In Deep

by Terra Elan McVoy

  • • •

  Class is a blur. I write down what Woodham’s saying, his advice about research and how we’ll be spending time in the library, but my ears are full of white noise. Paper paper paper! screams behind my eyes, even with them pressed closed. I try to visualize the pool, slow down my breathing, but the water just becomes a sea of books with me trapped underneath them.

  After class I leap out of my desk. I need to be swimming. Swimming I can actually control. But first Kate grabs the back of my hoodie.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  I keep moving out into the hall.

  “Crazy, right? Woodham changing things up like that at the end? Those flash cards I’ve been working on all semester aren’t going to be very helpful now.”

  She’s trying to read my face, figure out what’s up with me, and be friendly and funny at the same time.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “What do you think about a topic?”

  “I don’t know. And listen, I’ve got to get to practice.”

  I walk faster.

  “Hey, I know why you’re freaked out,” she calls behind me.

  I spin around. “Oh, yeah?”

  She closes the distance between us before she talks again. “Look. It’s not like I haven’t seen your tests. It isn’t like you study. We all have to pass this paper to pass the class. I owe you for helping me out with Connor, so if you need some coaching for this, I’m—”

  “I don’t think even you can help me.”

  Her hand flits in the air, brushing off what I just said.

  “You’d be amazed how easily a paper writes itself once you have good source material. Really. We can brainstorm a topic tomorrow in the library. I already have an idea of what I want to write about, so I can do a little research on my own ahead of time tonight. Really. It’ll be fun.”

  My panic won’t subside. “I’m telling you, Kate, I have no idea what to write about. As you pointed out, it’s not like I’ve really absorbed much of that class.”

  “You know more than you think, right? You helped me see that, so I’m going to help you. No arguments. Now, get to practice. Think about anything we’ve covered this semester. Just let the stuff float around in your mind like historical soup for right now.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  She makes a goofy face. “So are you, so there.”

  I watch as she turns back down the hall, toward the bus pickup.

  “Thanks, I guess,” I finally say.

  She raises a single hand. Like it’s nothing. So I start walking to the front of the school, to Louis, and to the pool where maybe I’ll feel like it’s nothing too.

  • • •

  One, two steps into the glow and gleam of the pool, then a deep inhale of chlorine, and at first my head does clear. My shoulders straighten out and my abs tighten, which makes my spine elongate—all my muscles lining themselves up for the next two hours, excited like horses before the Derby. That’s until I see Gavin talking with Shyrah and Andy on the bleachers. He’s leaning back on his elbows, broad chest in plain view. When Shyrah looks up and waves, Gavin sees me too and straightens up. A secret smile crosses his face. Grier is nowhere. But she’s usually late. Thing is, I wasn’t anticipating seeing him without her around too. I’m not ready for this yet.

  Andy lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey, Brynn.”

  “ ’Sup.”

  I turn away from them to stick my hand in the pool, pull up a palmful of water to smooth over my hair before I pull on my cap. My legs and pits are itching—hair growing back between shave meets—but I force myself not to scratch. I work my cap down over my head instead, smoothing out air bubbles that aren’t there, blocking out thoughts of Saturday that shouldn’t be there either. I swing my arms around in their sockets, rotate my elbows. Anything to not sit down. The texts were one thing—those I could just ignore. Him, here, looking at me like that at the pool? I didn’t prepare myself for the next move, and I’m too shaken up from Woodham’s class to think about it now.

  Fortunately, Grier rushes out of the locker room, and for a second her giant sparkling smile washes me in relief. Grier will be funny in practice today. Grier will make me laugh during the logic puzzle and make faces at me across the lanes when she’s burnt out—Grier will help punctuate the drills with silliness, and by the time practice is over, I’ll be wiped of everything else, charged and ready to go see Charlie, lie down with him and forget the rest of everything until tomorrow.

  Except, of course not. It isn’t like that anymore. I remember as soon as she wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a grateful hug.

  “Oh my god, this weekend. I’m so mortified about what happened. Like, on a gigantic level. I’m so sorry I did that to you. I feel like a punk.”

  “I told you, you suck at that game.”

  She’s still holding on to me. “I know. And then I was barfing and passing out. Gavin said you both had to carry me to the car. I don’t really remember. I’m sorry about all of it. I promise, next party, I will not bail on you again like that. Next time we’ll have fun, right? You are really, truly the best.”

  My face is calm, stone. I make myself hug her in return.

