A Matter of Heart (14 page)

W
hen I head back to the pool ten minutes later, it's a new crowd. I look around—twice—just to be sure Alec is gone. I'm still flustered by what he said. What did that even mean? Am I supposed to think he likes me—like
that
?

Okay. I'm not even going to go there. I'm not interested, for one thing. For another, I'm dating Connor, who is like top prize in the Boyfriend Championships.

I set my swim bag down at lane 6. There's a heavyset woman in lane 1 bobbing from one end of the pool to the other. Two women are swimming laps in lanes 2 and 3, and there's a couple in lane 4 who appear to be doing a synchronized dog paddle. None of them spares me more than a glance. Perfect. For this swim, I don't want an audience.

Settling myself on the edge of the pool, I dip my goggles in
the water. As I lick a finger and wipe out the inside of the plastic, a breath catches in my throat. I'm facing a lane of open water and I'm nervous.
Stupid
.

The water is cool on my feet and I wiggle my toes, watching ripples break the surface. I'm still me. I'm still the same person who loves the water, who's had a natural feel for it ever since I was four years old. A tiny white pill can't change all of that.

No more thinking.

I jump in and immediately push off, finding an easy rhythm. I swim with alternate breathing—every three strokes. The water holds me and I rotate with long, even pulls. I'm not thinking about anything except my breathing.
One, two, breathe. One, two, breathe
.

After a 300 warm-up, I coast to the wall, a little tired but not bad. I flip up my goggles and reach for my water bottle as a voice calls my name.

“Abby?”

Bree waves and comes over. She's wearing a TYR racing bikini and carrying her swim bag. She drops it at the edge of the lane next to me. “You're back in the pool, huh?”

“Yep, feeling fine.”

“Great!”

Only it sounds suspiciously like “Crap.” I'm sure Bree was happy to eliminate some of the competition.

I squirt a shot of water in my mouth. I do feel fine. A little sluggish, maybe, but I've had a week off. I pull my right arm across my body and stretch out my shoulder and back. I'm kind of glad that Bree is here, now that I think of it. I'm already feeling the competitive itch work its way up my spine, and Bree will
be a test—though not a true one. She hasn't beaten me since we were ten years old. But I can pace myself against her, get a feel for what this medicine might do.

“You running drills?” she asks.

I shake my head and adjust my goggles. “Just getting in some yards today.”

“Me too.” She hops in. “It was not a good meet yesterday.”

I can't argue there—a sixth-place finish won't cut it, not if she wants to compete at State. “Looked like you had a slow start.”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. Bree and I have been competing for too long for her to want to hear advice from me. She's adjusting her goggles when I take off.

This time, I push it a little, working toward a faster turnover. But my shoulders feel tight and my arms slow through the pull. Water churns as Bree comes up in the next lane, and I kick harder—grabbing the water, fighting the weakness in my arms. Bree is even with me, her suit flashing like black spots at the edge of my eye.

She's not going to pass me; I won't let her.

I kick harder, pull faster.

Churn and burn. Churn and burn
.

Even as I chant the words, she surges ahead. Bubbles burst around my face as her feet flutter by. My arms slow and my feet lose the rhythm. My throat fills and I come up for a breath that turns into a sob.
Oh God
. I dive down, burying the sound underneath the water. The wall is there, a green triangle of tile glimmering against the plaster. I flip, my feet landing perfectly on the tile, pushing off the way I've done a million times before.

Even with tears blinding me.

It's okay. No big deal
.

I force myself into an easy rhythm as if I never meant to go beyond first gear. But when I reach the wall, fear has such a tight hold on my lungs that I'm gasping as if I've just gone all out. This can't be it. This can't be all I've got. I dunk my head, wanting to drown the doubts, lose them in the water. But when I come up a few seconds later, I'm still weighed down with panic. Bree glides into the wall, flips, and sprints back down the lane.

How can this be happening?
My stupid screwed-up heart is beating calmly like nothing's wrong, but everything is wrong. Tears build up behind my goggles until I have to yank them off and drop them on the deck. No way can I be slow. I don't know
how
. This medicine…I can't keep taking it. Not if this is what it does to me.

I blink my eyes clear of tears and a figure swims into sight.

Alec. He's standing on the cool deck by the door to the men's locker room. He's watching me, and I don't know if the tears on my cheeks show or if it just looks like pool water. I spin away. To hell with his pity. I don't need it. I just need that second opinion from the doctor because I'm fine.
Fine
.

Next to me, Bree is a blur as she flips and is gone again.

It's all I can do to keep my shoulders from shaking.

I
t's nearly noon when I get home, but at least I'm calm. Which is good. Because when I walk in, Dad is at the kitchen sink filling a glass of water.

“Hey.” He half turns to face me. He's wearing his usual Sunday ratty gray T-shirt, sweats, and tennis shoes. “How was class?”

“Good. No one threw up today.”

“That's always a bonus.” He pauses. “So…everything else okay?”

Which is code for
You didn't drop dead while swimming?

“Yeah.”

“How did it feel?”

Again code.
Could you swim with heart-numbing pills infecting your body?

“It's was…good,” I say haltingly. “Not exactly like I expected.”

“I wondered.” He nods as if I've just confirmed that I'm a loser.

