Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

  “Yes,” I say. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  50 days until US Olympic Team Trials

  THE NEXT MORNING, after our premeet warm-up, all the GAC girls are crammed in the women’s locker room for Beth’s final pep talk. We’re sprawled on the floor, squeezed together on benches, leaning against the lockers, waiting for her to say something inspirational, something that will help us believe that we could beat the boys despite the odds stacked against us.

  She sweeps her gaze across the huddled mass of us, making eye contact with each of us in turn, clutching her clipboard to her chest. It’s humid in the locker room, and her glasses are foggy, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her hair is in its typical tight ponytail, and it swings across her shoulders like a metronome as she paces back and forth.

  “Girls,” she begins. Her voice echoes through the room. “Lately I’ve been thinking about valor. I was a history major in college, and I wrote my senior thesis on the role of the gladiator in Ancient Rome. Many gladiators were slaves, men and women whose lands and cultures were crushed and consumed by the might of the Roman military. Some were criminals, or Christians, which amounted to pretty much the same thing. Some were volunteers who risked their lives for the chance at glory the arena provided.

  “The significance of gladiators in Roman culture, and the fascination the Romans had for them, is a contested topic among historians. Some say the gladiatorial spectacles are evidence of the endemic sadism of human nature, our innate bloodlust and gruesome bent toward violence. Others believe the games reflected the harshness and brutality of Roman life and were a reminder of the government’s power, to ensure no one ever doubted their right to punish those who dared defy the patriarchy.

  “There are other theories, but this one is my favorite. Some scholars believe that the gladiators embodied one of the highest ideals to which a person could aspire: the ability to face defeat with grace and bravery. Their circumstances were very nearly hopeless, and yet they stepped out onto the sand and held their heads up and walked calmly toward their fate. They were heroes.

  “For gladiators, the future did not exist, only the present, and by setting aside any hope of survival, they also shed any fear they had of dying. Though they were considered despicable by society, in the arena they regained their power, because knowing how to lose with dignity and without regret is the best weapon against despair. And fighting, not for the promise of a reward but simply for one’s own satisfaction is the greatest glory a person can attain.

  “I believe we have it in us to prevail,” Beth says, “just as countless gladiators did, but I won’t condescend to you by saying that with a little pluck and good teamwork, victory is certain. What I will tell you is that the future doesn’t matter. Not today. Today, we do as the gladiator does—enter the arena, heads held high, and take back our power. Today, we swim with joy.”

  Beth tucks her clipboard under her arm, gives us a tight, determined smile and walks out of the locker room. Without a word, we follow her.

  * * *

  The 200 IM is scheduled for the second half of the meet. By the first diving break, the boys are beating us, but not by much. Most of us spent the week griping about having to swim against them, but a change has come over us since Beth’s speech. I can see determination in the set of everyone’s shoulders and purpose in the expressions on their faces.

  The energy on the pool deck is strange, different than usual. At other meets, even the most serious swimmers find time to chat and joke with teammates between races, but nobody’s doing much of that today. The boys look uncomfortable—even Nash, who crowed about how they were going to crush us to everyone who would listen, seems subdued.

  I keep trying to catch Harry’s eye across the pool deck, but he’s deliberately avoiding my gaze. There’s a jittery feeling in my limbs, like something is vibrating under the surface of my skin. I don’t know what I’m nervous about. It’s not like this is a real meet. But I can’t stop thinking about what Harry said last night, the way he begged me not to let this meet change us. I hate this feeling.

  Why does it matter so much to me? We agreed that this whole Battle of the Sexes thing was stupid and insulting. If the boys beat us, who cares? If we beat them, what does it change? It has nothing to do with Harry and me. But reminding myself of this doesn’t make me feel better. I wish he would look at me.

