love to hear those words from the man who’s driving me home in a ten-ton truck.”

  There’s a shrieking, scratching noise behind us and we turn around just in time to see the tank collapse in on itself. A raggedy cheer and round of applause rise up from the queue.

  So it’s come to this: Plan B, as in Bloody Stupid.

  I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and divest myself of a couple of jumpers. I’m walking to my doom and I don’t want to look like a laundry basket that sprouted legs. I’ve been formulating a desperate idea for the past ten minutes, which I really hoped I wouldn’t have to put into action. I head towards the TV cameras at the front of the queue.

  I see Debs from the back, she’s standing just inside the entrance to the aircraft hangar. She’s leaning on one leg slightly, hand on hip. Even when she’s relaxed Debs always looks ready to pounce and kill. Which doesn’t help right now.

  “Debs?” I say. She doesn’t turn around. She’s watching her girls give an interview to two smooth-faced men holding microphones.

  “COACH!” I yell and she wheels round. Instinct.

  “Can I talk to you?” I ask.

  “Not now.” She turns back, dismissing me. Hannah would do this so much better than me, but she’s not here. I grab hold of my inner Hannah and take a deep breath.

  “Durbs!” I announce in a reedy shout.

  Oops: spit bubble in my throat. Ahem.

  “Debs!” I shout less froggily. “I’m sorry I didn’t swim fast enough at the Olympic time trials, I’m sorry that after all your coaching and hard work I just wasn’t good enough! I’m a failure!” The camera moves over to me.

  “But now I’ve coached a team of swimmers for this show and it’s helping me feel confident again! I just want a chance to show what we can do and make my gran proud. My gran who … died.” I shield my eyes so I don’t cry (very little risk of that tbh, both my grans are fine). The crowd around me murmurs sympathetically. I’ve seen this show, I know how it works. I lift my face out of my hands and do Big Eyes at Debs.

  “So please, Debs, can we borrow your … bespoke pool?” The world goes very quiet as I stare at her.

  Debs has a peculiar look on her face and I realize she doesn’t know what to feel, let alone fake. I really have got her on her weakest area here. Genius, Lou! And only a little bit humiliating for me – but no worse than having tampons flicked at your head.

  “That’s a beautiful story,” says one of the presenters, putting an arm around each of us. From the look on Debs’ face I’d be surprised if he gets that back in one piece.

  “Great back story. I know we can’t wait to see these two former teammates become rivals today.” He’s not really talking to us, he’s twinkling at the camera. Debs looks homicidal, so I say, “Thanks, coach!” and run off.

  “Hey!” A man with a walkie-talkie gestures to me. I hesitate, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “The pool will be here. Come and find us when you’re a hundred away from the head of the queue, OK?”

  I nod and run off to tell the boys.

  21

  My team are so pleased with me that they spend a tenner on snacks from the local petrol station and shower me in crisps. An hour later, the crisps are all gone and my hair feels salty, but I feel happy. This audition might actually happen. I make the boys stretch so their muscles don’t stiffen up. They protest that they look stupid.

  I nod at a woman dressed as a cow. This is not the place for shy people: get stretchy.

  Roman keeps running to the front of the queue to count back and see how far away we are from the front. Finally he sprints back, shouting, “Ninety-eight!”

  “OK, people, this is go, go, go!!” I say, sounding a bit like Debs. We sprint to the entrance. I’m blinking in the unfamiliar darkness when a blank-faced security man puts his hand on my chest.

  “Sorry, sir…”

  I take out my hairclip and my hair tumbles down.

  He takes his hand off my chest very quickly and begins apologizing. I nip past him and find my walkie-talkie guy, who is standing on top of a big podium shouting and pointing at things. Everyone’s very busy here, in a sort of “behold my busyness, marvel at my loud efficiency!” kinda way.

  “Excuse me!” I shout up at him, my voice sounding all weedy in the aircraft hangar but aware that the security guard will soon be hot on my heels.

  “It’s me, swimming pool girl? Can we have a look at the pool we’re borrowing, please?” He nods at me and whispers something stern to his wrist. I hope he’s got a microphone in there. Our last pool-provider was a bit mad, we need this one to be sane.

  “OK,” he says, stepping down from the podium and heading towards us. He’s listening to something in his earpiece and talking to us but looking three feet above our heads.

  “They’re just finishing up in there, the girls were doing a demo for the cameras.” He jerks his head towards a big black curtain behind him. I’m desperate to see Debs’ routine and I step forward without thinking. Wrist Man puts a hand up to stop me.

  I can hear splashing and bare feet padding around in there, some murmured thank yous, then silence. Wrist Man peers around the curtain and nods at us to go through, holding it open for us. Gabe plucks at my arm in excitement, I pluck his back, painfully hard, and we do Eeee! faces at each other. We step through the curtain and stop, dazzled by the bright studio lights.

  The pool is a huge, free-standing circle, about twelve feet high. It dwarfs us and it takes me a few seconds to walk all the way around it, running my fingers admiringly along its sides.

  All the way along … its … sides.

  The sides are made of black plastic. I can’t see into the pool. Of course, because they’re doing normal synchronized swimming. I’m an idiot.

  I keep walking until I bump into the boys. Pete is resting his forehead on the side, looking suddenly very tired.

  “You can’t see in,” he says, stating the obvious. Gabe picks at one of the edges.

  “It won’t come off,” he adds.

  Roman thumps his head
a few times against the side of the pool.

  Debs appears. “Stop that. It’s bespoke.”

  We walk back outside in silence, past Wrist Man and the presenters, who look confused about the kids who skipped into the studio and trudged out minutes later, all hope gone. Once we’re outside we turn left as if to rejoin the queue, then we realize there’s no point.

  “You didn’t even see the pool?” Pete asks me.

  “No!” I say. “I couldn’t, cos it was backstage. I didn’t even think. I … I just thought I’d fixed everything,” I trail off miserably.

  “Never mind,” says Roman, but he doesn’t sound at all like he means it.

  We head towards Pete’s dad’s truck. It seems the only thing to do. Mum calls as we walk. I tell her what happened in a half-whisper. Right now I feel like Pete and Roman are having to stop themselves from yelling at me. This isn’t fair. I did my best. Gabe puts a comforting arm around my shoulders. Luckily I’m stooped with sadness or he would have struggled to reach.

  Mum rings off. Just as I’m thinking, “Never mind, in a couple of hours I’ll be in bed eating cheese on toast,” I spot that the mega-truck has been clamped.

  Then I see Pete Senior weaving towards us with the snooty air of a drunk person who’s trying to hide it and I’m grateful that it has. Dad does this at Christmas: “Ah am shimply overwhelmed by all the festivitivitivi – turkey.”

  “Oh, balls,” says Pete Senior, giving the clamp a half-hearted kick. He takes it very well, I must say, but I guess if you don’t plan ahead you’re less fussed when things go wrong.

  We stand around the collapsed fish tank while Pete’s dad makes a series of phone calls to friends. We don’t stand too close in case it collapses further – and because a bored queue of hopeful BHT contestants are taking selfies in front of it. They’re all obviously going to end up online and I don’t want to be tagged.

  Not that I’m on Facebook. It’s one thing to not have loads of friends but there’s no need to flaunt it publicly.

  Pete’s dad fetches us coffee from the petrol station. I go to drink mine and it tastes like licking a battery. This is not going to help my stomach ache, but it makes me feel so adult. Finally, three cars turn up. The drivers all nod at Pete, then go into a huddled chat with his dad. They take a couple of shards of glass each and wedge them in the backs of their cars.