1
Addie
This morning, like every Saturday morning for the last twenty-plus years, my mom and dad are drinking coffee and sitting together on the sofa listening to public radio.
Their dorky routine makes me smile. Remembering how much I adore them helps me say what I need to say.
“Mom? Dad?” I breathe in, noticing my stomach churning and my palms sweating.
I clear my throat.
“What is it, sweetie?” my mom asks as she curls her legs underneath her, a pose indicating she knows I need to talk about something heavy and she’s ready to listen. “Zeke, can you…?” She motions for my dad to turn down the volume on the radio.
He nods. “Sure, honey.”
“Um…well, I’m 18 now…and I have been thinking of making some changes this year at school,” I say.
“It’s OK, Addie,” Dad says with a smile. “We’re not going to bite your head off.”
Don’t be too sure about that, Pops, I think to myself.
“Well, I’ve decided not to go out for the swim team this year.”
Both my parents freeze, their coffee cups stuck in mid-air, halfway to their lips. They look at each other. They look back at me. They seem unsure how to react, and in their discomfort, they laugh. It’s not a derisive laugh, it’s more like an “I don’t know what to do with this information” kind of laugh.
I clear my throat again. Their faces register that I’m serious. Mom asks, “Why in the world would you quit the swim team? You went to state last season. You’re filling out college applications.”
Dad interjects. “This year is going to be huge. You definitely do not want to quit. The athletic director is bringing in Weston Ford to coach.”
The sensation in my body at the sound of that name is nothing more than dread. That’s what I tell myself. It’s not schoolgirl butterflies. It’s simply not.
No other athlete brought more acclaim to my school than Weston Ford. A phenom his entire career at Greenbridge Academy, he led the varsity swim team to four state championships, then went on to do the same on the national level in college, and even competed in the world championships. I’d heard whispers about him trying out for the Olympic swim team. Whenever the subject of Greenbridge swimming comes up, it’s only a matter of seconds before Weston’s name is mentioned.
I can’t imagine what kind of money the school board offered him to get him to give up competing to coach here.
Weston Ford was the reason my best friend Hunter and I tried out for Greenbridge swimming in middle school.
Hunter and I both had our eyes on that boy since our preteen years. He was five years ahead of us and a regular lifeguard at the city pool. He was so cute in those red swim trunks and white sunglasses, with his bullhorn and whistle and that hint of a smirk whenever Hunter and I laid out our towels on the hot concrete pool deck just inches from his tall lifeguard chair. And that tan. My god, the way that boy imprinted on my preteen brain — not to mention libido —was almost criminal.
Hunter would drool over his abs and shoulders. I was hypnotized by his masculine legs, which he let grow hairy in the off season.
Kids at the pool were afraid of him. I wasn’t scared—I was fascinated.
But there is no way in absolute frozen-over hell that I am going to let that man coach me now. Our team doesn’t need to fall back on the past to win a championship. It seems to be backward thinking to me.
I take another deep breath. “That’s just the trouble,” I say. “It’s like a bad movie reboot. It’s not fair that they fired Coach Judy. It brought down the morale of the whole team. Everyone’s upset.”
Dad cocks his head at me and speaks as warmly as he can. “I know that Greenbridge is tough on swim coaches. But we are the best private K-through-12 school in the state, with a top swim program. If a coach can’t produce state titles consistently, that’s the end. Judy was good, but she wasn’t great. Our swim program isn’t good, it’s great, and we need a great coach.”
My parents, especially my dad, love to talk about Greenbridge swimming like they are an active part of it. He sips his coffee and waits for me to speak. Mom looks worried.
“I realize all of that, but…I don’t know anymore. The athletic director took the wind out of our sails. It just seems so small and petty in the whole scheme of things. A high school state title doesn’t really mean much in the long run, does it? We’re not curing cancer or ending poverty.”
My mom finally chimes in. “You might be surprised by this, but I agree with you t