by Kobe Bryant
“Then neither do I,” I growl, and while this conversation’s clearly over, I’m not willing to be the one to walk away. Not this time. So I stand there in the grass, with my arms folded and my eyes narrowed, until Ashley Browning seethes with fury and calls me a self-entitled bitch. She uses the word crazy, too, which is rich seeing as I’m not the one who wants to hand out money to a kid in honor of a guy who wrapped a belt around his neck until his eyes bled.
I don’t argue any of this with her, a fact that only makes her more furious. Eventually she leaves, flouncing back to her family, where she’ll no doubt tell them how terrible an excuse for a human I am, an utter disgrace to the memory of my perfect dead brother who’s hurt them far more than I ever could. It’s pathetic, really, everything about the Brownings, the things they love and choose to be, and while thoughts of her sister pierce the surface of my mind, skimming along deep-worn grooves of longing and despair, I watch Ashley abandon me with only one thought running through my mind.
Good.
11.
I’m alone again. Everything feels different. Worse, really, which is hard to explain, seeing as aloneness usually ranks up there with winning and the sex I’ve never had as shit I’d sacrifice just about anything for. Even harder to explain is the fact that while I should want nothing more than to spread my wings and bust ass out of this place, I don’t.
Instead I turn and head right back down the perfectly manicured hillside toward the aquatic center. It’s like walking the plank or stepping up to the gallows—there’s a sense of destiny in doing what’s unlikely to end well. Only this time, I don’t enter the actual pool area. I walk farther, making my way toward the staff parking lot, which is at the far end of the property, hidden from public view by a tall corral of redwood fencing.
I clench my hands into fists and open them again. It’s near midday and the sun’s high in the sky, no longer fucking around with shadows or mountains to hide its glare. But even beneath this washed-out spotlight heat, something dark writhes within these country club walls. I can feel it, here, in this place, but also inside me, having been stirred up, agitated and exposed, by what Ashley told me about the scholarship her family’s putting together.
The one in Danny’s name.
Just thinking about it is enough to make me claw my throat, rub my aching chest. What gets me is knowing I’ll never hear the end of it. Once this scholarship takes off, gets in the press—and it will—it’ll be Danny, Danny, Danny. Danny the hero, for-fucking-ever. Even more than it already is.
This is the reason I’m still here, still wallowing around in this place I’ve always hated and which has never welcomed me. You see, for a long time, I was like everyone else. Brainwashed into believing the best thing I could do was sit in the stands and cheer for my brother’s success. Over and over, I watched him dive into that pool to race the black stripe running along the bottom. He always won—every goddamn time—but you know what? All those years and all those pools, and not once did anyone ever ask why I wasn’t in the water. No one cared if I had dreams of my own because caring about me meant taking something away from Danny.
But loneliness has its merit. Resentment, too. Eventually I figured out the only thing worth worrying about was myself, and so selfishness became my act of rebellion. An act of survival. It still is, really, which is why I plan on making this stupid thing with Coach Marks work.
Survival isn’t enough anymore. I have other needs and darker dreams. These days my lot in life is making sure my asshole of a brother stays dead. I don’t care how that sounds. He hasn’t earned the right to immortality, and I sure as hell won’t let anyone give it to him. Of all the things in my life I don’t think I could live with, that’s at the top of my goddamn list.
12.
I bide my time lurking between a silver Lexus coupe with a faded USA Swimming sticker on the bumper and a bright green Vanagon that’s got Bernie shit plastered all over it, along with a handmade sign proclaiming JESUS WAS A SOCIALIST. Sunlight ricochets off metal to roast my skin until I swear I can smell it—like a pig on a spit—and you know, truth be told, I’m kind of curious who this Vanagon belongs to because my guess is they won’t last long around here.