  Because Harry won’t look at me, though, I watch him instead. He can’t stay still. He keeps sitting down on benches, then getting up and finding a different seat, only to move again a minute later. The other guys aren’t paying attention; nobody seems to think it’s weird, or even notice him doing it. He’s clearly agitated. Even when he’s sitting, he drums his fingers restlessly against his knees and picks at the edge of his jammers and rhythmically scrubs his fingers through his hair.

  I wonder if something else is going on here, if this isn’t simply his nervous reaction to the tension of the meet. Harry tries to keep all outward signs of his depression away from me, but I can tell when he’s sad, and I can guess what’s happening when he retreats. I’ve never seen him in a hypomanic state—I don’t know what it looks like.

  You’re going to worry about me all the time, he said when he told me he was bipolar, and I do worry sometimes. But I can’t tell if it’s because of what I know, or because I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop in every corner of my life. Am I making something out of nothing, projecting my anxieties onto him? Or is something really wrong?

  I feel increasingly uneasy as my event approaches, but I force myself to believe that everything is fine. I cheer my teammates on from the sidelines, and I cheer Harry on in my head. He wins two out of his three races with one to go, and I can’t help but feel a flush of pride when he edges out both Nash and Jessa to take first in the 100 back.

  Jessa is, predictably, steamed about it—she hates to lose, and she’s always quick to assign blame everywhere but herself. As soon as she’s out of the pool, she marches up to me wearing a face like a storm cloud.

  “Your...boyfriend—” she pants, pointing an accusatory finger at me “—sucks!”

  My heart stutters—if my parents figured out Harry and I were only pretending to be broken up, it’s possible Jessa has, too.

  Amber steps between us and says, “It’s not Susannah’s fault he beat you. They’re not even together anymore.”

  “Oh, come on. Do you think I’m stupid? Everyone knows something’s still going on between you two,” Jessa hisses. “We have eyes.”

  “Keep your voice down,” I whisper. Amber glances at me in shock.

  “We’ll see how you like it when you have to swim against him,” Jessa says. “Don’t forget our bet.”

  “I’m not competing against Harry. He’s not swimming in the 200 IM.”

  A smug grin slowly spreads across Jessa’s face. “Are you sure about that?”

  Amber and I exchange a wide-eyed look, then hurry to the bulletin board where the heat list is posted. I hadn’t thought to look at it today, because I knew when my event was scheduled and who I would be swimming against. But Jessa’s right. Nash’s name has been removed and Harry’s has been added in its place. I’ve been assigned lane four, and he’s in lane five.

  Not only will we be racing against each other, we’ll be swimming head to head.

  When I think back to our conversation last night, I realize that Harry already knew about this. That’s why he’s been avoiding my eyes all morning. He knew what I would think if I found out. It’s not like Harry never swims the 200 IM, but it’s not his best event, so there’s no good reason Dave would put him in it. Unless he wanted us to compete against each other.

  I can’t believe Harry mocked me for thinking this meet had anything to do with me, because it did, if only in this small way.

  “Harry didn’t tell you?” Amber asks.

  I shake my h
ead.

  “Is Jessa right?” she asks. “Have you been together this whole time?”

  I look down at the tiles of the pool deck as my vision blurs. “It’s not really anybody’s business.”

  “No, it’s not,” Amber says. “It’s your relationship. I’m just surprised.”

  “Dave was going to kick me off the team,” I remind her.

  I search for Harry across the pool deck, and this time he’s looking right at me. I can tell from the expression on his face that he knows I’ve figured it out.

  If I had to explain to a stranger right now why this means so much to me, I don’t think I would be very convincing. It’s just a stupid fake meet, the imaginary stranger would say. It doesn’t matter. I feel like a toy Dave has grown tired of yet doesn’t want anyone else to play with, and if that were the only thing going on, this wouldn’t hurt so bad. The fact that he’s using Harry as a tool to humiliate me, and that Harry is going along with it, is the part that feels like a blow to the stomach.

  I shake my head in disbelief. He starts to mouth something, but I turn away. We can deal with this later. Fifteen minutes before our race is no time to lose focus.

