No, except Jasmine spent an hour “getting ready” this afternoon, and I figured she was going to hang out with Ellie. Not come to a swim meet with me.
I suppose it was inevitable, though. All week long, she was waiting outside the theatre after rehearsals, instead of making me find her in the pottery studio. All so she can say hi to Liam.
Last time she even “accidentally” brushed against his shoulder, so she could comment on how swimming must keep him in good shape. Which led to him mentioning the meet.
So maybe that counted as him inviting her? Maybe he wants her here. Maybe he likes her too.
Maybe that whole touching knees thing was a fluke. It’s not like it happened again.
He still tucks in my tags, though.
Jasmine waves her hand in front of my face; I hate when she does that.
“What?”
“Are we going in?”
“Yeah.” I grab the two shmoodie bottles—they’ve got extra banana for more potassium—and lead the way.
The Natatorium is attached to the Community Center: I suppose the city must split costs with the district or something. It’s a huge, cavernous thing, with a short-course pool, diving well, and bleachers on both sides.
I turn my hearing aids off before we even step inside: With concrete floors, high metal ceilings, lots of water, and huge crowds, there’s no way I’ll catch anything except a headache. With them off, everything sounds far away, soft and squishy, but way easier to manage.
Jasmine says something as I lead her toward the spectators’ bleachers, which are opposite the team bleachers. I spot Bowie and Liam and the rest of the team in their purple warm-ups, sitting beneath the purple-and-gold Riverstone Raptors banner.
Jasmine tries talking to me again, but I shake my head. “I turned my hearing aids off. Too much noise.”
She nods and pulls out her phone to type notes.
When do they go on?
“They’re both in the medley relay.” Bowie for butterfly, Liam for freestyle.
But Jasmine raises her eyebrows at me.
“First event.”
More spectators trickle in, but it’s a swim meet, not a football game, so the crowd issparsesmall but dedicated. Eventually, people settle. The teams stand. Someone plays what I assume must be the national anthem on a harmonica.
Bowie and Liam and the rest of the team take off their warm-ups, heading toward the blocks. Jasmine stiffens next to me. I get it: Liamin a Speedoshirtless is a sight to behold, even from a distance. Bowie’s looking good too: Their back has grown broader since last season. They fight with their cap—most swim caps are made for white people hair—and adjust their goggles as Trevor, a senior who swims backstroke, gets into the pool and grabs the handles for his start. While Bowie bounces on their toes to keep warm, Liam looks our way and gives a wave. Even from across the Natatorium, I can see the way his muscles move.I almost forget to breathe.
Jasmine nearly knocks me over as she leaps to her feet to wave back. Liam laughs and faces the blocks, flapping his long arms back and forth tolubricateloosen up his shoulders.
When Jasmine sits again, her cheeks are flushed. She shows me her phone.
He waved at me!
I want to tell her he waved atme,but I can’t be sure. And there it is again: Is he being nice? Or does he like her?
The uncertainty is killing me.
***
As the crowd streams out, I grab for the shmoodies, but only one of them is there. I look beneath our bench, and the one behindus, to see if it fell over, but it’s just gone. Then I catch Jasmine already moving down the stairs, with one of the bottles—the one with a blue cap, which I use for Liam—in her hand.
I grab Bowie’s and join the queue.
The lobby is packed, but I head for the doors; Bowie knows to meet me outside. I gesture for Jasmine to follow, and we escape out the double doors onto the lawn. The afternoon sun is shining, and it’s warm with summer’s last gasp. (I assume. You never know with Missouri weather. Or climate change.)