This is my logic talking, by the way, not my politics. By definition, the LCC’s no place for socialism, not even the watered-down European kind. It’s basically capitalism personified and no one who pays twenty grand a year to walk their red-blooded ass around these eighteen holes wants to be reminded that their privilege depends on the subjugation of others. Personally, I don’t think it’s anywhere close to subversive to have a sign on your car highlighting the wealth-distributing virtues of Jesus, but around here, it kind of is.
Quick check of my phone. I’ve been in the staff parking lot for more than two hours, which is seriously starting to suck. The phone’s battery’s hovering in the red, but there’s no point saving it for later. I plunk my ass in the gravel and drain what’s left by way of watching old clips of world record swims. My favorite, far and away, is Thorpe’s 400 m freestyle at the Sydney Games. In part because it’s close to my best distance. But he also had such composure. He never did that American thing of screaming and making a fucking scene when he won, as if people would have no idea he was happy if he didn’t tell them in the most obnoxious way possible. Nah, he just let his time on the clock do the talking. There’s a lot to be said for keeping shit to yourself.
Right then, a crunch of gravel gets me to lift my head, and when I look up, it’s him. Coach Marks. He’s crossing the parking lot and I scramble to my feet, brushing dust from my legs, my hands, and popping up from behind the Lexus so fast I must look like a stalker. My phone tumbles to the ground but I don’t reach for it.
“Coach.” I force cheer and lightness I don’t feel into my voice. I am not a threatening person, this voice says. I’m not lying in wait or trying to scare you. I’m simply here to have a Reasonable Conversation that I hope will encourage you to reconsider your earlier decision.
Or else.
Coach Marks frowns at the sight of me. No more mistaking me for my brother—he knows who I am this time. “What is it, Gus? You been waiting out here for me all day?”
I nod. My head buzzes from getting up so fast and colored lights dot my visual field, but I grit my teeth and hold on to consciousness by an act of sheer will.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because I can do it,” I say in a rush. “I can win for you. I can win it all. Everything Danny couldn’t.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, I mean it.”
“So you actually believe you’re going to make the Olympics next year? At your age? With your experience? Or lack of it. Do you know how that sounds?” A taunting edge colors his tone.
“Thorpe did it at sixteen,” I retort.
He waves a hand. “And Phelps was even younger when he qualified. Yeah, I know. But that’s not the point.”
“Phelps didn’t do shit that year,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Thorpe’s the one who won gold in his first Games. Not Phelps.”
Coach Marks gives me a funny look, almost an appraising one, but there’s something else lingering in his eyes, in the way he sees me. It’s something I don’t like.
Pity.
“Look,” he says. “I’d love to give you a shot. I really would. Any brother of Danny’s . . . well, you’re someone I’d like to get to know. On your terms. But there’ll be time for that later. I promise. You don’t need to be worrying about training at the highest level while you’re going through a loss like this. It’s a lot to ask of anyone, at any time. But right now, you need to grieve. You need to be with your mom. What your family’s going through, it’s hard, you know?”
My head feels like it might burst. Right here. All over everything.
“Fuck you,” I snarl.
He blinks. “What?”
“You don’t know what I need. You don’t know anything about me!”
Coach Marks takes a step back. “Is this how you talk to your coach at Acalanes?”
Shit. I rub my chest. Try to calm myself down. “No. Look, I’m sorry I said that. I’m just . . . I’m pissed. You don’t want me, say you don’t want me. But don’t try and sell me some bullshit about how what you’re doing is for my benefit. Because what I need is to do what Danny couldn’t. And I plan on doing it with or without you.”
Coach Marks pauses. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay.” He holds up his hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not my place to tell you how to grieve. You need to do what’s right for you. Absolutely.”
“You mean that?”
“Sure. Everyone grieves differently. If swimming’s what helps, that’s what you should be doing. No judgment.”
“So I can swim for you?”
“I didn’t say that. But . . .”
“But what?” I press.
He softens. “We’ve got practice tomorrow at five thirty a.m. You show up, work out with my team. I’ll take a look. All right? Tell you what I think.”