  “I think Harry’s trying to get your attention,” Amber tells me as I strip out of my warm-ups and put on my goggles.

  “The next time Harry Matthews speaks to me, he better be congratulating me for beating him,” I say. “And I hope Jessa brought cash, because I’m going to win that bet.”

  Amber smiles. “That’s the spirit! Today, we swim with joy.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Joy.” And maybe a splash of vengeance.

  * * *

  I take comfort in the knowledge that the 200 IM is not a race that plays to Harry’s strengths. His breaststroke is weak. As long as my shoulder behaves, I might be able to pull out a victory. It would close the point gap in the last third of the meet. We could win, and even if we don’t, a first-place finish in the 200 IM would help us save face.

  In the diving well, I swim a set of slow, careful laps to test my shoulder. I’m feeling some pain, but it’s nothing I can’t push through. I’m tired of holding back in the water, of being gentle and taking care. I know why it’s necessary, but it makes me feel like a falcon on a tether, safe and secure and confined when all I want to do is soar.

  Dave intercepts me on the way to the diving blocks.

  “Just wanted to wish you luck,” he says. Then he lowers his voice. “You wanted to work with Beth? You thought I had nothing more to teach you? This is your chance to prove it was worth it.”

  He leaves me standing there, stunned. He didn’t think I had what it took to go to the Olympics. He should be happy I’m someone else’s problem now. But I know Dave well enough to suspect that isn’t the point. In his world, he decides who matters and who doesn’t. He would rather my career gutter out and die on his watch than see me try to resurrect it with another coach. My decision to swim with Beth was a repudiation of his godlike status. And the fact that I got faster when I was out from under his thumb? Well, that was just salt in the wound.

  When my event is called, I step up to the block, staring straight ahead as if I’m wearing blinders, not bothering to look at the competition. I watch the water ripple with the memory of the previous race, but out of the corner of my eye I notice Harry bend down and scrape his palms against the rough plastic of the gutters. Some people think the new skin exposed by abrading the hands before a race helps catch the water better, but I remain skeptical.

  As we mount the blocks, Harry whispers, “Susie, I—”

  “Not now,” I say.

  “Take your mark—”

  My body slices through the water like a knife. Right away, I feel a twinge of pain in my shoulder, but I cruise through the butterfly, concentrating hard on my underwater pulls, determined not to create any extraneous drag. My backstroke is smooth, and my supercharged kick does its job off the turns—all those legs-only sets are starting to pay off. I careen up and down the pool, certain I’m in first place, but in the back of my head a voice whispers, Pace yourself.

  By the second lap of the breaststroke, my shoulder is complaining. Loudly. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine, I think as I push off the wall and switch to freestyle. Then fatigue settles over me like a lead blanket, and it’s as if I’ve forgotten how to use my legs. They drift sullenly behind me, heavy as concrete, dragging me down as my arms do all the work. Stupidly, I blew all my energy on the first half of the race and now I’m running on fumes for the finish.

  Stay calm, I command myself, but my shoulder is screaming. I bite down hard on my lower lip and taste blood. I’m slowing down. I’m flailing. But I set an excellent pace during the fly and back fifties, and Harry has surely been slowed by the breaststroke. All I have to do is finish strong on the last lap and I’ll win. I’m sure I’ll win.

  Why won’t my legs move? My shoulder will tear again if I keep this up. I imagine the flimsy ligaments ripping like a piece of loose-leaf paper and feel the tight grip of panic in my chest. I can’t reinjure my shoulder. If I do, it’s all over. No Trials. No Olympics. The yellow touchpad at the end of the lane beckons. I force myself to concentrate on the finish.

  Fifteen...ten...five... I count the yards like I’m making promises. As I approach the wall I burst forward with one last Hail Mary kick and slam my right hand as hard as I can against the touchpad before drifting to a stop and looking to the scoreboard.

