Look Closer

by Stewart Lewis

  Tegan.

  21.

  reinvent

  I keep reminding myself to breathe.

  I look around to see if there’s anyone sketchy-looking on the plane. No one looks like a terrorist to me, but I have learned that people are not always how they appear on the outside. Everyone seems pretty normal, but you never know. Look at what happened last night.

  I take two slow, deep breaths. Then another. And another.

  Now that we’re in the air and the plane has leveled, the face of the woman next to me has softened. Her eyes have turned kind. She gives me a conspiratorial smile and says, “Not used to flying?”

  “Not really,” I say, tucking the receipt into the seat back pocket.

  It can’t be me. I have so much to do. And my father would never let that happen. Keep breathing.

  The seat belt sign dings off, and it makes me flinch. I close my eyes and images flutter, as if projected on the inside of my eyelids: my father’s hands gripping the steering wheel, my mother collecting shells on the beach, the roaring crowd at my first regionals. Gwen blowing on my nails, Sharon blushing at the gate of the pool, Coach doing his dance. Then, the images turn darker. The ambulance spinning, the ghost man behind the curtain, the deranged piranha twitching in its tank.

  I go to the tiny bathroom and lock the door, then stare at myself in the mirror. There are thin beads of sweat on my temples. I dab them with the cheap paper towel. Then I splash my face with cold water. I try to control my breathing. I look at myself, closer and closer. Something has changed.

  Thousands of feet in the air, in a tiny locked bathroom, it comes to me in a bright moment, like clouds parting for the sun: Mine is the last name, so I have to die. The old me.

  I’m a new person now. I’m wearing a second skin. It was a challenge, all of it. I can see that the ghost man is just death. He’s not real. No one ever saw him except for me—he was a reminder. Death is everywhere, all around us. It happens to everyone. Every day that you can live and not fear death is a good day.

  And now my father is telling me it’s okay, I can move on. So much has changed inside me since seeing that first name. Like layers of soil shifting under the earth, I have a new foundation. I’m swimming. I have a boyfriend. Gwen is my friend, and I’m able to see my parents as actual people. I know what it’s like to forgive, to help others, to put myself in unlikely situations and not be so self-conscious all the time. And most importantly, I have learned not to be sad, because there are so many things to be happy about. My youth, my health, my swimming, my family, my friends…Edge. I miss him already.

  My breathing has returned to normal as the last drops of water drift from my face into the sink.

  “It’s okay,” I say to my reflection. “You’re okay.”

  Back at my seat, I open my laptop and connect to the in-flight Wi-Fi.

  I immediately start an I-message with Edge.

  I saw my own name.

  ???

  But I’m not scared!

  ??

  I think it means I have to let my old self go.

  The bubble with the dots comes and then disappears. The plane goes through a few bumps. The lady next to me smiles again, unfazed.

  That makes sense, Edge writes, but I’m still going to track your flight.

  I send a heart back, and he sends back two.

  The lady next to me says, “Let me guess. You’re messaging your boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” I say, completely and confidently, for the first time, and it feels amazing.

  There’s still a small part of me that is doubtful and scared, though. What if I’m wrong? Just in case, I draft an email to my mother.

  Mom—

  I’m sorry about missing your surgery. The thing is, I’ve been following signs. Dad sent them to me so I could help people. It was hard, and it was scary, but I had to take on the responsibility he left me. And I’m glad I did.

  I know you knew about our secret ice cream trips. I know you lost a husband and a friend, and that his death was just as hard for you, if not harder. I’m sorry I shut you out. I know it wasn’t your fault that I didn’t get to say goodbye before Dad’s second deployment. I can see you as the person you are, and I’m glad you’re my mother.

  Love,

  Tegan

  PS. Larry is cool, and I’m sorry for not being open enough to see that. I’m glad you guys found each other.

  The woman next to me says, “Getting a lot done, huh?”

  “Yeah, no distractions, I guess.”

  That seems to quiet her down. I hit send. Then I write another email. I’m on a roll.

  Dear Coach—

  Thanks for always believing me and pushing me harder than I’d even thought I could go. You’re one of the reasons I’ve started to believe I can achieve amazing things.

  I think you know this, but swimming makes me feel the most alive. I can’t believe I quit the team. That was the last thing I should have done. But sometimes we have to make wrong decisions to learn what was the right in the first place.

  Don’t worry, I’ll keep training in California.

  Hug Julie for me,

  Tegan

  I hit send. Then I realize, laughing a little to myself, that I should be writing these emails no matter what. It shouldn’t be because I may not be around, because no one really knows how long anyone’s going to be around. Why does it sometimes take death to appreciate life?

  There is some more turbulence, and the seat belt sign comes on again. I close my eyes and make myself believe.

  This is not my time. It can’t be.

  I look out the window and think about how much I have to look forward to, how my life is stretched out before me, vast and inviting like the endless clouds that look like an infinite duvet. After a little more turbulence, the plane settles. The pilot says we’ve gone through the rough patch and it’s going to be smooth sailing from now on.

  I smile, sinking back into my seat a little. In order to appreciate happiness, you have to know what it’s like to be sad. In order to level off, you have to overcome the bumps. There will be more challenges ahead, but I feel stronger, better, faster. My heart is beating. For myself, for a boy, for life. Everything happened in order to teach me new lessons. I can see that now.

  I decide to finish my college essay. I scrap what I was working on before and start from scratch.

  What makes you unique?

