Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

“So why did you join?”

  Harry looks around the natatorium. “This place, for a start. The pool I swam in with the Bruins looks like a backwoods watering hole next to this one.”

  I laugh. “It is nice.”

  “Plus, we moved to Gilcrest over the summer and I transferred schools. Seemed stupid to drive all the way to Beaumont for practice every day when there’s a perfectly good club here,” Harry explains.

  He pauses, then says, “Dave was wrong to treat you like that. This sport demands a lot, and it’s not like you false-started to spite him. I’m sure you felt bad enough as it was.”

  My throat tightens. “I deserved it,” I say. “I screwed up.”

  “So? It happens. Shouldn’t mean you get a beat-down.”

  “Yeah, well, I let him down. I let my teammates down.” I swallow hard. “I let myself down.”

  I’m not getting into my history with this guy—I mean, I hardly know him—but he’s looking at me in a way that makes me think he might understand. Like there have been times he felt the same way.

  My heart is beating so hard that it feels like it’s going to punch its way right out of my chest. I can’t even remember the last time I was alone like this with a guy. Maybe never.

  I twist my towel in my hands and stare at Harry’s knee, which is bouncing up and down like he’s got so much energy he can’t contain it. We might be sitting too close. I can smell him over the omnipresent fug of chlorine in the air: Irish Spring soap and clean cotton, with a hint of red licorice.

  Harry radiates warmth, with his hundred-watt smile and inability to keep still. Every time he looks at me, it’s like I’m sitting in a spotlight.

  “I get it,” Harry says. He points to the water. “But that’s not going to help.”

  “What, practicing?”

  “Come on. You know how to dive off the block. That’s like Competitive Swimming 101, you’ve done it a million times. So—were you practicing, or were you punishing yourself?”

  “Punishing myself?”

  “Throwing yourself at the water like that. Reminding yourself how awful it felt to screw up, so you never do it again.”

  I gaze at the cap and goggles in my hand. “What else can I do?”

  “I read up on GAC before I chose to swim here,” Harry says. “I know Dave’s whole schtick is using data and analysis and massive yardage to bludgeon people into perfect swimmers, but a) half of that is junk science, and b) we’re not machines.”

  “But we can be. That’s the whole point.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we want stuff. Desire is one of the defining characteristics of our species. Machines don’t want things. They just obey their programming.”

  “I guess.” I can’t deny that I want things. I want to win, and maybe more than that, I want not to lose.

  “You seem disappointed,” he says. Looking at him, I finally understand the expression His eyes were laughing. I never thought much about eyes before, but Harry’s really are expressive. You can see his thoughts swimming in them, like fish flashing silver beneath the clear surface of a pond.

  Right now, I’m pretty sure he’s thinking I’m ridiculous.

  “Sometimes I think I’d be happier if I didn’t want things,” I tell him. I keep forgetting we’re strangers. It feels nice, right now, to have someone to say this stuff to, though I might regret it later.

  Harry shrugs. “Probably.”

  “And I don’t see what’s so great about being human. We’re ruining our planet. Do you know how many species go extinct a day? Two hundred! With all our technology and resources, people don’t have potable water, children are going hungry, polar ice caps are melting, refugees are being turned away at our border and—”

  I cut myself off. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear any of this. I chance a look at him. His eyes aren’t laughing anymore, but he does seem to be listening.

  “And?”

  “Forget it,” I say. “All I’m saying is, humanity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  He lifts his hands in surrender. “No arguments here. But I still think it’s better than being a flawless, unfeeling automaton, which is what Dave wants us to be. Don’t you think?”

  I shrug.

  “The trade-off is that sometimes you don’t get the gold star.”

  “At this point, I’d settle for not getting DQ-ed,” I tell him.

  He laughs, and then so do I. Harry nudges me with his elbow as if to say: See? It’s not so bad.

  “But you’re a great swimmer,” he says.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  He smirks. “Um, aren’t you a world champion?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I told you, I read up,” Harry says. “You’re on the list of team accomplishments in the website’s About Us section. That’s another reason I decided GAC was worth it. Dave might be a jerk, but his swimmers win medals.”

  “I tell myself the same thing,” I admit. “But I’m not a world champion anymore.”

  “You’ll always be a world champion. That’s how it works. Can’t fool me.”

  I smile. When I arrived at the pool for early practice this morning, I didn’t think anything could make me feel better, but somehow Harry has. Maybe the fact that we’re strangers helps him see what I need more clearly than my friends or family or even I can.

  “Some people, when things don’t come easy, they give up. But you clearly don’t. You could be licking your wounds at home, but you’re here doing something about it. I respect that. I think it’s cool.”

  Am I imagining things, or is he blushing? It’s probably just the heat. It’s like a sauna in here.

  “Anyway, that is why I came in here,” he says. “To tell you that.”

  He’s looking across the wide blue ribbon of the pool, deliberately avoiding my gaze. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was nervous. But that would be silly.

  I stare at my feet. The nail polish on my toes is chipped. “Tell that to Dave.”