A lump rises in my throat, but I work it back down.

He stands there a long moment, looking at his glass of water. Then he points to the backyard. “Guess I'd better get back out there. I'm finally tackling that dead tree.”

“I figured. You have twigs in your hair.”

He smiles and rubs a hand through his hair until a leaf and a twig flutter into the sink. “Well. That's it, then.”

And he doesn't mean the tree.

He's not looking at me. Will he ever be able to look at me again?

He's nearly to the back door when I open my mouth and suddenly words are spilling out. “But it wasn't bad. Just not like I expected.”

Dad stops. He slowly turns, disbelief on his face. But finally,
finally
, he's looking at me.

“I mean, it's different. I'm still getting adjusted.”

“Abby, it's okay. You—”

“But I think I can be fast.”

He pauses. “Honey, you don't have to—”

“Not in the hundred,” I say. “I don't think I'll have the endurance. But for a fifty-yard sprint.” I don't know where these lies are coming from, but I let them rush out, and they sound believable even to my own ears. “I mean, it'll be long course, so I'd have to swim fifty meters, but still. When you think about it, it's only twenty-something seconds in the pool. I can cover a lot
of water with a good dive off the blocks. I can do twenty seconds before my heart's even out of zone two.”

His eyes zero in on mine. He's got deep-set eyes, a little squinty at the edges, especially when he's focused. I stare back with eyes of the same color green, and the same intensity.

He wipes the back of his hand across his lips. “I didn't think about the fifty. And…you were able to push yourself?”

I shrug.
Which is not technically a yes
. “I mean, I know it's just the fifty.”

Dad has never liked the 50. He says it's for hotdoggers, and besides, it's too hard to control. In a race that short, it's all about a perfect start or a perfect flip turn if it's a 25-yard pool. Anyone can win.

“A lot of good swimmers like the fifty,” he says. He strides back to the kitchen and sets his water glass on the counter. “And you think your time might be competitive?”

“If I have a chance to get adjusted.” My voice is steady. I can't believe what I'm saying, but I can't stop myself either. “I've got two weeks to work on it. I'm just not sure how to manage practices. No way I can keep up with all the yards the team is doing.”

“You don't have to in order to compete in the fifty,” he says quickly. “Your dive is one of the best. And you can practice that without getting your heart rate up.”

He heads toward the kitchen table, and I know he's going to check the swim times from the latest high school meet. I think maybe it's going to be okay. He isn't saying anything about State, but he's thinking it. I've already qualified in the 50. I did early on in the season, not expecting to use it. So what if I was slow today? No one has to know. I can tell everyone I'm training for
the 50 and they'll believe me—they'll believe Fins. In a week, I'll have a second opinion and none of it will matter anyway.

I sag against the counter as Dad finds the page with the swim results. I watch him nod and I can practically see the dreams churning to life. I know it's wrong, making him believe in a lie, but I don't care. I finally feel alive again.

W
hen I wake up Monday morning, it's to the deep nothing of darkness. It's five o'clock. I stretch and yawn. Swim practice will start soon, and no one bothered to tell my inner clock that I'm not going.

In a way, things worked out pretty well. Coach called last night to say he'd spoken to the principal. There are insurance concerns—liabilities, since the pool is a school facility. He needs to work some things out before I come back, even if I am on the medicine.

Bottom line: don't show up.

Part of me is glad. Coach would've figured out that I'm too weak, too slow on the meds—even for the 50. This way, I can keep the lie alive while I wait to hear from the new doctor. It shouldn't be long. Dad found a friend of a friend who's a
cardiologist, and he already has the results of my EKG and a disc with the echo.

But I still feel the sharp sting of betrayal. I expected Coach to fight for me, and instead it's like he's already given up. This morning, he's got someone else swimming in my spot, as if I'm replaceable.

My eyes close and I square my jaw.
Like hell I am!
I just need to stay focused, stay positive. I'll be back. Crying yesterday was a moment of weakness. I'm only sorry Alec saw it.

Alec
. I picture him with his wet hair falling over his forehead, still tall and lean even with his shoulders hunched, the muscles of his abdomen tight enough that I could count his ribs.

I flip in the bed and curl around my pillow. Alec's image follows me. I can still see him looking at me, watching me. As if he knows something about me now, as if in that moment of weakness, he worked his way inside me. I squirm, my body as unsettled as my thoughts. Maybe it was better when he was shooting me those angry glares.

I've been staring at you for a lot longer than a month
.

I give myself a mental shake. I'm lying in bed thinking about Alec Mendoza. Wouldn't Jen love to know that!

Fluffing up the pillow behind my head, I flip onto my back. It's still dark outside, and my room is as black as a Sharpie. But even so, it's officially Monday, and Mom said the doctor's office promised a second opinion by the end of the week.

In the meantime, I've got another interview today with the TV station. Halloween is Saturday, and Jen and I are going all out for Tanya's party. Plus, when I get to school, I'll see my very sexy boyfriend, and just for the heck of it, I'm going to engage in
what our principal calls “lip-locking.” And I'm going to do it in the hallways even if it is “expressly forbidden.”

I lay a hand over my heart. It's beating quiet and regular and slow.

Beta-blockers. They're saving me and killing me at the same time.