“And if I’m good enough?”
“Then we’ll talk.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good,” he says. “And, Gus?”
“Huh?”
“Just so I understand where you’re coming from. Are you saying you want to finish Danny’s dream of being in the Olympics as a way of honoring him?”
My spine stiffens. “Not exactly.”
“Then why does doing it now matter so much?”
“It matters because I’m my own swimmer. I don’t want to be compared to Danny anymore.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” I say. “I want him to be compared to me.”
13.
Coach Marks throws his head back and laughs, like what I just said was a joke or a show of Danny-esque bravado. I’m not joking, but I know better than to say that. I also know better than to stick around and let my mouth ruin a good thing. So after thanking Coach Marks for his time, I reach for my dropped phone, reiterate my vow to show up in the morning—a statement he appears to take more as a threat than a promise—and leave.
Once again, I head back up the hill toward the main gate, and it’s weird. I got what I wanted, yet I can’t shake the feeling I’m a shitty person for asking for it in the first place. It’s not that I wasn’t honest about my intentions—I was—but Coach Marks looked so damn sad talking about Danny. Haunted, even, and the thing is, I know he feels bad about what happened and wishes there were something he could’ve done. I just really wish that he didn’t.
My bike’s right where I stashed it: deep in the woods that run adjacent to the club, not locked but well hidden behind a scrubby patch of pink and purple oleander and a clump of what looks suspiciously like poison oak—tight clusters of branches adorned with oily leaves of three. Technically, this place is public land, part of the East Bay Regional Park system, which is the reason I felt safe leaving my bike here and not closer to the club. Even without a Bernie sticker or other signs of socialist inclinations, the groundskeepers there would’ve tossed this piece of shit in a dumpster based on looks alone.
Swinging my leg over the rusty crossbar, I start the long ride home as afternoon traffic picks up. Commuters speed down this road to avoid the highway, and there are enough white bicycle memorials along my route to ensure that I harbor no illusions about my mortality. I wouldn’t anyway. Car crashes are my kryptonite and my mind is relentless in the way it flips through images of endless bike-versus-car scenarios and the subsequent bloody outcomes. This doesn’t mean the urge isn’t there to flip off every Volvo that veers too close or takes a turn too wide. But unlike my interaction with the Escalade this morning, confrontation on the open road won’t get me anywhere but dead.
I opt for personal masochism instead, hitting the hills hard and taking them at a punishing speed that can only be maintained by standing up, shifting gears, and sprinting like an ox until my quads burn and my guts jam up somewhere beneath my ribs. It’s worth it for the downhill, though, the glide and bliss of pure flight. The wind slaps my face, milks tears from my eyes, but I can take it, the pain, the discomfort. I can take it all.
And then I’ll take more.
14.
Role reversal: I coast into downtown Lafayette, where pedestrians flood the streets with little to no self-awareness. I spy small children darting every which way; old people taking multiple light cycles to move from curb to curb; and dumbasses who don’t bother looking in any direction—much less both—before stepping into the street with earbuds in and their phones out. And while I don’t personally want the responsibility of keeping any of these folks alive, I also don’t want to be the one to kill them. So I slow down.
Use the appropriate amount of caution.
This town is what the soulless call quaint, although even I can admit that summer’s when it’s got the most shine. With its wide sidewalks, bougie storefronts, and shady oak trees, this place is essentially an extension of the country club, offering the sweet promise of endless days and the indulgence of all of California’s bounty. It’s a promise for the wealthy, of course, but it’s also a lie. There’s no romance buried here or even aspiration, just the eternal mindlessness of the masses, eager to play out the role they’ve been given, to smile and nod and warm their hands on this shitshow of a world that’s burning down around us.