  “You know the saying that nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent?”

  I nod. “Honestly, I think it’s kind of bullshit.”

  “Same. I mean, no offense to Eleanor Roosevelt, but of course people can make you feel inferior without your consent. Nobody wants to be treated like garbage. And if you’re not a total narcissist, self-doubt always manages to creep in. I guess the trick is to not let it stop you.”

  “How?”

  “If I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know. But you’re going to be all right,” he says. “I promise. That’s the nice thing about swimming: the water is new every day.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. He frowns, looking confused. I gesture between the two of us. “This. Saying these things? You don’t even know me.”

  He rubs the back of his neck and turns away from me. I feel bad. I think I’ve embarrassed him.

  “I thought you could use some cheering up,” he says, standing. “Sorry if I bothered you.”

  “You’re not bothering me,” I insist. “I appreciate what you said.”

  Harry relaxes. “We’re teammates now. I’ve got your back.” He offers me his hand to shake. “Harry Matthews.”

  “Susannah Ramos.”

  “Nice to meet you, Susie.”

  “Actually, it’s—” I stop myself. Nobody’s ever called me Susie. I think I like it. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Harry grins. “And now I know you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  313 days until US Olympic Team Trials

  HARRY’S NOT THE only person who’s ever warned me not to be so hard on myself. My parents do it all the time. But they don’t know, like Harry does, the pressures of the clock.

  It’s suc
h a relief to be told that failure isn’t a permanent state. Our conversation plays on repeat in my head all night. We’re not machines. You’re human. I carry it with me like a lucky penny. But the more removed from it I get, the less real it feels, like a vivid dream that fades before you fully wake.

  By the time Dad and I hop into the car at five a.m., it’s hard to be sure what happened. I spend the whole ride trying to figure out how to act around him. One pep talk doesn’t mean we’re friends. The potential for awkwardness is high.

  In the locker room, there’s more laughter and chatter than normal for predawn practice. Amber blows past me on the way to her locker and starts rifling through her stuff.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  “My phone. I want a picture before Dave makes us clean it all up.” She brandishes her phone in triumph. “You’ve got to see this. It’ll make your day.”

  I trail after her, tucking my swim cap and goggles under the strap of my suit. “What’s going on?”

  Amber opens her arms in a flourish as we step out of the locker room. “Ta-da!”

  It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about: someone has filled the pool with soapsuds and rubber ducks.

  At first, I just stare. Then the sight of those little yellow ducks bobbing around like deranged buoys triggers something inside of me, and suddenly I’m laughing so hard my ab muscles start to ache. The pool that for so many years has represented both promise and misery has been transformed into a giant bathtub. For some dumb reason, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Amber and Jessa are near the diving well, taking pictures and swapping theories with a group of our teammates about who might’ve done this. How anyone managed to get their hands on that many rubber ducks—there are hundreds—and sneak them all in before morning practice is a total mystery.

  Dave is red-faced with anger and disgust. He hates pranks, and the ducks are one thing, but all that soap can be bad for the filters. Whoever did this is going to be in a lot of trouble.

  Harry catches my eye and comes over to stand next to me, leaning that effortless lean.

  “Fun fact,” he says. “Bath toys are cheap when you buy them in bulk off the internet.”

  “That is a fun fact,” I reply. “You did this?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” I promise. He shrugs again, but his grin ruins the charade. “Wait—there’s no way you were able to get this many rubber ducks off the internet overnight.”

  He steps back to admire his handiwork. Dave has a group of freshmen attacking the ducks with skimmers, but it’s slow-going. There are just so many of them.

  “I didn’t actually buy them. My friend Tucker’s uncle manages Wacky Waves, that water park up in Hartbrook. These are from their annual rubber ducky derby. He said I could borrow them as long as I returned them.”

  “How are you going to get them back without Dave finding out it was you?”

  “I’ll confess,” he says. “Getting away with it wasn’t the point.”

  “What was the point?”

  “Maybe I’m just a lord of misrule,” he says. I roll my eyes and smile. “Or maybe I figured there’s someone on this team who could use a laugh. And a little revenge.”

  “Revenge?” Then I remember what Dave said to me at the invitational: I could’ve put one of those plastic duck toys in the pool in your place and it probably would’ve had better splits!

  “But you’ll get in trouble!”

  “I can’t have him thinking it was you,” he says. “Although, honestly, I’d be surprised if he remembers all the shitty things he says. He probably won’t make the connection, which is a bummer.”

  “You didn’t have to do this,” I tell him.

  “Obviously. If I had to do it, it wouldn’t be half as charming.”

  God, he’s so arrogant. And yet, when he smiles at me, I feel light-headed. Clearly, I’m suffering from low blood sugar. I should’ve eaten more than the granola bar I scarfed on the car ride over.

  “The fact that you know it’s charming makes it half as charming,” I say.

  “That’s what my stepdad’s always telling me. He says my antics would come off more lovable if I didn’t act so pleased with myself all the time.”