  “I think Gavin’s mad at me about it, actually,” she goes on, lowering her voice. “I wanted him to stay Sunday afternoon and watch a movie with me, but he said he had to go and get some stuff done. I thought he might come back over later, but he said he was tired.” She bites the edge of her lip. “Do you think I should go over and apologize again? He hardly texted me at all yesterday. I didn’t bug you about it because I know you had to go to—you know.”

  I ignore her lame excuse of my being at the cemetery as a reason for not texting me. Pretending to think, I look over at Gavin for the first time since I came in. He’s watching us. Smiles again at me. I squash the warm swirls that sweep under my ribs.

  “Well, you two have been at it pretty hot and heavy lately. Maybe a little space isn’t terrible. At least for one practice.”

  “But what if he thinks I’m a total ass now and never wants to see me again? I mean, this guy, he’s amazing.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder and level my gaze at her. This is real and true advice: “Don’t prove him right by being an ass right now.”

  • • •

  And, at least during practice, she doesn’t for the most part, though I don’t really pay very much attention to either of them.

  Instead it’s four 50s, free, building speed each time.

  Kick for two hundred.

  Pull two hundred more.

  That’s the warm-up. Then pep talk, logic.

  Back in the pool—two 50s, fast.

  One easy.

  Three 50s fast this time. Faster than the others. More.

  One easy. Blank now. Breathing.

  Four 50s, fast as fast as fast.

  Three hundred free, easy, to cool down a little.

  I don’t stop during any of it. Van tells me the next drill, and I don’t look to either side. I hardly notice Megan in the same lane as me or whether I’ve lapped her. I am push and cut and tight and breathe and push, and then I’m draped over the lane divider, breathing more. Van squats down, palms my skull in his hand. We are both pleased, for the same reasons, and also different.

  21

  AFTER PRACTICE I WANT TO eat three hamburgers and slide into bed for the rest of the night because I’m still a little burned from the weekend. But as yesterday’s awkward time with Charlie proved, even after an hour of rolling around with him, I sleep like a baby. Plus, since some of the kids from school swim team will go to State, and Charlie hopes to be one, his practices have intensified too, which means I can crash with someone who understands how tired I am and why. When I get to his place, we barely even talk. He heats up two heaping bowls of leftover pad Thai, and we flop on his giant leather couch. His sisters, Chloe and Cinnamon, are splayed on the floor, eating Fudgsicles and watching some cartoon with talking fru
it in it. I don’t know if it’s because it’s truly funny or we’re just so tired, but Charlie and I can’t stop giggling. My feet, where they’re entwined around his calves, glow warm. For a minute I think I could stay here forever.

  After two episodes though, we hear Charlie’s mom’s car in the driveway. His mom with her cheery questions. Probably she’ll invite me to stay for dinner.

  I put my empty bowl down on the floor. “I’ve got to go.”

  Charlie’s surprised.

  “I know,” I say, seeing his face, “but we’ve got a paper for Conflicts, so—”

  His brow furrows. “Not the exam?”

  I shake my head. “He changed it this year.”

  He gets serious. “What’s your topic? Why didn’t you say? I can—”

  His mom comes through the door. “Well, hi there, Brynn! What a pleasure.”

  There’s a tug in my heart.

  “Hi, Ms. Berger. I was just telling Charlie I’m afraid I have to run. Big paper for my history class.”

  She looks at me, eyes scrunching a little. “Dr. Woodham’s class? Why, I’m sure Charlie can help with that. You loved him, didn’t you, Charlie?”

  This is getting worse by the minute. I can avoid my own mom by escaping to my room, but Charlie’s—not so much. And I’m just not into the family thing.

  “Thanks, but my friend Kate’s going to help me out,” I explain to them both, rushing. “I just remembered, I need to look at my notes. See if I get any ideas.”

  “Topic wise, keep in mind that Israel–Palestine will get you more points with him,” Charlie says, though he also looks confused about my leaving. It’s annoying and overwhelming. I so cannot write this paper. I don’t need him reminding me or making me feel bad about it.

  “Let me look things over, and then maybe tomorrow we can talk about it,” I murmur as his mom moves past us to say hello to the girls. “I mean, I appreciate it, but—” I’m off the couch, going for my shoes.

  “You don’t have to go. We can—”

  “Yes, Charlie, I do need to go.” My voice is so sharp, his mom and sisters look up. “Okay?” I try to be softer.

