“That’s for me to worry about,” Mom says.
Dontae has to stay in the hospital a few of days, but he is back in school by Thursday. We go through our classes together and then sit in the cafeteria at lunch. Linda sits with us. After our talk at the lake, things are good between us.
“We have over five hundred names already,” Carmela says. “And my friends are asking people to sign, at bus stops, El stations, everywhere.”
“My dad’s not happy about the idea,” Dontae admits. “He keeps talking about people deserving second chances.”
“He has to believe in forgiveness. He’s a minister,” Carmela says with a touch of annoyance.
Linda puts down her plastic fork. Her plate is still half-full. This is burrito day, one of my favorite lunches. Even though she likes it too, she doesn’t take another bite. I take her hand; it’s trembling.
“You only have to forgive yourself,” I tell her, wishing that was as easy to do as it is to say.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
MEET.
With a million vocabulary words to choose from, why do people use that one to describe this, my first-ever official competition in front of judges and a real audience? Saturday morning, and I wake up at four. The team bus will arrive before six to take me to the suburban pool where the meet will be held. Participants have to be there early. Lamont barely looks up when I leave. He obviously plans to ignore my big moment. I asked him yesterday if he was coming to my meet.
“To some fancy aquatic center in the western suburbs?” He snorted. “I don’t belong there, and neither do you.”
Mom and Rochelle promise to be there, but they will come later, after breakfast. I choke down a piece of toast because the coach said we should eat before, but that’s all. My stomach is too jumpy for anything more. I can’t chance embarrassing myself and puking from the board.
Mr. Hundle said we were coming to have fun. The lump jumping around inside my stomach isn’t so sure. “It’s a chance to get your feet wet,” he told me, and then laughed at his unfunny joke.
Only ten other Rays have chosen to compete today. Sammy and I are the only divers attending. The good news: this isn’t a real Illinois Swimming–sanctioned competition. I get to do what the Hun said and consider this a day of fun. My entry fee was paid from my scholarship, and I wanted to come to see what a swim meet was like. There will be two other teams: from the Chicago Park District team and from the North Side Dolphins, another private club. Mung says our only real competition is the Dolphins.
“My parents sign me up for every single meet,” Sammy tells me during the ride on the team bus down Interstate 55 to the West Side. “I didn’t do so good last time, only fourth place. I have to be on top today.” I bet he will. His muscles continue to grow. All the calisthenics are working for him. I’m a little jealous. I’ve been growing stronger but not like him. There will be eight divers in our age group so I would love to finish in fourth place.
I look up at the roof on the bus and pray, “Please God, not last place, okay?”
The team bus carries us west on US 20 past honest-to-God fields, Harmony turns from her seat in front of us. “Calm down. You’ll do fine. This is just for fun.”
“Maybe for you.” Sammy shivers. “I can’t have Mom freak out again. My parents think everything is win or die.”
“Diving is more his mother’s thing than his,” Harmony tells me. “She used to be an NCAA champion. His parents sometimes expect too much from him.”
“What does your uncle expect from you?”
“Obedience.”
The one flat, pain-filled word explains so much. Even the way he seldom talks to her. He ignores her except when she bombs.
“Is he mean to you?” I ask.
“Not according to him. He never wanted his little brother to marry a black woman.” Harmony doesn’t look angry, just sad, calm, and way older than eighteen.
Our bus glides down the expressway to the West Side of Chicago. I’ve never been to this area before. Looking out the window, I feel like I’m traveling to a different world, an imaginary place with small buildings instead of apartment houses. Once the bus exits the expressway, we drive down streets lined with trees and big houses that are low and long, instead of tall, compact apartment buildings. Our driver slows down, weaving around to avoid the annual crop of spring potholes just as we have to do in the streets in my neighborhood. Winter makes some things the same all over the city.
