Again, my dive is a belly flop. This time I try the butterfly stroke, letting my upper body propel me forward while my legs work in unison like a mermaid’s fin. Or at least that’s what I’m going for. I probably look like I’m drowning and break-dancing at the same time.
After the second lap, my body slams into the wall like when you’re roller-skating and you don’t know how to stop. Freddie is waiting for me in the neighboring lane.
“I was wondering when you’d make it back,” he says.
“Shut up,” I spit, wanting to say much more, but unable to because my lungs are on fire.
Freddie pulls himself out of the pool. “Someone’s a sore loser.”
Between breaths, I say, “Someone’s a shitty winner.”
He holds an arm out for me, and I begrudgingly take it. “Come on,” he says. “Let me have this. Besides, after all those wasted years of training, you gotta admit it’d be pretty embarrassing if you kicked my ass.”
I ignore his hand and get out of the water on my own, just barely, though. I’ve got to admit: even I’m surprised by the adrenaline that’s coursing through my veins. “Go on,” I tell him. “I need to catch my breath.”
As he leaves for the locker rooms, I sit down on the block and pull my goggles off my head. I cringe as the elastic pulls at my wet hair. I suck at this. Freddie beat me fair and square and by a lot. I think that’s supposed to make me miserable, but it doesn’t and I’m trying to figure out what exactly that means.
Finally I stand up to leave the pool. The woman in the black Speedo I saw last time is sitting in the same spot on the bleachers. Her short, spiky hair seems to match her prickly persona.
As I pass her, she doesn’t even bother turning to me when she says, “Gotta learn pacing. You burn out too fast. Anyone can sprint. Stamina is something you have to earn.”
I stop. “I’m not trying to be, like, a swimmer or anything.”
She turns to me. “Oh, you’re a swimmer. You either are or you aren’t. And you are. You’re just not any good yet.”
I shake my head and jog down the hallway to the locker rooms. I can swim. Of course I can. The ocean is my backyard. But I’m no stranger to adults telling me how I should use my body. With my height, it’s nonstop questions about basketball or volleyball or whatever other sports where my stature might serve as a benefit. But sports, and any other extracurricular, have always felt like a waste of time. If it’s not something I’m going to be paid for, I don’t really have the time to waste. Or the energy to invest.
Back at Agnes’s place, Freddie whips together a frittata with cheese, mushrooms, spinach, and sun-dried tomatoes. The last three ingredients are the type of things I would never eat individually, but somehow Freddie has the ability to make them taste good. And of course, a plain sunny-side-up egg for Bart.
“Hey, Gram?” he says once we’re all seated. “This week’s Viv’s birthday, and I was thinking I could driveback on Friday after school for her party.”
Agnes doesn’t look up from her plate. “And what about your shift at the car wash?”
Freddie looks to Bart, who shakes his head and concentrates on his eggs. “I thought maybe I could call in this one time. Or maybe Adam will cover for me.”
Agnes makes atsknoise with her tongue. “You know how I feel about commitments.”
“Come on, Gram,” says Freddie, resorting to that boyish tone I recognize from when we were kids. It’s the same charm he used to help me get Tyler’s cake—and he clearly knows how to wield it to get what he wants. “You know leaving Viv wasn’t easy.”
Agnes’s shoulders sink, and I see the weight of responsibility she carries and how well she understands the sacrifice that moving here was for Freddie. “Okay,” she relents. “But only if this one”—she motions to me—“agrees to go with you. I don’t like the idea of you making that trip by yourself.”
Freddie turns to me.
I take a moment too long to swallow my mouthful of frittata. “I’ll—uh, have to see if I can get someone to cover my route on Saturday morning.”
Agnes doesn’t look up. “My kind of girl.”
I shrug in Freddie’s direction, but his attention is in a far-off place outside this house. His legs bounce so aggressively that Agnes reaches under the table and pats his knee until he stops.
We ride our bikes to school, the humidity so thick myhair doesn’t even begin to dry until third period, which is the only class Freddie and I share. I’m dozing in and out of Ms. Pak’s economics lesson when Adam, who sits behind me, taps my shoulder. He reaches down low and shoves a note into my dangling hand. I glance back to get a read on him, but it’s Freddie, who sits two desks behind him, who I find winking at me.
In my lap, hands positioned underneath my desk, I unfold the full piece of notebook paper that’s been folded into a sad piece of origami.
In surprisingly beautiful handwriting, the top of the page reads:
REASONS TO GO WITH ME TO BATON ROUGE
1. BEEF JERKY, AND NOT THE SHITTY KIND. I KNOW THE BEST GAS STATION IN LOUISIANA, WHERE THEY MAKE THEIR OWN JERKY. IT’S A SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE.
