“All valid questions. Do you have an answer for that?”
I watch her swallow nervously and take a sip from her water bottle.
“I just can’t answer that right now, and I wish everyone would just give me some space to figure things out.”
* * *
Bummed and confused, I can barely focus on swim practice, but I power through.
My social media embarrassment is overshadowed by the fact that my best friend is acting super weird. So weird, in fact, that she doesn’t even show up to eat lunch with me under our favorite tree. We’ve been eating lunch together under this same tree since we started attending Greenbridge Academy in elementary school.
It’s just as well; I’m not feeling hungry anyway.
* * *
While Coach Ford spends most of practice going over the plan for our first meet this Sunday, I keep trying to get Hunter to make eye contact with me. For some reason she keeps darting her eyes over to Ridley, who is looking sullen and is quietly spouting off to Hadley about one injustice or another.
“And my dad’s flying off to New York over Christmas, but I have to stay here in dumb old boring Greenbridge with my mom and her latest fiance, plus the dorky soon-to-be step-sibling. Just the latest in her attempts to model the perfect, traditional family holiday for her Instagram followers.”
Hadley says, “Yeah, but think of the guilt presents you’ll be getting out of it from your dad! What do you think it’ll be? Front row at Fashion Week?”
“Please. That was last year’s guilt present. And anyway, I doubt he has any guilt at all. He’s been acting really strange for the last month. He’s suddenly got this whole thing about me needing a better work ethic, saying I’m not getting a new car for graduation, but he’s instead gifting me his old Land Rover.”
Hadley laughs. “And by old you mean, what? Five thousand miles?”
“I have busted my ass for how long and done everything my parents ever asked me to do, and I don’t even get new car smell? I don’t know what the hell is going on with him.”
I glance at Hunter and she’s positively green.
“Hunter, what is it? You look like you’re going to ralph!” I whisper.
“It’s too much to discuss at swim practice, I’ll tell you that much,” she says, anxiously tucking stray hairs back into her swim cap.
Coach Ford’s voice booms over the whole scene. “If you girls are quite finished with your drama, we can get started.”
I turn to glare at him. He is openly, brazenly staring at me. My eyes travel downward to his baggy board shorts. I can’t see an outline at all, which is a damn atrocity. Forcing myself to meet his gaze again, frustration heats my cheeks.
He purses his lips around the whistle, furrows his brow, and lets out one short blast.
“Here’s how this Sunday’s meet against Saint Mary’s Prep is going to go…”
He continues, and I take it in while staring at him in challenge.
When he’s finished, he asks if anybody has any questions.
For the first time in the history of swim practice, even going back to the age of twelve, I have a damn question.
“I do.”
He raises one of his brows at me. “Shermer?”
“Yes, my question is… How dare you call us ‘girls’ and belittle our problems by calling it drama? We are fucking women!”
The howls of shocked laughter bounce off the water and the walls, but I pay no attention. I keep my eyes on him and he keeps his on me.
For a second he narrows them at me like he’s considering what to do next. Considering what kind of punishment to dole out. He crosses his arms in front of him, his whistle in one hand. He presses it to his lips, just tapping it there as he thinks for a minute.
All my teammates are chattering because they still can’t get over what I just said. Coach puts the whistle between his lips and gives a quick burst to silence everyone.