BEING IN THE car with my dad was quiet except for the scatter of rain on the windshield and the swoosh of the windshield wipers and the radio newscaster’s deep, even voice. I brought my hand to my nose and breathed in hard — the thick scent of Erika’s apricot lotion I’d slathered on and a hint of chlorine beneath. My brother had gathered a bunch of the trophies we had around the house and taken them with him to San Diego. I didn’t know what he’d done with them after. My instinct when I saw the trophies in the case was to press my hands against the glass to cover them. I didn’t want to think about the people who’d looked in and seen them before. My dad turned the wipers up a notch. All I had to say was What happened to Jordan’s trophies? or How did some of them end up in the case at school? but I couldn’t explain why I wanted to know. What was I supposed to get from knowing that? The smooth-voiced announcer said, Turning now to the Balkans.
I leaned my head against the window. If Alexis had given me a ride, I wouldn’t be having to listen to the news or worrying about whether the chlorine smell overrode the apricot. Maybe she hadn’t seen me waiting in the doorway. If she’d given me a ride I could have sat in the backseat until she dropped Greg off, and then I could have moved up front. It could be awkward for her to say goodbye to Greg with me in the back. Obviously he was her boyfriend. They might forget I was there and start making out and I’d have to shuffle or cough to remind them. Who knew how far they might go in the front seat of the car, in front of Greg’s house, forgetting there was anyone — me — in the backseat. It was possible that Alexis had seen or heard about how many times I’d been passed in Lane Four, and that that had changed her mind about me, made her not offer me a ride. The traffic report came on and the traffic announcer announced that the interstate was clogged, the usual backups between the bridges. The announcer said, The Banfield’s doing what the Banfield does. My dad adjusted the defroster and the blast of air cleared the windshield.
At dinner I thought I was so hungry that I took both a leg and a wing, but in two bites I felt finished. Not full, but done. Chlorine itched my skin. I used my fork to pull meat off the drumstick bone. I made a small pile. My mom reached across me for the salad. She said, How was Erika’s first swim practice?
I knocked my fork into my chicken pile. I said, How did you know she was swimming?
My mom said my dad had mentioned it. I didn’t get why it was such big news. I said, I don’t know how it went, I haven’t talked to her yet.
My dad said, High school, so she’s probably swimming short course, right?
My mom said, High school teams don’t have long course pools.
They said the names of swimming terms the way kids who had been to Mexico rolled their r’s in Spanish class — over-enunciated, so excessively. My dad asked what her events would be. I said, She didn’t even have any idea what lane she’d be in, and my voice sounded mean but I didn’t care. I took more rice and salad though I didn’t want to eat it. I would have taken more chicken. I wanted to pile food on my plate and waste it all — no saving for sandwiches, no slipping scraps to the dog.
ALEXIS SAID, I tried to call a little earlier this time. She said, Oh my god, first day. I’m going to be so sore tomorrow. She said, How did it go for you today? I meant to catch you after.
I saw her Taurus, speeding off. I said, It went okay.
Alexis said, You’re modest. She said, I bet you did great.
I said, Did you talk to Coach?
Alexis said, Oh my god, Coach. He can be such a trip sometimes. Did you know he grew up on a farm somewhere?
I said, I can see that. Coach in overalls, a goofy smile, arm around a cow. I said, Is he always so nice?
Alexis said, Oh, that’s right. You’ve only seen practice Coach. At meets Coach is no joke. He got so mad at a ref once that he pulled the whistle from around his neck and threw it into the pool.
I didn’t know if she meant Coach’s neck or the ref’s, or if coaches were allowed to wear whistles at meets. I said, He’s been nice so far, thinking of how he hadn’t come over and asked me what was wrong the third and the fourth times I’d stopped at the wall.
Alexis said, That’s our Coach. She said, Who did you picture?
I pressed the receiver hard into my ear. I said, What?
She said, For who you wanted to be. When you closed your eyes.
I had been in the middle of getting changed when Alexis called, and now I was sitting on my bed with one leg out of my jeans. I lifted my naked leg and bent it, resting my chin on my knee and touching with my fingertips the light blonde hairs on my lower thigh. I wondered, as I had before, if my brother had been one of those swimmers who shaved off every hair on his body, and if shaving had actually made him faster or had just made him feel faster.
Alexis said, You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.
I said, It’s okay. I said, Don’t laugh. Wonder Woman.
Alexis laughed. She said, Not at you, sorry. That’s so cute.
I said, You mean tough, and Alexis laughed again.
She said, You’re right, she is tough. She said, You’re cute for choosing her.
I felt something — embarrassed? I said, Who did you picture?
She said, Oh, it’s boring. Megan Dolan. Girls captain two years ago? She went to U of O for swimming.
I saw Megan Dolan, though I’d never seen her, or heard of her: muscled arms, strong legs, pool-blue eyes like the swimmers in Poolside. I saw Alexis seeing Megan swim, splashless, down the lane. We couldn’t take our eyes off her. I said, Oh yeah. Megan.
THAT FIRST WEEK, while Coach roamed the perimeter to watch and place us, I stayed in Lane Four with Erika. Coach would blow his whistle to start the warm-up or drill, and I’d take off, sail for the first lap or two, and then someone would pass me or I’d otherwise disintegrate. Kickboarding, especially, was nothing but dead end. I’d hold the foam board out in front of me and chop my legs and get nowhere. I’d sneak in a few arm-scoops in order to make it to the far wall and back and then I was done. I’d put my kickboard on the pool deck and press myself into the corner made by the wall and the lane-line, letting the shame burn off of me. The other swimmers in my lane would slap the wall and turn and keep swimming as if I wasn’t there. In my mind when they asked me I said, I’m resting.
Sometimes I stopped at the wall for longer than I needed to, past when my breathing had returned to normal, and I watched the Lane Four swimmers swim toward and away from me. It was clear who was really Lane Four material. Lane Four meant average with potential, arms and legs doing what they were supposed to but not particularly fast, or gracefully. One freckle-backed guy in Hawaiian-print trunks kept his head too far down. He should raise it, swim higher on the water, instead of making himself into his own dead weight. The girl I knew from Chemistry could swim backstroke straighter if she followed the lines on the ceiling. I let myself find Alexis up in Lane One. She was good but not as good as the actual pros, who swam so seamlessly they disappeared in the water. I felt as if I knew what that felt like. If I waited at the wall long enough, I could rejoin the drill for the last few laps, and in the starting laps, again, I’d sail. I’d stop for four minutes, three, and when I rejoined the lane, I’d be as fresh as when I’d emerged, lightly showered, from the locker room.