Punk Like Me (28 page)

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In the Þ nal heat for the Þ fty, off the block and in the water, as I passed the drop-off point or, actually, shallow point since all entrances were on the deep end, I came up for air and could hear people screaming

“Slice and Dice! Slice and Dice!” and a new one—“Twin Blade!” I put my head back in the water and pulled harder. I slammed my arms into the wall, I was going so hard and so fast. It took me a second to understand that I was done, so I stood and saw Blade standing in her lane. I ducked under the lane divider, ignoring the girl in green, and Blade came over from her side. We hugged each other and patted each other on the back saying, “Great race, great race,” and “that was motherfuckin’ great,” and other such terms that people use when they’ve given everything they’ve got and they’re exhausted and up against the wall, and scared that they’ll fail and relieved that they’re all together, everyone has survived, no matter what the outcome.

The crowd was screaming and Mad Max came swimming over.

She’d been in this heat too, and we were all hugging and cursing and slapping each other.

We stopped for a second and everything was silent as the bullhorn crackled and called out the Þ nish times. The screams were louder than before. We had swept the heat. We hadn’t won the race yet, but we had this event, motherfucker, we had it!

The rest of the meet until the relays passed in a blur, in the water, out of the water, sharing the towel with Kitt or Blade or both, watching the other events, arms and legs numb, chest tight from effort, eyes sore from the pressure of the goggles, and head burning hot from the latex swim cap.

In the Þ rst relay, Kitt and Blade, Mad Max, and me as a team, we nailed the fucker to the ground, baby, almost three body lengths ahead of the competition, fuckin’ A, and while it wasn’t a sweep, it was Þ rst and third, good points, very good points.

It seemed like seconds later that the second relay went off, and as I waited on the center block, alternately focused on the spot in front of me where I wanted to enter and Betta’s cap as it came toward me in the backstroke, I crouched, ready to spring.

She was coming, she was two body lengths away, one, and I was ready, her hand reached for the wall, and I was stretched over her for a moment, her hand touched the wall, and I was off and going in, ß ying, and the water slapped me hard and cold this time when I hit.

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PUNK LIKE ME

My muscles ached and burned, and I was pulling steadily, pushing, but not too hard; there was another lap coming. Suddenly, my body became lighter than air, and I actually felt the water pulling me along, like I was almost hovering on top of it, and my work became effortless.

I had gotten caught in my opponent’s slipstream and was being pulled in the drag, making my job easier. I’d have plenty left for the return lap. The midpoint came, and I started building to a sprint, found the marker for the return ß ip, and came off the wall with the strongest kick I had in me. I glided underwater for a precious few seconds, then broke the surface, pulling and kicking as if my life depended on it. I imagined the look on Blade’s face, or Kitt’s, if we didn’t do well. I actually heard Sister’s words, telling us what a great job was.

I gasped for air and heard the crowd yelling, “Sweep! Sweep!” and then nothing mattered but the swimming. I kept pulling, kicking, my heart almost bursting, my lungs burning, and the water hissing past my ears as I sliced through.

My hand hit the wall, followed by my shoulder, and I brought myself up just before I smashed my head too. It was a good idea to keep it safe in case I wanted to actually use it for something later.

I hung on to the ridge around the wall by my Þ ngertips, gasping and choking, so numb I couldn’t even understand what I saw or heard.

The crowd must have been on its feet from the sound, and I watched Blade come in, then Kitt, then the other team, and waiting until everyone was Þ nished, then ignoring the girls in their lanes, Blade and Kitt swam over to my lane, and we hugged and kissed and slapped each other, wordless, except for the occasional “Good,” or “Fuckin’ great race,” and we were not Kitt, or Blade, or Razor, but Fran, Samantha, and Nina, hanging onto the ropes and the wall and each other, breathless and exhausted from effort, hope, and fear.

Silence reigned again as the bullhorn crackled and a voice read out the Þ nal times—we heard we had swept the relay, and again we were whooping and yelling and pounding each other. Kitt grabbed my head, kissed the crown, and knuckled it, then did the same to Blade. We looked at each other and dunked her.