It feels different to be riding my bike down Main Street, knowing Danny’s gone, although it’s hard to put a finger on why. It’s not like we ever rode together . . . or did anything else together. Not if he could help it. But despite the impact he had in the pool, I doubt any of these people knew him on a personal level. It’s possible they showed up at one of the endless tributes held in his honor. Maybe they even lit a candle. Shed a tear. Said a prayer. Or maybe they simply heard how he died and lamented to whoever would listen at the time about the pressures of youth sports these days while simultaneously shelling out five figures for their kid’s soccer club dues.
Turning off Main past the local Peet’s Coffee, I weave through a curling network of tree-lined roads and drought-tolerant landscaping, which is more virtue signaling than virtue. Soon the houses begin to spread out. They grow smaller and less stately, and sit farther back from the street, giving the neighborhood a more rural feel. I cut a right on Lynnwood Court and coast the last bit toward home.
My mother’s car is parked in the driveway, coated in summer dust like a weary ghost. Her car’s always here these days because she can’t go places without losing her mind. At first I thought it was because she was afraid she’d be reminded of Danny—that she’d run into some small piece of him that would reopen her wounds in a public bloodletting. But the truth is she’d rather wallow, stagnant in her endless sorrow, than risk creating a memory he’ll never be a part of.
Our house sits at the very end of the court. Once noble, it’s now a teetering Spanish Colonial with an overgrown yard and a rotting roof that backs up to a burbling stream and a steep hillside dotted with oak trees and grazing cattle. This area is quiet and suburban and supposedly safe. It was nice once, too, which isn’t to say it’s not now, but there are newer, better neighborhoods nearby and ones with more prestige. This also happens to be the home my mother grew up in; she inherited it from her parents. That’s meant to be nice, too—parents providing for their children, even in death. But if you ask me, there’s a fine line between gift and obligation, and I have yet to figure out whether nice is truly a blessing or a curse.
The front gate latch sticks and I have to put my shoulder into it to force my way in. After kicking the rickety thing shut behind me, I drop my bike in the weedy grass and walk up weatherworn porch steps that groan beneath my
weight. My chest heaves, sweat’s pouring down my face, and I ignore the mailbox that’s overstuffed with junk and the package by the front door with Danny’s name on it so that I can get inside and breathe cool air. This probably sounds mean—or at the least, lazy—but it’s strategic. My mother has a responsibility to get her life together and it’s sure as hell not going to happen if I keep taking care of everything for her.
The baby’s crying, which is the first thing I hear when I walk inside. It’s my sister’s kid—Winter. She’s eighteen months old and honestly, crying’s a generous word. What she’s really doing is screaming. It’s not like I blame her, either—that kid got a raw deal, straight out of the gate—but if this is what all babies are like, I seriously don’t get how the human race has endured for as long as it has. There’s a lot of shit to get off on in this world that doesn’t create that. But hey, maybe more people than I realize do what my junkie of a sister did when Winter was just six months old, which is to ditch her screaming brat of a kid with her own mother before taking off for the last time and never looking back.
Her, I do blame, by the way. My mom should, too, although she’s weak and she won’t. From what I can tell, parents don’t like to face hard truths about the kids they love, and anyway, avoidance is the path most people choose to walk, so it’s hard to expect otherwise. Still, my mom’s kind of an expert at the whole denial thing. Despite the fact that they both broke her heart, she continues to love my siblings. Endlessly. To this day, she contends that Darien’s purpose in being born was to show her what love could look like. Danny, she says, was put here to show her the stars, what was possible. And me? Her youngest child? Well, my role to date has been to cause my mother unspeakable pain. This is what she tells me, at least, and I have yet to see evidence to the contrary.
Anyway, now that I’m home, I’d kind of like to do some avoiding of my own—like locking myself in the first-floor guest room, where I’ve taken to staying of late. Or else finding a way to get out of going to therapy tomorrow afternoon. It’s a support group, actually, and it’s totally unbearable. But I can’t focus on that yet. Not when there’s one more task standing in my way. The sooner I take care of it, the sooner I can move forward.
