o a point. But while we’re talking about the greater scope of things, remember that swimming is going to play a huge role in what college you get into and what scholarships you may receive. And with a good education, you might have a better chance at solving the world’s real problems, yes?”
Always the philosopher, my mom wins this round—in theory.
In practice, not so much.
“I’ve made my decision. I’m quitting the team in protest. And so are Hunter, Ridley, Hadley—everybody. And you don’t have to worry about scholarships. I’m an adult and I’ll figure it out.”
2
Addie
And somehow, I’m here.
The faint scent of chlorine in my nostrils fills me with dread and despair. At one time that smell, the feel of this humid room, the echoes of the laughter of my fellow teammates filled me with excitement and anticipation.
Today, it all adds up to bone deep anxiety.
I do not want to be here.
And yet I am. How did this happen?
“Thanks for compromising your principles, my friend,” Hunter says as we stretch each other’s arms in the pool. “My parents laid down the law. There’s no way I can not swim my senior year and have any hope of getting their help to pay for a good theater school.”
I shrug. The way I see it, she doesn’t need their help. She’s a shoo-in and has plenty of options to get financial aid. I said as much to her when she texted me that she’d changed her mind about the protest walk-out.
Turns out, pretty much everyone’s parents had the same reaction as Hunter’s parents.
Based on the chatter I hear around the pool deck, it sounds like I was the only one who didn’t have to back down.
My mom and dad had simply said to me, “Well, honey, if you feel that strongly about it, we can’t stop you.”
Thirty minutes after my well-rehearsed and thorough argument as to why I was quitting the team, I donned my green swimsuit from last year, matching school logo swim cap, and goggles.
I’m starting to wonder if they knew all along it would turn out this way. I wonder if all the swim parents are in a group text.
I could have said no to Hunter, but I’m here because no way will I stand by and let her navigate the season alone. She’s a much better swimmer than I am, but if I followed through with quitting the team, it would mean abandoning Hunter to the mercies of our team captain, Ridley Rushmore, the biggest queen bee that ever buzzed around Greenbridge Academy and maybe its best female swimmer ever.
“I wonder where he is,” Hunter says.
“Where who is?” I ask, feigning stupidity.
She snorts, knowing I’m pretending. “You’re adorable,” she says. “I mean, Weston Ford hasn’t been around Greenbridge in four years. I wonder what he looks like now.”
I laugh, pretending I haven’t been looking up videos online of his world championship swim meets. “Probably the same, but with a much bigger cranium to carry around his huge ego.”
Hunter laughs. “I love you.”
“And I, you, my dear.”
Hunter and I first met at pre-K when Matthew Jensen told me I could only play with the pink Legos. When I cried, Hunter walked right up and body checked him with her pint-size frame, scooped up all the Legos into the front of her dress, which she held out like a bowl, and marched them over to me so we could play with them ourselves. She and I have been inseparable ever since.
We hear Weston Ford before we see him. It begins with a whistle—a long, sharp whistle. We all stop what we are doing and whip our heads around to find the source of the noise.
In the microsecond before we all spot Weston standing on the concrete steps leading to the men’s locker room, my subconscious’s hard-wiring sparks to life.
That whistle. Oh god.
I’m transported back to the summer before eighth grade, hanging out at the public pool with Hunter, trying to impress the aloof lifeguard with our new pink bikinis. We’d bought the skimpy swimwear on the sly with our babysitting money and hid them from our parents.