by Knox, Abby
Dad sucks both his lips into his mouth, as if he’s trying to stifle himself from saying something he shouldn’t.
“Dee, could you take it from here? I need to go put my fist through a wall if I have to say that asshole’s name.”
Mom puts her hand on dad’s beefy arm. “Zeke. You’re not going to put a fist through the wall over this.” And then to me, she calmly says, “Try to look at it from our perspective. As parents, we know there’s always risks when it comes to our child spending so much time with coaches outside of our supervision…”
Dad is now pressing the meat of his palms into his eye sockets as if to block out the mental image of whatever he’s read in my diary. Oh god, what part did he read?
“What I’m trying to say is…” She holds up my diary. “Has Coach Ford made any advances on you?”
I squint. “Advances?”
“Has he touched you?”
“No!”
“As a coach, has he put his hand on you at all, even in a professional way?”
“No! God!”
“Has he given you any indication that he might be attracted to you? Made any comments to you about your body or the way you look? Found reasons to be alone with you?”
“Mother! No! He barely makes eye contact with me! I am totally, utterly fixated on him and he wants none of it. And now I’d like to go put myself into a sugar coma and go to bed. May I do that?”
Dad is combing his fingers over his scalp, inadvertently giving himself lunatic hair. Mom puts her hand on his knee.
I stomp into the kitchen, grab a pint of ice cream out of the freezer, a spoon, and a tea towel to wrap the pint in so it doesn’t melt too fast as I scarf down the whole thing.
“Maybe this was the wrong way to approach you with our concerns,” she says as I tromp toward the stairs.
I stomp on the first landing. Turning, I smile at her ironically. “You think now, looking back, that maybe an ambush was the wrong move?”
Dad is grumbling and shaking his head, even after being assured Coach Ford has never tried anything and wants nothing to do with me, physically.
Mom sucks in a breath and holds up the diary. “So this…this writing is just fantasy?”
“Clearly! If it was more than that we’d be sneaking off together right now!” I gesture wildly with the ice cream.
Dad stands up. “That’s it! I’m calling the AD! And then I’m calling Headmistress Moody, and then …”
“Zeke, you will do no such thing,” Mom insists. Dad paces back and forth. This power she has over him would be fascinating to watch if I weren’t so angry.
I put my hands on my hips. “Wait a minute. Dad, weren’t you Mom’s teacher? Didn’t you date Mom when she was seventeen and you were twenty-four?”
“She was eighteen and I was a student teacher!”
Mom nods her head. “And I wasn’t a student. I had already graduated and was spending a gap year volunteering at the school before going to college. So I wasn’t really a student. We were more like colleagues.” She blushes deeply, which tells me part of her story is a lie.
I roll my eyes. “I’m going to my room.”
I should just turn right around and head over to Hunter’s. They could not stop me. But all I want to do is put on my pajama pants and hug my stuffed purple unicorn and cry and eat ice cream.
Worst. Day. Ever, I text to Hunter.
She texts back right away: ???
M&D read my diary. Full of my pining re Weston. They are freaking the F out.
I’m texting her the entire saga when there’s a knock on my door—two seconds before Mom pops in.
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Neither do I. Put the ice cream down. Put your pants back on and come with me.”
“What?”
“Just do it.”
“Mom, it’s a little late to drive me to reform school, OK?”
“Please. Just come with me.”
I stare at her and I can see she’s not mad. Well, how could this day possibly get worse?
“OK, just let me reply to Hunter.”
To Hunter, I text: Gotta go. Mom’s taking me to Azkaban. Nice knowing you. Send chocolate.
* * *
“Where are we going?”
“To the doctor.”
It’s weird being in a car with my mom. Since Hunter and I got our licenses, I barely go anywhere with anyone but my best friend.
“I’m not pregnant.”
“I know,” Mom says, focusing on a left-hand turn by the hospital.
“Then why are we going to the doctor?”
“To do what I should have done as soon as you became interested in boys—putting you on the pill.”
She pulls into the medical complex and begins searching for a parking spot.
“Mom, I haven’t even had my period in three months, since I’ve been working out so hard.”
“Oh, look, rock star parking, here we go. I know, honey. But that doesn’t mean you can’t get pregnant.”
She parks the car and turns off the engine, and I’m staring at her like she’s a witch.
“How do you know I haven’t had my period?”
She sighs. “Because I’m the one who supplies this house in tampons, that’s how.”
“Good point.”
She opens her door. “Listen, I don’t know whether you’re telling us the truth about Coach Ford. It doesn’t actually matter. The point is, your body is obviously beyond ready to have sex, and it’s time to take appropriate measures.” She grabs her purse and puts on her lip balm while waiting for me to unbuckle.
“You’re not mad?”
She turns to me. “This is not me giving you permission to pursue your coach, or anyone else. But…who knows what could happen. I want you protected because I love you.”
“OK.”
I go with her, but I save the “I love you, too” for when I stop being mad about my parents reading my diary.
