Goldfish (9 page)

“Hey,” says Gabe, “you've got great taste in music.”

“Thank you!” I casually push back my bangs in a gesture far more suited to Lav, but whatever.

I ask them to sink underwater a little to see if they can lie a foot beneath the surface without panicking. Most people struggle with that. Roman and Gabriel get it quickly, but Pete is a massive control freak and keeps thrashing around. I tell him it's really hard to master, which seems to wave a flag on a temporary truce between us.

While they're practicing sinking, I get dressed and then come back to stand at the side of the pool. I have the guys treading water and lifting their arms up to test their strength and, yes,
maybe
I have found a whistle and
perhaps
it does give me a mild feeling of power. But it's the only way to get their attention when they're underwater. Honest!

Suddenly the doors bang open and Debs strides into the pool area. (Can't she ever just
walk
anywhere? And put some pants on.)

I look down at the outfit I borrowed from Lav—it's about as small as what Debs is wearing. This is my new look: half-naked stalker. I quickly hide my whistle under my T-shirt, not that it offers much coverage.

Debs is followed by Cammie, Melia, and two other girls I know from swimming, Nicole and Amanda. If I were that pretty (and I can't lie—they all look like a shampoo ad), I think I could find it in my heart to be a nice person. But Cammie, Nicole, and Amanda are all actively mean—not just to me, to everyone. Melia is neutral; she doesn't stop them, but she isn't horrible herself. I'm not sure if that makes her a good person.

The boys immediately drop their arms and start swimming around like they're just having a casual swim, nothing to see here, no biggie, guys. Which is great, except now I'm standing on the edge of the pool
watching them
like a total weirdo.

“Hey, Pete,” says Cammie archly.

“All right,” he replies.

“Not bad,” she sighs, totes unfussed.

The three girls watch this incredibly boring back-and-forth with looks on their faces like, “What's going on here? Cammie and her exciting love life, eh?”

Debs takes in the scene, a wry smile on her face. “OK, Louise?”

“Yes, thank you, Deb-o-rah,” I say tightly.

“Just watching boys, are you?”

Debs looks down at my outfit, and her lips move as if she's about to say something but refrains. She's got that Pete thing, where you always think a withering put-down is just around the corner. It's so unnerving, like being trapped in a car with a wasp.

Would I have ended up like that if I'd got through to the Olympic training? Is Hannah going to? It makes me glad I didn't get … hmm …

No, if I'm honest with myself, I'd still rather be a horrible cow with a gold medal. I could always go into therapy later, sort myself out.

“Are you
coaching
them for something, Lou? Good, good, fill the days.”

“Coaching them?” I ask, stuffing down my rage and faking complete confusion. “For what?” Debs's eyes narrow.

“So what
are
you doing?” she asks carefully.

“Just swimming,” says Gabe, and swims a little circle to demonstrate. He is a terrible liar. We'll leave him at home the night we steal a fish tank.

Debs still looks suspicious.

I panic and say, “I'm just hanging out here out of habit, really. I miss swimming.” Apparently the best lies have a grain of truth in them. There's a silence. I know Debs so well—she hates emotional stuff.

She keeps walking toward her office, followed by the four girls, and I feel a temporary sense of victory. She's backing down, she's leaving us alone! This is amazing! Take that, Debs, you and your stupid girl gang. She shuts the door like a full stop.

I turn back to the boys with my most unbothered face.

“
Pfft
. Don't even know why they're here. There's no swim practice tonight.”

“No,” says Pete, hanging off the side of the pool and readjusting his goggles. “That's the swimming team that's already through.”

Hot vomit jumps at my ribs.

“What, the
BHT
team?” I croak, feeling my Unbothered Face fall off. Now, where's my Extremely Bothered Face…?

“Yeah.”

“Argyhjfffgggg.”

“You OK, Lou?”

“I am
fine
. Everything is
fine
. When's the next public tryout?”

“This weekend.”

“
This
weekend?!” Here's my Extremely Bothered Face—I'm wearing it.

“Yeah,” says Gabriel calmly. “It's up north. There are weeks more tryouts, and it's another five weeks before they come back to this part of the country, so it's cool.”

Depends on your definition of
cool
.

“Five weeks isn't very long,” I grumble.

“Well, it's a hundred quid to you,” says Roman reasonably.

“Are you paying me per session or per week?” I ask cheekily. Pete and Roman look at me stony-faced. Gabe watches this with mild curiosity.

“Because the note said per session…”

They say nothing.

“Per week it is, then,” I agree. (Wooohoo! A hundred quid!) “Seems reasonable,” I chat mildly to myself as I pack up my sports bag. (Wheeeeeeee!
That's so much money!
)

“Are you going, then, now that you've earned your money for today?” asks Roman. I can't tell if he's teasing or serious.

“I'm not allowed out past nine on a weeknight. My dad's coming to get me,” I say honestly.

Pete and Roman seem to find that funny, but I don't know why.

“So between now and the next session you'll come up with a routine?” says Roman. Somehow he manages to make it sound more like an order than a question.

“Ab-so-
lute
ly.” I give him a big, fake, calm smile.

An … underwater synchronized swimming routine. Yes. I'll just come up with one of them, then.
Easy.

“I'll work out a routine, and then we'll try it next time we meet, and hopefully you won't drown.”

Gabriel laughs, Roman smiles, Pete ignores me.