Lawns out here are large and surrounded by fences. There are no stoops in front of the houses for people to sit on and talk together or to watch kids play. In fact, the sidewalks are pretty empty, with more trees visible than people. I wonder how many of the people who live on the other side of the fences know one another. Do they feel lonely and need these huge fences because they’re scared of something? People around here should just pop over to their neighbors for coffee, cookies, and gossip. That’s how we do things on the South Side. It’s why Mom has so many friends and everyone knows everyone else.
“People out here mostly have terraces and patios behind their homes, where they relax and forget about the real world,” Harmony explains.
“In the alley?” I ask, astounded. We play in the alleys back home.
“Places like these don’t have alleys,” she says. “These are ‘estates.’” She makes air quotes around the word. “Huge yards and fences and a love of privacy.”
“How do you know so much about this area?”
“Uncle Bill lives near here. That’s how the Rays chose an event at this facility. We do a lot of meets out here.”
“Lamont told me you used to be a Dolphin,” I say.
She nods. “Back when I lived with my parents in Lincoln Park. But they died when I was fifteen, and I moved in with my uncle and got to know life here on the West Side. He made me switch. Couldn’t have someone cavorting with the enemy in his own house.”
Our bus pulls into a parking lot and stops in a space not far from the Lexus belonging to Sammy’s parents.
“Of course my folks have already arrived,” he says, sounding uncomfortable.
Big signs inside the building welcome us and point the way to the registration area. I am once again one of only a handful of nonwhite people around. Then the Chicago Park District team arrives. Twenty people climb off their bus. The CPD team is a diverse group. Some short, some tall, from wiry thin to slightly chunky. White, black, Hispanic, Asian. I wonder which ones are divers.
My teammates don’t say much in the crowded locker room as we change next to the CPD and North Side teams. After, we come together, and Mr. Hundle and Coach Mung give us a pep talk.
“We’re after individual scores, but we’re still a team. When you are not competing, make sure you’re around to cheer on your teammates. Remember to relax. View this as a special practice session featuring friendly rivals.”
There is more than just chlorine in the air inside the Y. Voices echo around the pool area and the big table where the judges sit. It all feels so . . . official. So real. I look around at my “friendly rivals” and see one black kid from the CPD team waving at me. I wave back.
“Not too friendly,” Carmela whispers to me. “I expect points from you.”
Four members of the Chicago Park District team join us at the diving area, including the boy who waved at me. Names come up on the board.
CPD 8: JALEEL WINDSON
RAYS 12: SAMUEL BAKER
RAYS 15: TSHAWN RODGERS
I sigh. Guess they couldn’t find an apostrophe to make my name correct.
My schedule calls for me to attempt four simple dives, all in the layout position. In an official event, divers have to do seven dives from different diving categories, including the dreaded reverse, or gainer. That thing can be a killer unless the hurdle is dead on. Even famous divers like Greg Louganis have hit their heads doing a gainer. Sammy does them in practice and begged the coach to add a reverse somersault to his list of dives. Mung nix
ed that. He also said no when I asked to add a twist to one of my dives, saying, “It’s too soon.”
I hate to agree, but the coach is probably right. I wobble more than I twist. Today my dives will all be straight layouts with minimal difficulty. Low difficulty means a low result because the judges’ individual scores are multiplied by the difficulty to give the final score.
Members of all three teams take turns doing practice dives from the three-meter board. My first dive in competition will be a back dive. Simple, easy. It’s basically a back lineup, and I’ve probably done dozens of those in the past weeks.
When my name is called for the first round of dives, I mount the ladder and find myself shaking. I feel like I did the first time I stepped on a board and looked over the side at the wall of water so far away.
Be calm, calm, calm.
I can do this. I deserve to be here. PITA—I imagine myself flying through the air, landing, and scoring a perfect ten.
Mom and Rochelle have arrived, their brown faces are easy to spot among the many paler family members squeezed together on the spectator benches. Mom smiles and waves. She won’t stop until I wave back. Linda is here too. There’s no sign of Lamont, but then I didn’t really expect him.