  “You do stuff like this a lot?” I can’t imagine having that kind of time or energy to devote to anything besides swimming.

  “I dabble.” He touches my arm and leans in close, lowering his voice. My skin tingles under his fingertips. “Hey, my friend Tucker—”

  “Heir to the rubber duck fortune?”

  He laughs. “His mom’s out of town, so he’s having a party on Saturday. You should come.”

  I stiffen. Harry is nice, and I like him, but no guy has ever paid me this much attention and I don’t know what to do with it. Part of me wants to spend more time with him, but another part—a much stronger, more familiar part—panics at the thought of him figuring out I’m not as interesting as he thinks and wants to stay far, far away so he never gets the chance.

  “You can bring friends if you want,” he says. “Invite whoever.”

  “I’m not much of a party girl,” I tell him. “But I’ll think about it.”

  Harry beams at me. “Cool.”

  “Hey!” Dave shouts.

  Harry jumps. Sixty heads swivel in Dave’s direction. Amber hides her phone behind her back.

  “Stop gawking and start helping! I want this pool cleared in fifteen minutes!”

  “You heard the man, Susie,” Harry says, kicking off his deck shoes. “Let’s go duck hunting.”

  * * *

  Later that week, after evening practice, I knock on the door to the coaches’ office with a tin of cookies in my hand. Beth smiles when she spots me through the glass. She waves me in.

  “Hi,” I say, feeling silly now that I’m here. Beth has been nothing but friendly, but it’s always weird with new coaches. I thrust the tin at her. “I brought you some of my mom’s Mexican wedding cookies. We made them last night, so they’re fresh.”

  “Ooh,” she says, lifting the lid off the tin. Powdered sugar gets all over the fleece she’s wearing.

  “I should’ve warned you. They can be messy,” I say.

  She swipes at a white spot on her jacket before giving up with a shrug. “No worries. I was going to wash this, anyway.”

  “There are nuts in them,” I warn her as she picks up one of the cookies and pops it into her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t even ask if you were allergic.”

  “I’m not,” she says around the cookie. She swallows hard. “These are delicious. I’m going to have to ration them.”

  “We make them for every GAC bake sale, so there’ll be opportunities to have more.”

  “You guys do have a lot of bake sales, I’ve noticed,” she says, glancing at the GAC events calendar hanging on the wall.

  “Those cookies are a popular item. They always sell out.”

  “You’ll have to give me the recipe. They’re called wedding cookies?”

  “That’s what we’ve always called them. They have other names. My family is Mexican, but my mom is part Polish, too,” I tell her. “She says her babcia used to make them, but she called them Russian teacakes. They’re an international cookie.”

  Beth makes me so nervous I’m reduced to babbling about baked goods. She comes off so cool and collected. There’s a part of me that wishes I could be more like that and less like...well, me: anxious and worried and too tightly wound.

  “Thank you, Susannah,” Beth says, replacing the lid on the tin.

  “You’re welcome. I just wanted to say I appreciate that you stayed late the other day so I could spend more time in the pool. That was nice of you.”

  “It was no problem. But if you ever want help with anythin
g—if you need extra coaching or you want to talk about stuff—you can always come to me. I’m here for you guys. And I know what it feels like to struggle with your training.”

  I frown. “That’s not—I don’t—I’m fine. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  “Not true,” Beth says. “Every swimmer needs help. That’s what coaches are for.”

  “I mean, I don’t need help from you.”

  Guilt hits me before the words are even out of my mouth. She’s trying to be nice, and I’m acting ungrateful. But I’m not her swimmer, and the sooner I make that clear, the better.

  “Dave is my coach,” I say, more gently this time.

  “It’s not unusual to have multiple coaches, Susannah. Most swimmers do.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t.”

  Beth holds up her hands in surrender. “I get it. I had the same coach for most of my career, too. Sometimes people get attached.”

  I’m not attached to Dave; I just know I can’t win without him. But there’s no point in trying to explain that to Beth. I’ve made enough of an ass of myself already. This is not how I wanted this conversation to go. I wanted to thank her, and I’ve messed it all up.

  “Anyway. Yeah. So... I hope you enjoy the cookies,” I say, heading for the door. “If you’re going to keep them here, hide them. They’re Dave’s favorites. He’ll eat them all when you’re not here.”

  “Noted,” Beth says. “Thanks again, Susannah.”

  I nod, then book it right the hell out of there before I make an even bigger fool out of myself.

  * * *

  On my way to the locker room, I see Harry at the south end of the pool, helping a few of the younger swimmers clean up the equipment we used during practice. It’s part of his punishment for the whole rubber duck thing.

  Well, in theory he’s helping—in actuality, he’s teaching the boys how to punt the kickboards into the wire bins where they’re stored. They’re not great at it, so there’s a lot of hard foam flying through the air, then skittering across the deck.

  Harry manages to get one in the bin and the group erupts in a cheer. He’s pumping his fists in triumph when he looks up and sees me watching. His arms come down and he gives me a more dignified but no less enthusiastic wave.