A Matter of Heart (16 page)

A
lec is behind me.

Again.

It's Wednesday afternoon, and I've developed some type of blue-beater Honda radar. When I pull into the Lifeline parking lot, there it is.

There he is.

Slowly, I slide my mom's van into a shady spot, but half my attention is focused on Alec as he pulls his swim bag from his backseat. He's graceful for a guy; maybe that's why I let myself watch him. He swims here every afternoon and there's nothing I can do about it. Free country and all. But I've gotten good at ignoring him. If only I could push the delete button on that conversation after our class on Sunday. Specifically, that last little bit. I've tried, but his words keep coming back to me like a bug bite that suddenly starts itching out of nowhere.

Even worse, since he said he's been watching me, I keep catching myself watching him. It's seriously beginning to piss me off too. Wary strangers is what we were and what I want us to be. Snatching my swim bag, I slam the van door shut. My focus needs to be on the pool and keeping myself in shape until the doctor calls. Alec is nothing more than a distraction.

I'm good at eliminating distractions.

In the locker room, I slip on a green Speedo one-piece, shove my things in a locker, and carry my equipment bag to the pool area.

I see Alec head out of the men's room at the same moment, but I don't spare him a glance or a word. He ignores me too. But now I see a bigger problem.

There's only one open lane today.

We make eye contact. His stare is cold; it has been since we argued on Sunday. I match the freeze. It's pretty clear that we don't want it like this, but whatever.

“I'll take the left side,” I say.

He nods and shifts his water bottle, pull buoy, and hand paddles to the right side of the lane. I line up my stuff next to his.

I'm not pushing myself during these afternoon swims. I can't—not with the beta-blockers turning my blood to sludge. Not with Mom watching every morning while I take my pill. I'm going to enjoy crushing the bottle of them under my heel when the doctor clears me.

I also have to be careful that Alec doesn't guess that I'm basically crippled in the pool. Maybe he wonders. Why else am I swimming in slow motion? But he can't know for sure. Everyone on the school team has heard I'm taking beta-blockers and
waiting for more info from a heart specialist. But I've told them I'm getting my speed back. I even started giving Dad made-up swim times.

He's added a new line to the chart on his wall—50-meter freestyle times. He's recorded the winning times in the state this season and charted the regional and national records. I'll tell him I cut three-tenths of a second off today. I could also mention that I swam faster than this when I was ten years old, but I won't. I won't even think it myself. I shift my brain into positivity mode. I'm maintaining a feel for the water and I'm keeping my rhythm. I'm in a freaking pool, aren't I?

Alec is already swimming his warm-up. I push off, careful to hug the wall so I don't bump arms with him. He glides by me, a smooth arrow of brown in our team's standard black Speedo trunks, which reach halfway down his thighs. Connor's got more muscle than Alec, but there's still something strong about the way Alec cuts through the water.

Mentally, I give myself a slap.
Ignore him!
I flip at the wall, my mind churning as much as my arms. Why is he here every day, anyway? Coach wants everyone tapering for State. Morning workouts are still pretty hard, and I don't know of anyone else who's swimming afternoons. Connor rolled his eyes when I mentioned it. He said one word, with contempt:
Desperation
.

Alec's family moved here so he could swim with Coach, all based on a conversation with Stanford, and now it's obvious he's not posting times worth a Stanford scholarship. So of course he's desperate. At first, I wasn't sure why Coach accepted Alec on the Horizon team. A lot of swimmers want to compete at Horizon, and there isn't room for everyone. But it didn't take me long to
see why Coach would snap him up. Alec is a worker. Even now, he's not just putting in the yards. He pushes himself. He drills. He does all the crap everyone else complains about.

He's desperate to improve.

Connor thinks desperation is a bad thing. He says too much emotion can impact performance, and he's right about that. I've always admired how relaxed and laid-back he is, but I have to admit, he doesn't leave it all in the pool, either. He's not a slacker, but if you're looking for a guy willing to sweat blood and piss chlorine, well, it's not Connor. I guess I never thought about it before, but since talking to Alec I can't stop myself.

My conscience prickles at these thoughts. They feel a little…disloyal. A few weeks ago, I would have agreed about Alec's desperation. But not anymore.

There are all kinds of desperation.

I pull up to the wall, tired. I have no idea how many yards I just swam. I glance up at the clock. Fifteen minutes have gone by. Fifteen minutes equal fifteen hundred yards—or that's what it would have been two weeks ago.

Upset, I reach for my water bottle and knock it over. Damn. It rolls a foot and hits the side of Alec's swim bag. I lean over to grab it, but I overreach and my pinky catches on the open side pocket of his bag. The material flaps down and a box flashes into view.

I freeze.
What the…?