I walk to the edge of the board on stiff legs, feeling the rough surface bounce under my bare feet. Back dives don’t get the three-step approach. At the end of the board, I turn my back on the spectators and stare into the shadows cast by some equipment piled up against a wall. As I watch, I glimpse movement. Two people are in a shadowy downward stairwell. Harmony and Bishop, our team’s tall, blond long-distance-swimming, bigmouthed troublemaker. They are almost invisible, and no one else in the stands has my angle. He hands her something that she stuffs in the pocket of her warm-up jacket. Then they kiss. It’s one of those big kisses, the kind from movies, a big long, grown-up kind of kiss. I feel a little sorry for Lamont. I don’t think he has any chance with her now.
I pull my mind back to my own effort and prepare for flight. With only my toes and the balls of my feet on the board’s tip, I circle my arms once for lift while my legs press the board down. The board pushes back, moving me out, up, around, and down. I’m in the air. I’m flying!
My entry feels good; I go deep, always a good sign. When I pull myself out of the pool, I do a victory dance inside my head while waiting for my score. The dance dies when I see the judges’ number.
Five point zero.
Mom is on her feet, yelling and clapping. This is going to be so embarrassing.
“Not bad,” Jaleel says. “How long have you been diving?”
I stare into his deep-set eyes. He seems to be sincere. “A few weeks.”
“And competing already? You must be good. That wasn’t bad for a first meet. You kind of forgot to point your toes, and your legs came apart. Just a little bit. Judges notice that kind of thing,” he continues, with a wise glint in his eyes.
Fifty percent. That’s like getting a D minus or being handed a participation ribbon or something. “It’s pitiful.”
“No, that’s a really cool score,” he insists. His voice is low, the words gentle. “I was so nervous on the first dive at my first meet, I made an epic fail, as in zero points. My parents still laugh with me over that one.”
He’s improved a lot since those days. His first dive is a one-and-a-half somersault in the pike position. There is only the tiniest splash when he enters the water. He looks just like the guys in the videos I’ve been watching. He gets an eight point five from the judges. He deserves the applause.
“You surprise me,” he says when I praise him. “Most of the Rays act like they’re the elite and we should be thrilled we’re allowed to breathe the same air they do.”
Sammy is up next. His face is totally serious as he moves down the board to perform exactly the same dive, only in the tuck position. He gets the same score from the judges. However, the tuck position gives him a lower degree of difficulty than the pike. That makes his total score, the judges’ numbers multiplied by the degree of difficulty, lower than Jaleel’s.
“Nice going,” Jaleel says as Sammy pulls himself out of the pool.
“If I were the judge, I’d give you a perfect ten,” I tell my friend.
“I hope the judges listen to you,” he sputters. “And why is he here? Go back to your own guys,” he says, waving Jaleel toward the rest of the Chicago Park District divers.
Jaleel winces, then turns to go.
“Why did you do that?” I ask. “He was just being friendly.”
“Well, I don’t want to be friendly. I need to win. He’s the enemy—don’t you get that?” His words come fast, and he looks ready to separate from his skin.
“Dude, are you okay? Cool it,” I say.
“How do I cool down?” he snarls at me, something he’s never done before. “I don’t have all day. I need to get this done. They need to hurry up.”
The men’s eight-hundred-meter freestyle begins over in the main pool. Sixteen trips, back and forth, end to end. Boring but somehow hypnotic. People scream out the names of swimmers who can’t possibly hear in the middle of the churning water. Harmony comes to stand near us. Bishop is in lane number five.
“Part of me hopes the Dolphins crush us,” Harmony murmurs to me as the swimmers continue.
“Aren’t you supposed to be rooting for your boyfriend?” I ask. It’s supposed to be a joke, but she frowns.
“What boyfriend?” she asks, sounding puzzled.
