“I don’t think I’m a hero,” I croak. I pull my backpack to my lap and zip it closed before slinging it over my shoulder as I stand. I leave before he has a chance to utter another word, and even if he does, I refuse to acknowledge it. I can feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, and I can’t let those gates open. Once I start to fall down that rabbit hole of guilt and shame, it will take me hours to crawl back out. I’ve worn mental pathways to those dark places. It's too easy for my mind to travel them.
Instead of leaning into my weaknesses, I let my body go on autopilot, my feet marching me toward the fieldhouse. My coach texted me the locker combination when I arrived on campus, along with a note to feel no pressure. Maybe I won’t be able to do it again, but for whatever reason, I want to try right now.
I fumble through my phone until I find the text and pull up the string of numbers as I slip into the locker room. The locker reserved for me is on the end, out of the way. In case it never gets used. It takes me two attempts to get the combination right. When I finally yank the lock free and open the red metal door, I’m hit by my past all at once. I never took my suits, swim cap, goggles, or slide shoes home after last year. The contents of this locker weren’t even a blip in my mind. Coach Forbes took care of my things for me, storing them here, out of the way.I wonder if he even thinks I’ll make it to the water.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes and toe off my shoes.
You got this.
When I open my eyes again, I’m doing this. All the way.
I breathe in through my nose and hold it, my neck muscles flexed and jaw rigid. My hands pull my blouse from the waistband of my skirt and feel around my hips for the zipper. I drag it down until the fabric falls down my hips and pools at my feet. I shimmy out of my black tights next, then concentrate on undoing the buttons on my shirt. When I’m somewhere halfway up my chest, I let my eyes open wide and I stare at the bright red suit I wore like a second skin since I was old enough to compete at Welles.
The butterflies tickle inside my chest and my hands start to quake.
No. You’re doing this.
I finish stripping down and unfurl my suit, shaking it out to free the dust. I step into it and pull it taut up my body, slipping my hands through the straps and letting them snap against my skin. I allow another deep breath and it burns, the sensation of water rushing my lungs flirting with my memory.
No. Stop that.
I continue my routine, taking the things I’ll need out of my locker and dropping my school bag and clothes inside. I let the goggles rest against my forehead as I snap the lock back in place, my phone the only other thing I kept out. I don’t trust myself to remember this combination. There’s too much noise trying to break into my thoughts.
The cold water from the shower makes me shiver, and it masks the nerves that wrestle with my body as I ready myself for the lanes.
One lap. You can do one lap.
I used to glide through dozens every day, yet this one single trip from one side of the pool to the other and back again feels like an Olympic feat. It feels impossible. I can’t let it win.
Nobody is in the pool yet. That’s why I must do this now. In an hour, the team will begin to trickle in and get their workouts done. I’m not sure whether any of them really miss me. I’ve always been quiet and kept to myself, even during events. But I’m not just a wallflower anymore—I’m a story.
Hero.
I grab a towel from the rack near the entrance and make my way to the far lane. Lane 8.My lane.
My feet slip out from my sandals methodically, and I nudge them in alignment with the pool’s gutter, feeling better that they’re turned and ready to go right back on my feet. I’m already planning my escape.
I drop the rolled towel next to them and pull my goggles down from my forehead to cover my eyes. The suction feels strange. It’s been a while, longer than I’ve gone in years for this sensation. My pulse jets with panic.
Just breathe.
I breathe.
Shaking my arms and legs out, I bend forward and stretch my spine, rolling back up to stand slowly. Maybe I’ll pull a muscle and not be able to do this.
You looking for an excuse?
With one final glance around the fieldhouse, I resolve myself to moving forward. I have to do this, if only to know what my new limits are, to know if I can. I don’t have to do it well.
I kneel, then swivel to sit on my ass and drop my feet into the water. It’s not freezing, the water always kept tepid for training. I swirl my legs in figure eights until the sensation of water on my skin doesn’t feel like fire and claws. I’m not sure the panic has left, but maybe I’ve numbed to it after a few minutes. Propping my weight up on my arms, I lower myself into the pool, air leaving my lungs as I sink in. I didn’t bother with a cap today. My hair is tied back in a tight bun at the base of my neck and as my head sinks below the surface I feel each individual hair follicle react. My skin is screaming for air—pleading. I force myself to stay under a little longer.
One lap.
When I pop up for air, my mouth opens wide and I gasp. The air is there.
I turn and hold the edge of the pool with both hands, pulling my feet up until my arches flex against the wall beneath the waterline. I sense it all swirling around my body—the fear, the memories, the phantom sounds of heartbeats, screams and metal bending to water.
The lights are on.