18
Addie
I don’t know if it’s the extra hormones in the pill, or the increased testosterone from training so hard, but I’m feeling more and more ornery lately.
I bury myself in swim practice and studies, determined to put Coach Ford out of my mind.
Despite missing six of our top swimmers after the awful meet against Saint Mary’s, the alternates turn out to be pretty good. Hunter and I both place, essentially carrying the team to a win in the next two meets.
Ridley and her minions are fairly subdued and compliant at the next few practices.
All eyes are on the coach to turn this ship around, so I’m happy to leave him alone on a personal level for the rest of the season.
Fortunately, nobody seems to suspect anything untoward, and my parents evidently haven’t told anyone about what they read in my diary. If they had approached the school with concerns, Ms. Frazier probably would not have denied Coach Ford’s request to re-assign my independent study to another teacher advisor.
For my part, I turn in my weekly progress reports to his cubby in the main office, like a rule-abiding student. I don’t speak to him at practice; I don’t even make eye contact.
I follow orders, I swim my heart out, and that’s it.
On days when he’s particularly shouty and grumpy, and I find myself getting extra turned on, I take care of my problem in the privacy of my own bedroom late at night.
Dad is still pounding around the house, mad as a bear, but at least he stopped threatening to put his fist through Coach Ford’s face.
Instead of writing in my diary, I’ve gotten into the habit of searching the internet for videos of Coach Ford swimming. There are loads of them since he swam in college and at world championships.
One of my favorites is of him swimming the 300 freestyle. The best part is when it’s over and he launches himself out of the pool and punches the air. His tall, tan form is so jacked from hard work, and he looks so happy. I want to climb him that big, wet tr
ee and let him soak my skin.
I have this fantasy that I’m his girlfriend in college, denying him sex before a meet, helping him shave his whole body.
“Babe, you’re killing me,” he says.
“You know everyone in the stands is watching you. Half of them want to fuck you, but I want you to remember who you belong to.”
“As if I could forget.”
The fantasy continues as I imagine his lips on me, while in real life I’m snuggled under my blanket, pinching my nipple.
I’m falling asleep while trying to induce another wet dream when the text notification dings in my ear.
“Hunter, come on,” I mutter.
But it’s not Hunter.
This Addie?
I don’t recognize the number. My heart drops a bit. It can’t be Coach Ford because he would never call me that.
Who is this?
Roland Peek.
Captain of the men’s varsity swim team. Holy shit!
I’ve never had a thing for Roland, but he’s basically run the school from the age of fourteen. They say he could obliterate all of Weston Ford’s speed records.
I text him back: As in Ridley’s bf?
He replies, Was her bf. Not anymore. What’s up with u?
I’m confused. I wonder what he wants.
Studying, I text back.
Same, same.
Need help with trig or something?
Nah.
Is there a swim thing I need to know about?
Nah, why do u ask that?
Bc you’ve barely said hi to me since 3rd grade & this is weird.
Nah, just checking in with u, girl. U know how it is.
I rarely know how anything is, I reply.
Ur funny. & cute. U know ur kind of the shit right now at school.
I roll over onto my stomach and tuck my plush unicorn under my chin as I read and text.
I’m the shit?
Don’t be humble, it’s too cute. Just wondered if u wanted to hang out sometime.
Is this really happening?
Are you asking me on a date?
U really gonna make me ask?
I roll my eyes. This fuckin’ guy.
You texted me. The onus is on you to be clear with me.
He replies: ROFL! U said onus. I didn’t know u had a mouth on u.
I cock my head and squint, trying to determine if that was a joke or he really doesn’t know that word. I text back a bunch of eye-roll emojis as well as Whatever.
OK, OK, girl. Listen, Fisher’s parents are out of town over New Year’s. It’s gonna be sick.
I twist my lips skeptically. Sick, huh? Wouldn’t Ridley have something to say about that?
Ridley’s cool with us moving on.
Hmm. A party might be fun. I roll onto my back again and rub my aching eyes. I have been working too hard.
Or does that crazy coach have you on such a short leash you’re not allowed to have any fun?
The thought of Coach Ford literally pulling me around on a short leash is such a sudden turn on that my lady boner comes back with a vengeance.
I gotta get this turkey off the phone.
Something like that. Listen, I’ll text you after Christmas and we’ll decide then, Ok?
You’re something else. See you then, Addie.
19
Addie
Since Christmas is my favorite holiday, I try to focus on enjoying myself during the one week we have free from practice.
I miss Hunter, and I’m still worried about her, but I can’t help but be happy for her as she sends me text updates from New York in the days leading up to Christmas. I’m skeptical about what’s going on, but she seems good. I instead go shopping with my mom, and spend the days baking, decorating the tree and wrapping gifts.
To my pleasant surprise, Hunter returns home sooner than expected, telling me via text that she changed her mind and wanted to be with her parents on Christmas Day. Beyond that, she doesn’t want to say much about New York, so I let it go.
