Goldfish (11 page)

As in, “We're going to paint the toilet Murk Brown”?
I reply.
Yes.

I sit by myself in physics—Operation: Make Friends is on hold for now. For once I don't mind having no one to talk to; I'm not in the mood to chat. I get out my physics book and doodle on it a list of reasons why it's for the best that I'm not working with the boys anymore.

1. I don't have to worry about being cool in front of them. (Hanging out with these boys is stressful—I always worry I'm about to reveal how lame my life is. E.g. when they talk about parties and I have nothing to contribute except the funny thing that happened when Mom and I went to the car wash. A dog walked through it and came out soapy. It was hilarious and I tell it well, but it's a tragic insight into what I do on a Friday night.)

2. More free time? (Oh, whoopee.)

3. No more money. Hmm. More space in my wallet?

Once morning classes are done, I head off to the cafeteria. Standing in the line I notice that Melia is behind me,
and
without Cammie for once.

I decide to turn around and smile at her, and if she smiles back, I will upgrade this smile to a chat. Then from a chat we'll move toward eating lunch together.
Then
I'll just be a hop, skip, and a jump from a sleepover! And then we'll kick Cammie out of school and everyone will be happier without her. (
Cue music and balloons.
)

OK, better not get ahead of myself. First I have to trick Melia into chatting with me and enjoying my company. I swivel around and realize I'm too close, like I'm swooping in for a kiss.

I step back and open my mouth to say, “Hey!” or “How's it going?” or “What up, dawg?” (Probably not the last one.)

But she's looking down at her phone. I know she's seen me turn around for this brilliant chat we were about to mutually enjoy, but she's ignoring me.

I bet she's scared Cammie or Nicole or Amanda will see us talking and make fun of her. I
bet
that's it. I can even see her give a glance around the cafeteria for them. I bet they gave her a hard time for saying hi to me in the changing room the other day. Argh! Where do people get off being such mad control freaks?

Whatever. I'm going to have this chat whether she likes it or not; she can't ignore me. (She can ignore me. This could get extremely awkward.)

“How's it going?” I say.

“Cool.”

“Great stuff. Bit of a line
again.
”

“Yeah.”

This is like milking a tortoise. No, blood from a stone, that's the saying.

“Any plans this weekend?”

“Not much.”

I persevere but it's like she's holding up a big shield of Banter. She deflects my chat with things like “nightmare” and “great stuff” while I babble on, and everything she's saying means
nothing
. I get the distinct feeling she'd walk away if she weren't waiting for food.

“What can you do?” is the most I manage to get out of her before she goes back to looking at her phone. I stare at the top of her head for a few minutes, then get distracted by something
awful
happening on the other side of the cafeteria.

Roman is talking to Cammie. Not flirting, actually talking. She's nodding and he's gesturing at Gabriel, who's standing back like he doesn't want to get involved, and I just
know
he's asking if she or someone else on the team will coach them.

I feel so angry and jealous. Before I know what I'm doing, I leave the line and I'm striding toward them. Gabe looks up as I approach, and the surprise on his face brings me back to my senses before I march over there and bounce Roman's and Cammie's stupid, pretty heads together.

So what I actually do is blush bright red, march toward the most popular people in my school looking like a radish-faced killer, then at the last minute skip around them and run out of the cafeteria.

Even before the doors swing closed, I can hear a sudden gale of surprised laughter.

“What was
that
?!” a boy hoots, and I march down the corridor with no idea where I'm going, I'm just embarrassed and I want to be by myself.

Back in the library. My old plan B. Except this time I don't even have a sandwich to hide in my book.

My book.

I get out my big notebook and I stare at the routine again. With hindsight, it does look like it should be called A Fancy Way to Drown. But that's OK, because I suddenly realize that I have a secret weapon.

I WhatsApp the boys:

Meet me at the pool at 7 tomorrow. If you don't feel we've made progress by the time we leave I'll give you last week's £20 back.

I stare at it before pressing Send. It's missing something. I move the cursor to the front of the message and add:

I'm sorry. You are good swimmers.
For boys.

The ticks appear, so I know it's been sent. I wait half an hour, then head back to class. All through my afternoon classes I keep checking my phone, but no one replies. In desperation, at four thirty I type:

Those girls can't coach you, they're the competition! Plus do you really want to flip upside down and choke on your own snot in front of girls you like?

Bulletproof logic, and they seem to agree.

Gabriel

I'm in! It's good to nearly drown, makes you appreciate life

Roman

Go on then.

Pete

Same.

 

chapter 16

I can't wait for the next day to pass so I can show the boys the new routine. So of course, every minute, every second,
draaaaags
. Mr. Peters calls me up to his desk after a double block of English, which I spent scribbling sneakily in my notebook.

“Lou,” he says. “I promise, lessons don't drag when you pay attention. I was talking about
Hamlet
, one of the greatest stories in the world. And you were staring at a tree.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. He has a way of scolding that makes me feel so guilty.
This
is the sort of emotional blackmail I was trying on Debs and the boys, but I haven't got Mr. Peters's gifts.

He nods at Hannah's empty chair. “Are you missing Banquo's ghost?” he asks.

“I know why that's supposed to be funny,” I tell him kindly.

“You could've laughed!”

“LOL.”

“Go away, Louise. And stop killing time,
participate
!”