T
he sound of splashes grows louder and I look down the pool lane. Alec is heading back. My neck muscles are clenched so tight my shoulders ache. I pop the mouthpiece on my water bottle and pretend to take a drink. Alec flips and a spray of water splashes along the deck and over his bag. I wait until he's halfway to the other side and then I pull down at the material of his bag, just a little, just an inch. My lungs burn with air I'm holding in. I stare, not believing, but there it is. An inhaler. I don't have breathing problems, but I know all about albuterol. It's medicine for a person with asthma.

And an adrenaline rush for a swimmer.

I let go of the material and it pops back up, hiding the box. Holding the dimpled cool deck for support, I slip back to my side, my eyes still glued to the front compartment of Alec's swim bag.

I shouldn't jump to conclusions. Maybe it's not his. I think he's got a little brother—maybe the inhaler belongs to him. But if it does, why is it in Alec's bag? The box is still sealed—I saw that much. But for how long? My mind spins from one thought to the next. Is Alec cheating? Planning to cheat? Did he accuse Connor to shift attention away from himself?

“What are you doing?”

I gasp so loudly it's more of a squeal. Water bubbles up around me. I've literally jumped at Alec's voice. Quickly I turn away. “Nothing.” I wipe my eyes as if water has dripped in them and I can't see anything. Including banned and illegal substances.

He looks from me to his bag. “Were you messing with my bag?” He lifts it, moves it slightly over, and, I can't help but notice, zips up the front pocket.

“No.”

“Then what?” He pauses and pulls off his goggles. The ice in his gaze has melted to a worried warmth. “Is it your heart? You diz—”

“No!” I interrupt.

“Look, Abby. I know what's going on. If you need—”

Panic explodes in my veins. What I need is for him to shut up. “Why is there albuterol in your bag?” I blurt.

He jerks back, shocked, and one arm shoots out over his bag as if protecting it. “What did you say?”

“I saw it, Alec.”

It feels as if his whole body has surged up higher, closer. Even in the cool water, heat is rolling off of him. “You went through my bag?”

“Not on purpose.”

“Is there any other way?”

It's all I can do not to shift backward, but I won't let myself. Instead, I lift up, leaning my forearm on the deck until I'm nearly even with him. “Does it matter? I saw it and I know you don't have asthma.”

His jaw pulses and the veins along his neck stand out. “What are you saying, Lipman?”

I struggle with a shaky breath, but I don't back down. “Are you cheating, Mendoza?”

Suddenly, he grabs the bag and throws it at me. I cry out as I reflexively catch it, nearly losing it in the water.

“Open it,” he growls.

“I don't want to.” I toss it back.

“You've already done it once. Open it.”

He throws it at me again and anger pulses through me. I'm breathing but so shallowly I'm nearly dizzy. The air thrums around us as if a storm is gathering inside the Lifeline pool area.

“Fine.” I set it on the deck, rip the zipper open, and pull out the box. I shake it in front of Alec. “Now what?”

“Read the label.”

I read the label out loud. “Lenora Mendoza.”

“My mother.”

I wipe more water off my face. “Then why is it in your swim bag?”

“So I don't forget to bring it home. I picked it up before school.”

I shake my head as I say, “And you didn't leave it in your car? Or in your backpack?”

“No,” he says, like I'm two years old. “I left it. In. My swim bag.”

He stares at me and I stare back as I throw him the box. “You're lying.”

“Because I have my mom's unopened inhaler in my bag?”

“Because you're desperate.”

His jaw ticks. “Leave it alone, Lipman.”

“I don't think so,” I shoot back.

He runs a hand through his hair, and trickles of water trail over his shoulder and down his chest. “Fine. Then why don't we talk about why you're here every afternoon swimming at the speed of a snail? You suddenly like going slow, or is that all you've got?”

I fit my goggles on, ignoring him. But he slides in front of me, blocking the lane. “I saw you that day,” he says. “When Bree beat you.”

“She didn't beat me. We weren't racing.”

“That's not how it looked.”

“Then get your eyes checked.”

There's a question in the tilt of his head as he stares at me a second. “You can't take it, can you?”

“Take what?”

“Losing.”

“We weren't racing,” I say again.

He laughs. “You're a bad loser, Lipman.”

I yank off my goggles. “I'm not a loser. Period.”

His white teeth gleam at me from the edge of his sneer. “You know your problem?”

“I don't have a problem.”

“You always have to win at everything.”

“And you don't?”

“Maybe it's time someone taught you a lesson.”

I let my chin drop. “You want to race me? While I'm on heart meds?”

“I didn't say a race.”

“Then what?”

He pauses for a long moment, his hands on the ridge of his hip bones. “I'll show you.” He reaches for his bag and pulls something out. Once again, he manages to shock me.