  I’m so sure I’ve won that, for a second, that’s exactly what I see: 1. Ramos. But it’s a trick of the light, or my brain. I blink and the 1 has been replaced by a 5. Fifth. But what’s infinitely worse than losing so badly in my best event after all the work I’ve done and all the pain I’ve suffered is what I see when I look for Harry’s name.

  1. Matthews.

  Harry beat me by five full seconds, even with his subpar breaststroke and my improved kick. I’m in so much pain I think I might pass out.

  A wave of nausea rolls over me as Harry slips beneath the lane line that separates us and drifts over to me. “Susie,” he says, but I turn away from him. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to throw up in the gutter.

  I look up to see Jessa and Amber standing over me on the deck wearing identical expressions of concern. It must’ve been obvious to everyone what was happening to me. I feel so ashamed.

  “Will you please help me?” I gasp.

  Amber and Jessa grab hold of me awkwardly to avoid touching my shoulder. They haul me onto the deck like a fisherman’s catch. Harry lifts himself out of the water and reaches for me, but I struggle to my feet on my own, using the block for ballast.

  “Don’t touch me,” I snap.

  I escape to the locker room where I throw myself down on a bench, bury my face in a towel and let loose a frustrated, anguished scream. I gulp down air, choke on it, cough it out, feeling my lungs flatten like paper bags in my chest.

  Get ahold of yourself, I command myself savagely. I test my shoulder, rotating and stretching it to assess the extent of the damage. At least I can move it.

  My muscles relax in relief. It hurts, but I don’t think I’ve torn my labrum again. This might be a setback, but it’s not a permanent one. Not a career-ending one. I almost cry all over again when it crashes down on me, the realization of how lucky I am to have skirted disaster.

  “Susie?” Harry is standing next to me, twisting his goggles in his hands. I didn’t even hear him come in. The sound of my sobs must’ve drowned out any noise he made.

  “Leave me alone,” I mutter wetly into the towel.

  “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “You need to leave. This is the girls’ locker room. You can’t be in here.”

  He sits down next to me on the bench and rubs his knees. “I’m sorry.”

  “For beating me?” I scoff. “Screw you, Harry. I don’t care.”<
br />
  What a liar I am. I care so much, and I don’t even know why. Why can’t I just not care?

  “What happened to ‘It’s just a race’?” Harry asks.

  “There’s no such thing as ‘just a race.’”

  “Then what happened to ‘When you win, I win’?” he asks. “Did you even mean that, or does it only apply when it’s convenient for you?”

  “Shut up, Harry! I don’t want to talk to you right now, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to you about us.” I take a deep, jagged breath. Tears leak from my eyes. “Can’t you see I’m in pain?”

  “Yeah, I can see that! I want to help you, but you won’t let me.”

  “I don’t want your help. You’re only going to make it worse.” What I mean is that if he touches me it’ll only hurt more, but that’s not how he takes it. I’m feeling mean and angry and hurt. Like a cornered animal, all I can think to do is lash out.

  He stands. “I swam my best,” he shouts. “That’s what I’m supposed to do. Should I have let you win? Because you’re my girlfriend? Would you have liked that?”

  “Of course not!” I almost tell him to keep his voice down, Dave might hear, but I realize that doesn’t matter now. After this drama, nobody’s going to be fooled into thinking we’re just friends.

  “I couldn’t stop it. It’s not my fault.”

  “I know,” I say. “Please just go. Please.”

  “Your shoulder—”

  “MY SHOULDER IS FINE.”

  “No, it’s not, so stop fucking saying that. Look at yourself!”

  I’m cradling my arm and my breath is labored. I used up everything I had in that race, and this fight is taking my final wind. I want to stand, to look him in the eye, but I know that if I get up I’ll fall.

  “You have to stop lying to everyone, and you have to stop lying to yourself,” Harry says. He grows scarily quiet. “You are injured. You cannot do the things you used to do, not right now. And yelling at me, or resenting Dave, or ignoring Beth’s advice, is not going to change that. You have to accept it. You have to face it. And you have to stop blaming everyone, including yourself.”