“How was your Christmas?” she asks after arriving for an impromptu sleepover. I’m surprised she’s not spending the night at her boyfriend’s, and I wonder if something happened between them in New York. But I don’t push; it’s nice having her in my room again, rifling through my dresser drawer.
“Good,” I say, nodding. “Serene. Uneventful.”
She laughs as she pulls on a pair of my pajama pants and crawls under the covers with me. “Which means you are dying to get back in the pool.”
I laugh. “Kind of.”
“Bet you’re looking forward to seeing Weston Ford, too,” she adds.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I kind of feel better not seeing him.”
Hunter gapes at me.
“What?”
“Do you even realize how full of shit you sound right now?”
I disagree. “I’m not full of shit.”
“Addie. I know you. You have it so bad for the man I can barely get you to look me in the eye right now.”
I giggle. “You’re crazy.”
“If you can’t be open with me, then there’s no hope for you.”
“You’re one to talk. When are you going to tell your parents the name of your boyfriend?”
She replies with a big, dramatic yawn. “Oh…so sleepy.”
“Whatever. Good night, nerd,” I say, hitting her with my unicorn.
“G’night, butthead.”
20
Addie
Roland picks me up in his Mercedes, along with two other guy friends in the back seat who aren’t even a couple.
Honestly, I’m a little relieved that this really does seem to be a group thing, because I have zero interest in him.
When we arrive at Fisher’s house, we have to park a block away because of all the cars.
At one time, I remember my mom telling me that when she and Dad were dating, he would drop her off at the entrance if he needed to park the car more than a few steps away. Clearly, Roland is not cut from the same cloth as my dad, which is just fine by me because I’m not in the least bit attracted to him, and this is not a date.
As we tromp down the street toward Fisher’s house, Roland walks ahead of me with his bros, passing around a flask.
Strangely, I think Coach Ford is a lot like my dad. I bet he would be super protective and attentive on a date. My stomach flutters a bit at the thought of going on a date with my coach.
I wonder what he would wear.
I wonder what I would wear.
Would I put my hair up or down?
I bet he would bring me flowers.
I bet he would not only drop me off at the entrance to the party but also hold open my car door for me. And he’d definitely never walk five steps ahead of me.
We finally make it to the party. Roland disappears immediately, supposedly to get us drinks, but never comes back. Ridley and her gaggle of mean girls are there, eyeballing me but not speaking to me. I get the feeling Roland is using me to make Ridley jealous.
I wander around the party feeling like a nun in a sex toy shop. I just don’t belong here, and soon I’m scoping the party for anyone I know well enough to give me a ride home.
Eventually I console myself with chips and salsa and find my way into Fisher’s parents’ library, where I settle into a wingback chair.
21
Weston
Ray, the men’s swim coach, pops into my office to tell me he heard about a big party tonight at one of his swimmers’ houses.
“I know these kids think we don’t hear the things they talk about in the locker room, but just wanted to give you a heads up. I think I heard something about some of your girls being invited. Knowing Roland and Fisher, there will probably be alcohol. Those twerps understand the consequences of their actions, but I feel bad for the girls getting dragged into it. You might want to talk to them.”
I wrap up my work and log back into my computer, thanking Ray for the heads up.
I don’t waste a single second in looking up where Fisher lives and staking out the place. No way in hell am I letting Shermer fuck up her life because of a dumbass party.
22
Addie
“Coach? What the hell are you doing here?”
I’m outside on the back porch, reading a book that I swiped from inside. Fisher’s mom has quite the collection of bodice rippers. Coach Ford has appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“Shermer. Who else from the women’s team is here?”
Weird question but I’m intrigued. “Me, Ridley, Hadley, Daphne. I think that’s it.”
“Where’s Hunter? I thought the two of you—”
“Hunter’s with her boyfriend I think—that’s all I can tell you.”
“Oh.” His steps are heavy on the slate stairs as he approaches. “Are you guys OK?”
I laugh. “Are you actually here to have a conversation about my teenage problems? But yeah, she and I are good. I wish she wasn’t sneaking around so much, but she seems happy. Who knows—maybe she’s got it figured out. Unlike me. I’ll probably never understand my stupid feelings.”
“There you go,” he says, sitting down heavily on the wicker sofa next to me, “minimizing yourself. I don’t like it.”
I swivel toward him. “Care to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“Taking you home.”
I laugh. “Probably a good thing. Pretty sure Roland is drunk.”
Coach Ford’s hands clench into fists and I see a slight shake of his head. He’s angry and disgusted. “Little fucker.”
I laugh. “That’s one way to talk about students at your school, sir.”
“The school was full of shits like him when I was here.”
“Yeah…and weren’t you one of those shits? You were a god when you were a student at Greenbridge.”
He shrugs.
“Seriously. I had a crush on you starting when I was thirteen. I used to sit under your lifeguard chair every summer and you never even knew I was there.”