 

chapter 12

The boys stop to get something from the vending machine, and I don't want to look socially clingy, so I go wait outside. My phone dings, a message from Hannah:

Get outta town. Did YOU know bananas were fattening?! I LIVE OFF BANANAS!

Dad pulls up in Mom's car.

“Dad!”

“What?”

“You know
full well
what.”

He's just wearing pajama shorts with a coat thrown over the top. He even has his slippers on.

“I look normal from the outside,” he says. “You can only tell if you're right next to the car and look in and down.”

“Bye, Lou,” say Roman, Pete, and Gabriel as they walk right past the car, looking in and down.

“Oh dear.” Dad grins. “Have I made you look uncool?”

“Y
es
, actually,” I tell him, “so don't smirk at me like it's no big deal, because that's exactly what you've done. I have zero friends at school, two and a half acquaintances” (given the mild hostility bubbling off Pete, I won't consider him a whole acquaintance) “and you just embarrassed me in front of them. So you can stop smiling about it.”

“Louise, being popular isn't about trying to be cool,” says Dad.

He has
no
idea how wrong he is. This is exactly the sort of terrible, awful, useless advice you get from people over twenty-five. I've heard it a million times, along with how I'll be pretty when I'm older and one day I'll regret shaving my legs. (When? When I want to stuff a duvet cheaply and need all that thick leg fur? I
don't
think so.)

“You know, being popular,” says the Man Who Doesn't Get It, warming to his theme, “it's about doing what
you
like.”

Why doesn't he just tell me to be myself?

“Just be yourself,” he goes on, nonsense spouting out of his head. “Do what makes you happy, and then everyone will see how cool you are and want to be friends with
you
!”

“Okaaaay! Thank you so much, Dad. I really appreciate that you care, especially since you have so much on your plate at the moment. But this is terrible advice. Being cool is
not
about being yourself, it's
not
, and you need to stop handing out that advice in case one day someone actually listens to you and you ruin their life. I
am
myself and I have
one
friend, who emails me details of meals. And my school days are
so
lonely and it's not fun. You have no idea what it's like to be lonely. I'm sorry, but no.”

There's a silence.

“It's lonely being unemployed,” says Dad.

I rub my finger along the door handle and stare at the chocolate wrappers on the floor.

He takes a deep breath. “You wake up and you have nowhere to go and everyone rushes off to school and work, where people notice if they're not there and where people need them, while I sit at home and email people asking them to notice me or need me and no one does. That's unemployment. If you don't like school, Louise, at least it will end soon and you'll make new friends somewhere else. But
I
don't know when this will end.”

We stop at some traffic lights. On impulse I grab Dad's hand.

“
We
need you,” I tell him. “Me and Lav and Mom. We all need you and we like having you around. Look, you and Mom are divorced and she's still happy to live with you. Think how amazing that makes you! And I have to share a room with Lav and all her girl … smells … and glitter that gets
everywhere
and spiky boot things and I'm still happier that you're here.”

“Thanks, Lou,” he says.

My palm sweats gently.

“Should we stop holding hands now, Dad?”

“Yeah, I need to change gear.”

Someone behind us beeps loudly. The light has turned green.

“Do you mind?” Dad yells. “We're bonding and we're new to it!!”

We drive home in silence. But a nice silence.

I text Hannah:

Then why aren't monkeys fat?

 

chapter 13

8:48

Hey guys, we're all going to hang out before the swimming tournament next weekend, if the weather's nice we'll go to that park near the leisure center—let's all meet at the fountain at 1?

Cammie xx

8:51

Sorry, Lou! I forgot to take you off the group email for the swim team! Ignore this, see ya round.

Cx

The next morning is Saturday and Mom is making eggy bread. She calls it French toast, but I can't see why dipping something in egg makes it French. It puts me off the idea of French fries. I share this thought with the kitchen.

“Yes, and French letters,” agrees Mom. Dad laughs explosively. Lav and I frown and Google that on our phones.

“Ew, Mooom…” says Lav, who has 4G. I have 3G, so it takes me longer to be grossed out. But it still happens.

“Dad was saying you've made some new friends,” says Mom brightly. Thanks, Dad.

“Well.” I summarize it for her. “I am employed by three people too cool to be my actual friends.”

“Oh, come on!” she scoffs. “My Lou doesn't care what people think of her.” So very incorrect.

“No, I just dress badly. Which makes it look like I don't care, but I do. If I had some cash, I'd buy some new clothes and then you could see how badly I care about what people think of me.”

Lav nods, backing me up, then returns to her phone.

“Not that I need cash,” I say hastily, for Dad's sake. “Because material things like money aren't as important as, like, family and love and that. Plus I'm earning twenty quid a week coaching these three.”

“I can't believe you've got a job before me!” says Dad, poking me in the shoulder. “What are you coaching them in?”

“Burlesque,” I tell him. He blinks at me. “
Swimming
, obviously!”

“That's nice. I bet you're good at that. So, your new friends. What are their naaames?” Mom persists.

“My
employers
are Roman, Gabriel, and Pete,” I give in and tell them.

“What?” says Lav, putting down her phone. “How are you friends with
them
?” She suddenly realizes how rude that sounds. “No, I mean … the thing is … OK, ha, what that
sounded
like…”

“I know, Lav, I'm just helping them out with something.”

“You should get them to say hi to you at school, though,” she says. “If people think you know them, you'll have a better chance of making some friends. That's why Becky used to play cards with Pete's gran when she did work placement at the residential care home.”