Silence stretched, then stretched some more as the judges tallied the points and discussed them. We waited in that quiet, just staring up at the table, waiting to know what had happened, who had won, which

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school team had the honor of defending a Þ rst-place position for the rest of the season.

Finally, the points were read, and as their meaning became clear, pandemonium ensued, as the whole team jumped in the water—we had won! Our school now had a second year of aggressive early Þ rst-place positioning to defend, giving us a great shot at regional—East Coast—

Þ nals at the end of the season.

Coach Robbins came running over to the edge to congratulate us, just as happy as we were. “Great job, girls! Great job!” and he put a hand down to haul Kitt out. She held it a moment, looked sidewise at me and at Blade, then with a kick off the wall,
plunk
! Coach was in the water.

He went under, then came up a few feet away, spitting out a stream of water like a fountain and pretending to be a ballet dancer, or an overgrown cherub, and we all laughed with him, clowning around some more.

See? It was all okay, we didn’t hurt him. He was the swim team coach, after all; it was Þ ne if he got wet. This time, anyway.

Sister came walking over to the edge of the deck and stood, watching us all with that evaluating expression she sometimes wore.

Finally, we all quieted down and gave her our attention. “Great race, girls, great race,” and she smiled a very rarely seen smile at us. “I knew, I truly knew,” and she glanced at each of us, one by one, “that you would all do a great job, and you all have.” She smiled again. “More than the school, more than I, and more than Coach Robbins,” she nodded at him where he’d gone under and come up again, “you should—all of you,” and she gave us each another glance, “be proud of yourselves. I will see all of you of tomorrow,” and with a Þ nal nod, Sister turned and strode away from the pool.

That seemed to wrap it all up, and in twos and threes we got out of the pool and walked back to the locker room, but not me, not right away. The stands had already emptied, and I knew that Kerry and Nicky would be waiting for me, either by the locker room or at the main door.

I stopped at the bench, took the damn swim cap off my head and sat—I needed a little space to think. I rubbed my hair out a bit and reß ected. I didn’t want to join all the locker-room chat, didn’t want to have to wait for an empty shower, wash, dry, and change in front of everyone. This had been a long day, an exiting one, true, in many ways,

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PUNK LIKE ME

but really, really long. I just wanted to sit there a little while and let my head drain, let the adrenaline run out of my system until my mind was as clear as the water in the pool I had just struggled and fought in, and I knew what to do next.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice Samantha sit down next to me until she threw a towel and an arm over my shoulders. She had gone into the locker room, taken her cap off, and come back out, not bothering to change out of her swimsuit. “You okay?” Her voice was soft, full of concern.

I snuggled gratefully into the terry cloth and the warmth of her arm; I hadn’t even realized I’d been shivering until that second. I enjoyed the warmth a little longer and, jamming both elbows on my knees, made a resting platform out of my hands and buried my face in them for a bit, took a deep breath, then rested my chin on them.

“Yeah, just tired,” I exhaled, staring moodily out over the water, its surface quiet and smooth now that the do-or-die competition was over.

Samantha’s hand was still on my back, and I could feel its heat burning through the towel. Well, at least that spot would be dry, I thought.

“Yeah, me too,” Samantha returned. “Big day, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Samantha rubbed my shoulder for a couple of warm seconds and stood to face me. “C’mon, let’s get out of here and grab a butt.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I stood, stretching, holding the towel out behind me to loosen my back and shoulders.

We started walking to the door that would lead to the locker room.

“Hey, share that thing, it’s cold!” Samantha requested with a laugh and, chagrined, I handed her a corner, which she promptly draped over her back. It wasn’t as big a towel as Kitt’s, though, so Samantha put a hand around my shoulder, and I put an arm around her waist as we approached the door.

I put a hand out to push it open, when it snapped wide and we were brought up short by Kitt, showered and dressed in a white sweatshirt with the team logo on it and a pair of blue jeans and sneakers. The only hint that she’d been in the water at all was her hair, still wet from the shower.