  I’m alive. I can see people for who they are, not just how they seem. I know that sounds advanced for someone who’s a teenager, but trust me, the things that I’ve seen in the last few weeks make me feel like years went by. I’ve seen death, I’ve helped people avoid death, and I’ve stepped onto a new level in my life. I was given a chance to become empowered, and I took it. I’m still taking that chance now.

  I know I still have a lot to learn, but I think I have some of the basics down. Mostly, I’ve learned that forgiveness can be a way to give yourself a gift. I guess a lot of seventeen-year-olds haven’t been in the situation that I have, and that definitely makes me unique. I was challenged with some unusual tasks, and it forced me to change my reality, to overcome, to realize my own strength.

  I’m going to try and compete in the Olympics in swimming, and I know that to achieve this kind of goal, I have to work hard at it. If something comes easy, it’s probably not worth having. Someone told me that once, and it stuck with me.

  I used to think that when my father died, a piece of me died as well, but now I realize that’s not really what happened…

  I stop typing and look out the window again. The sun is creating a thin, almost-neon line of red in the sky, tinting the fluffy clouds. The seat belt sign dings off again, and I lie my head back and close my eyes. I will work on my essay more, but it’s a good start. Besides, when is anything ever finished?

 
We’re all works in progress.

  Epilogue

  One Month Later

  There is not a single cloud in the sky, just a pure, brilliant blue. The sun is high, and the air has a hint of fall in it, a long-awaited release from the blinding heat of summer.

  After hundreds of grueling hours training with Coach, I’m here. Regionals are about to start.

  I’m in the tent next to the pool, doing my stretches with all the other girls. Some of them look nervous, some of them look calm. I’m somewhere in the middle.

  I peek out of the slit in the tent. Coach is sitting next to Sharon in the bleachers, with binoculars around his neck. He’s showing Sharon’s son how they work as Sharon looks on with pride. He gives the boy the binoculars and then puts his arm around Sharon, who is beaming. A few days ago Sharon told me that Coach was the only person in the world who’ll watch old swimming tapes with her. It made me smile.

  Sitting above them is my mom and Larry. The renovation had them snippy with each other for a while, but they look pretty happy today. Larry and I binge-watched Stranger Things together, and I started drinking my mother’s smoothies regularly. The Jasons came over the other night and told us they were getting married, and we all cried. Even Larry. We’re happy for them. It feels like we’re living in an important time in history. Equal rights and positive change are good things. Now I understand how one positive gesture can mean the world to someone.

  Edge isn’t here yet, but I know he’s coming. After working hard on the application and submission process, he became a member of the ADJA (American DJ Association), and his first DJ gig was at a bat mitzvah. I crashed it without him knowing. He had the kids dancing to EDM and mixed in a few classic pop hits. He was glowing up there on that little stage. Afterward, we went to Rock Creek Park and made out in the bushes. Eventually, he let me into his house (his bedroom too).

  Today is going to be great. I can feel it.

  I stretch some more, then drink some green juice my mother packed in a cooler for me. I sneak another look up at the bleachers. Gwen has arrived, with J-Rod by her side. I watch Jenna walk up and sit on the other side of them. Gwen nods to her, but that’s about it. If I’m going to be friends with both of them, I might have to compartmentalize a little. The truth is, all three of us have become different people, so who knows what will happen. Jenna and I have grown apart (California was fun, but not what either of us expected), but we’ll always have our history. And Gwen’s the person I always thought I’d hate forever, and now I’ll always care about her forever. She couldn’t compete because of her arm, but she wants to next year.

  The crowd is starting to really fill up. We’re minutes from the first 50 meter. I scan the bleachers one last time. My mother is laughing at something Larry said, and Coach is giving me his wiggly thumbs-up. Sharon and her son are hollering. And there, right behind everyone, is Edge, and his mother. Even from here, I can see he’s telling her something. He looks proud. Proud that I’m his girl.

  I wave to them. They all wave back.

  Everyone’s here. All the people I love. Except for one.

  I walk onto my platform to shake out my arms and legs one last time.

  This is my moment. And I am present. The pool is long and reflecting the perfect blue sky, waiting for me to carve through the water. I look at the time board, and for a second, the digital numbers seem to transform into letters, flashing a name: Graham.

  My father’s name.

  The name isn’t accompanied by that feeling I got with the others. Is my mind playing tricks on me?

  I look again, and the time board is all numbers.

  Still, I’ll swim this one, and every other race, for him.

  The dull roar starts to build into what sounds like thunder as we’re counted off. The starting gun pops, and I leap, arms outstretched, reaching, already ahead of the pack.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my super clever agent, Christopher Schelling, for helping me shape the concept and story, and my extremely thoughtful editor, Annette Pollert-Morgan, for her finishing finesse.

  Thanks to Brandon Daniel for his swimming insight, Alanzo for his Scientology knowledge, and to the following kind people for sharing their father-daughter memories: Walker Foehl, Elizabeth Fleming, Cecilia Quintero, Julie Swan Doran, Julia Queen, Beth Walsh Kilroy, Vicki Aisner-Porter, and Katrina Van Pelt.

  To my better than better half, Steve Swenson, for every time you waited for me when I’d say “Just one more chapter” and for always having my back.

  Lastly, to my readers of all ages, this labor of love is for you.

  About the Author

  Stewart Lewis is a singer-songwriter who lives in Washington, DC, and Nantucket, Massachusetts. Stewart’s previous young adult novels include Stealing Candy, You Have Seven Messages, and The Secret Ingredient. For more information, please visit stewartlewis.com.

  Stealing Candy

  Getting kidnapped may be the best thing to ever happen to her...

  “A page-turning, stay-up-late story.”

  —Cammie McGovern, author of Say What You Will

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