If only he could see me now, I think, as I set up a flip chart at the swimming pool that evening and set my big notebook on top. Totes participating.

I arrange my big fat marker pens at the bottom and wait for the boys. They arrive a minute later and all stand in front of my notebook. Finally Roman states the obvious.

“It's blank.”

“Yes,” I say. “I want you to tell me what you like doing and what you're good at, and then I will build a routine that you will enjoy. A routine just for
you
, to complement all your skills. And—sorry, that's what I should've said the other day. Not—”

“‘I thought you were better swimmers!'” the three of them echo back at me. Oops, think I possibly hurt their feelings with that. I hold my hands up in a “Sorry” gesture. But it worked; they're already softening. They reach for pens and start doodling.

“And!” I say, pulling off my sweater, with my swimsuit underneath. “Let me give you some ideas.”

I dive in from the side and start showing them barrel dives down to the bottom of the pool, and some shapes I can form while I'm down there. When I surface, Pete is shaking his head.

“I can't hold my breath that long!”

I bite back something I want to say but don't dare.

“You could if you quit smoking,” Roman tells him sternly.

Bingo. That's the one.

I get them to hop in the pool and try out some easy exercises, and see if we can combine some to make them a little harder.

“Is there something we could do that lets us catch our breath between dives, something on the surface? Surface work? If that's a ‘Thing'?” Gabe asks.

We all shrug at each other. Sure, “surface work,” that sounds plausible.

I pretend to think as I pace casually over to my bag and peek at something hidden inside. It's
Swimming for Women and the Infirm
.

Surprisingly helpful if you're trying to teach yourself synchronized swimming and Wikipedia doesn't offer much. But if the boys knew, it would hurt their pride, so
shhh
.

The session goes so well, we even walk out together as four! It's like we're friends. (If you glance at us quickly, from a distance.)

“So should I work on the routine and we'll meet in two or three days?” I ask slyly.

“OK, then,” says Roman. “And thanks.”

“Really, thanks,” adds Gabe. I planned parts of the routine to be easier on him. I don't want to exhaust him, and I think he knows that.

Pete holds out his hand. “The twenty quid?” he asks.

I look up, shocked. Is he joking? No, he's deadly serious. I think! The moment hangs in the air and I'm so confused. Then Roman slaps him on the shoulder, laughing, and the three of them walk off to Pete's car.

Oh, ha ha.

Gabe twists back to give me a little wave and an apologetic look. Pete's nice, deep down, but there are a lot of layers of rude knobhead to chisel away first.

Dad picks me up. I feel guilty now that I'm not fired anymore, but he doesn't feel like I've abandoned him.

“My employed daughter,” he says, ruffling my hair, “is going to buy me fries.”

“No!”

“Daddy's so proud!”

“
Small
fries. And no burger!”

 

chapter 17

Weez! Where are you?! I'm fed-up.
My times aren't getting any faster.

Sorry! I'm here I'm here. You're just plateauing,
Debs taught us that, it happens.

I've cut out carbs, yet every time they weigh us I get heavier.

You probably weigh more because you're gaining muscle.

Yeah, muscle on my fat butt and gut.

SHUT UP, FATTY.
Han?

All too soon it's the weekend again. This week has been OK—Mr. Peters and I have agreed that I will participate in class and he will never make a Shakespeare joke again. He said he had a brilliant one about Bottom, but I was adamant.

So classes are all right. Actually, they are definitely more interesting than staring out the window. And we've had two swimming training sessions, so it's almost like I have a Thing again! Although it's not my Thing, it's the boys' thing—I'm just helping them. Still, they need me (and my trusty copy of
Swimming for Women and the Infirm
).

I'm stuck in the house on Saturday morning, as usual. Lav is getting ready to go into town. I'm lying on my bed, watching her. I wish I had someone to go shopping with. I could ask Lav and she might take me with her, but her friends won't like it and I'll feel in the way.

I've already cleaned both cars and my half of the bedroom. Mom and Dad were watching me fearfully as I did this. They kept yelling, “What have you done? Why are you sucking up? Have you killed someone?!”

It was a relief when I finally put down the vacuum and said please could I go to the tryouts for
Britain's Hidden Talent
. It's in the daytime, three weeks from today, with two boys from school (and one boy who has left school and is in college and smokes … I
don't
say). Yes, of course we'll have an adult with us, Pete's dad.

No
, I'm not dating any of the boys, good grief. Lav backed me up on this. They have nothing to worry about with me there.

“
Yet
,” said Dad supportively.

Uh-huh. I'm sure I'll be inundated with boys chatting me up, aaaaany day now. I rolled my eyes, but I know he was just being nice.

They agreed I could go, as long as I promised to take my phone with me. (Like I'd leave it behind! I might miss Hannah telling me the calorie count of a peanut.)

My phone vibrates now. Probably another demand from Pete that I change the choreography of the swimming routine so it doesn't mess up his hair. (I'm not even joking.)

It's a WhatsApp message from Gabe saying that he just realized they'll need some matching swimming gear for the tryouts next week and is there any chance that I'm free today to go to the mall and find some?

There is a big, fat, wobbly chance I'm free!

I reply immediately:
Love to, great idea!

Pete and Roman both reply saying they're busy—of course they are—but I don't care, because they make me nervous anyway. I'll have a much nicer time hanging out with Gabe.