I don’t really know why, you think swimmers would be paranoid about ear infections and stuff, especially since our school competitive season covers the deadest, coldest part of winter, but no one really ever

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dried her hair. Yeah, maybe sometimes, if after a Saturday morning practice someone had to be somewhere, you might see her actually bother to bring in a hair dryer, but not very often. Weird, I know, but there you have it.

We looked at each other, Samantha and I arm and arm under the towel, Kitt fully dressed.

“You guys okay for the ride home?” Kitt asked. “I’m closer to you, Nina. Sammy, would that be easier for you?”

“Um, actually, I’ve got a ride,” I told her, and I felt Samantha’s Þ ngers tighten on my shoulder, “so I’m good. But thanks, Fran, really.” Hey, the meet was over, we had another two days before our next practice; we were just ourselves now, not competitive swimmers.

“Yeah, all clear here, Fran, it’s good,” Samantha added.

“Cool, cool,” she nodded. An awkward silence grew.

“Hey, great racing today,” I told Fran. “I love watching your form in the ’ß y, wish I could do it.”

“Wish I could do what you guys do, so it’s all even.” She laughed good-naturedly and clapped us each on a shoulder, the awkwardness past. “Great job today. All right then, I’m off. Have a great night,” and she turned to go and we Þ nally entered the locker room. Samantha dropped her hand from my shoulder, and I handed her back her towel.

“Double-check the locker before you leave, ’kay?” Fran the Champ turned and asked, then made her way through the rows of empty lockers and was gone.

I went over to my temporary storage space and pulled my bag out. Yep, there was my towel, right on top. Well, at least it would be a comfortable shower since I had a dry as opposed to damp towel, and pulling out shampoo and soap, I made my way over to “shower lane,” just wanting to get it over with. Soon I’d have to face Kerry and Nicky, and I wasn’t happy about it, at all.

Hanging my towel off the showerhead and just behind it so it wouldn’t get soaked, I turned the faucets and adjusted the temperature of the spray. There. Not too warm, deÞ nitely not cold.

Fun and games was one thing, I reß ected further, but I wasn’t really thrilled at the thought of an unlicensed driver in a car that wasn’t theirs taking me or Nicky anywhere, even if it was Kerry. Rebellion could be cool, but not when it involved possible danger to my brother

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PUNK LIKE ME

or anyone else.

Drenched again, I peeled off my suit and hung it on a hook under the shower. Maybe I could drive. I had a permit, and if I got stopped I could just claim extreme circumstances, I mulled as I shampooed my hair.

Not that I could actually drive. I wasn’t allowed to, and I only had my permit because I’d saved some money and gone down to the Department of Motor Vehicles one day after school instead of the comic book store. I’d had Samantha’s old book and studied that, took the test, and passed. That line took forever, even though the test didn’t.

So I had my piece of paper and a good general knowledge of the rules of the road. Gas on the right, brake on the left. How hard could it be? This could work. I was a little nervous. I would have to follow Samantha to the bridge at least, but it wouldn’t be too hard. I hoped.

Lost in thought, my head covered in soapy lather, I yelped in surprise when I received a sharp poke to the ribs. “Hey, quit hogging all the hot water,” Samantha joked as she stepped into shower lane, under the head next to mine. She hung her towel up and behind the showerhead.

As her body twisted slightly with the lift of her arm, the muscles rippled across her arm and back. Her deltoids were large and really prominent, like all swimmers’, but the rest of the muscle deÞ nition was smaller, lined and reÞ ned, every rib was clearly marked, and a band of muscle lifted across them. I could make out every bit of the structure, like a dancer’s, like a work of art. Her body was beautiful, and I wished then and now that I could look like that.

She brought her arm down and I turned away. I’m not looking, I’m not looking, I thought. Of course, that’s when I got soap in my eye.

Ouch. Nasty stinging soap. God was punishing me, and I wasn’t even having bad thoughts.

“Argh!” I bellowed, desperately wiping and rinsing my eyes, and in a ß ash Samantha was next to me.

“Hey, you okay? What happened? You get burned or something?” Samantha patted my shoulders and back to see if I’d hurt anything.

“No,” I spluttered through the spray, “just some soap”—I swallowed some and spit—ick!—“in my eye.” Finally, the irritation gone, and clear-sighted, I looked up.

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