“Bishop. I saw you kiss him after he handed you a present.” Bishop’s long arms have him in front of the other racers.
She grabs my arm and jerks me to a corner. “Why were you spying on me?”
“I wasn’t spying or anything.” I pull free and step back. “I saw you on the stairs while I was up on the board for my first dive, that’s all.”
She sucks in a deep, shivery breath and calms a little. “Don’t say anything, not to my uncle or to anyone. If he finds out, I’ll have a huge problem. Uncle Bill considers Bishop the answer to a prayer, the perfect guy for his imperfect niece. He wants to shove us together.”
“But if you like him and your uncle likes him, what’s the problem?”
“He’s not the angel my uncle thinks he is. We’re just friends, and I want to keep things that way.”
“What are you and Lamont?” I ask.
“We are nothing.” The anger in her voice is so thick, my skin itches.
“Coach should have let me do that reverse,” Sammy says when he emerges from the pool after his next dive. He receives good scores but remains a few points behind Jaleel. “I could score big and get in front of everyone.”
“It’s too late now. Your list of dives has already been turned in.” Once that happens, we can’t change anything. There’s no temptation for me to try to throw in a twist because a change now would have me marked a zero. “You’re getting eights and higher. You’ll finish near the top.”
“I don’t want to be near the top, I have to be the top. That Chicago Park District guy is better than I knew. I need a high-difficulty dive.” He begins pacing while talking to himself.
“Relax,” Harmony tells him.
“Losers relax.” His eyes are wide, bright. “Why are there so many people here?”
“I don’t know.” And I don’t know what’s wrong with him.
He walks off, scowling and furious, half running. I yell at him to slow down, but he pays no attention. I start after him but stop when he enters the locker room.
“He’ll come back when he’s ready,” Harmony says. “And he’ll feel better then.” She leaves me staring at the locker room door.
Sammy doesn’t want me, but I feel like I should be doing something more. I decide to talk to Coach Mung.
“Sammy’s having a problem,” I tell him.
Mung shakes his head, tossing my concerns. “No problem. There’s nothing wrong with that boy. He’s diving well, scoring strong.”
“But he’s
really worked up.”
“He’s always worked up. He’s a competitor, with fire in his blood. You could use a little more of that. I watched you getting a little too close to members of the other team.”
“The Hun said we’re supposed to have fun.”
“That’s because he’s a businessman, not a real coach. You need to burn with the desire to win.” Mung’s hands clench into fists as he speaks.
“Is winning that important?” I ask.
His snort echoes across the chamber. “What’s the point of being second best?”
He sounds a lot like Sammy’s parents. I wonder if Harmony has to listen to that same question.
My score went up on my second dive, although it was still in D territory. Ten is excellent. Nine to seven is good or very good. Five to six is satisfactory, aka a D. Anything less than five is a kind of “at least you tried” score.
I move to a position where I can keep my eyes on Jaleel. Maybe we’re not on the same team, but I feel better watching his red-brown legs stride down the board.
Another Park District kid, a Hispanic boy, is up on the board. Jaleel yells up words of encouragement. I cross my fingers. If Harmony is not being a traitor by rooting for the Dolphins, it’s okay for me to silently cheer on the Park District kids. The kid does the same back dive I did at the beginning and scores a four point eight. I applaud him but grin inside because I am not in last place.
I turn away from the board, happy, and then freeze. Lamont came! My brother is exiting the boys’ locker room with Sammy at his side. Lamont is dressed in black pants and a black hoodie, as if the muggy air around the pool is less important than keeping his face hidden.
He nods when he sees me and walks faster, reaching me before Sammy does. It’s hard to look at my brother and not think about the petition Carmela keeps urging me to sign.
“How long have you been here?”
He smiles, and my chest does a thump-thump. “Long enough to see you dive twice. Those judges robbed you, Short Stack.”
My stomach jumps at the unexpected praise, and I barely notice the hated nickname.
Courage Page 17