  He heaves himself off the couch, taking our bowls to the kitchen, and sighs. “Do what you have to do then.”

  I don’t know why I don’t want to leave with him irritated, bad as I want to get out of here. I shouldn’t care. But I follow him into the kitchen anyway, put my arms around his waist.

  “I had fun at lunch,” I say into his back. “And this was really nice.”

  He doesn’t move. I rub my pointy chin into a knot of muscle just under his shoulder blade—the swimmer’s spot. I press hard.

  “Ow.” But at least he turns around.

  “I just need to do some of this on my own, okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “We can talk more about it at lunch tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He squeezes my hands. “Just say good-bye for now and go work on your paper. I should probably do some stuff anyway. So once again you’re the tough one, all right? You win.”

  “That isn’t—”

  “I know. It’s okay.” He rubs his brow with the heel of his hand. “Let’s just both go do some work, all right?”

  I hug him close, pressing my cheek against his chest. I need to leave, need to go, absolutely right now. But I linger there, my ear on his heart, listening to it beat steady. Strong. Alive. Here with me.

  “Okay,” I finally say, pulling away.

  22

  ONE SEVENTEEN IN THE MORNING. I yank myself out of sleep—heart pounding—a rush of heat sweeping over me. I’m awake. It’s okay. It wasn’t real. I sit up. The dark of my room shifts into recognizable shapes. I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out. The images of my nightmare dissipate, but not enough: Dad and me and one of my middle-school girlfriends on a drive in the country, listening to music and being happy. We follow a curve in the road, but it becomes broken gravel, rocks, and then deep black sand. The tires get stuck, spinning. Dad presses the gas harder. Black sand is flying all around us. My friend is panting with panic. The car sinks deeper into the sand. Dad starts to sweat, like someone’s pouring a bucket of water over him. The engine makes terrible noises. We sink lower and lower. The dark sand presses against the windows, and they begin to crack.

  I’ve gotten used to these since he died. Before, I would go into Mom’s room, get into bed with her. Most of the time she was out so cold, she never noticed I was there until the morning, but that didn’t matter to me. I just needed some company. In the morning she would wake me up, stroke my hair, and ask if I was okay. She never made me talk about the dreams—just knew I’d had a bad one. Maybe she couldn’t handle it, but that didn’t matter then. I liked that she didn’t need to know the details.

  Now, of course, it’s all different. After another minute or two of blinking in the dark, feeling my heart slow and the fear unwind from my veins, I go downstairs silently, turn the TV on, and pull a blanket over myself. It’ll take some time before I fall asleep again. But I figured out a while ago that TV company is better than none.

  23

  WHEN KATE AND I GET to Woodham’s class the next day, there’s a note on the door instructing us all to go straight to the library. The dream last night was exhausting, and the TV kept me awake more than it helped me sleep, so most of the day has sucked. I made myself smile and pay attention to Charlie and his friends at lunch again, which I guess is a thing now, but it’s made me even crankier.

  “So, don’t you even want to know?” Kate says as we head back down the hall. “I mean, I’m trying to be cool over here, but you’re barely saying anything and I kind of can’t stand it.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Uh, class today?” She’s blushing. “I just thought you might want to know if I talked to Connor or not. But, I mean, it’s not that big a deal—”

  “Oh gosh, no. I mean, yes, tell me. Sorry, I’m fuzzy.”

  I knock myself on the side of the head, trying to be cute. But fuzzy is an understatement. Fuzzy implies warm. Something you’d want to cuddle down into. Not shards and spikes and a cloud of choking dust.

  She looks at me from under those bangs, unsure.

  “Seriously. I mean, I’m assuming something’s happening this weekend.”

  That smile. “Yes.”

  She tells me about the acoustic performance he invited her to at a place where you can order dinner, too. Where John Mayer got his start, like anybody cares. I nod, I listen. She says he’s going to call her after school, and I tease her about being old-fashioned. She blushes again. It’s fun. Fun enough, I guess. She likes him. He likes her. He’s still being a grandpa about it, but maybe that’s what nice guys do. I feel a small smile, thinking of Charlie, and maybe trying another date with him, but then—

  “Wait, say that part again?”

  Kate’s face clouds. We’re at the library now, where almost everyone else is scattered at tables in the front. She speed walks us over to one in the back and then ducks down in her chair so low, it’s almost embarrassing.

  “I said I just hope he doesn’t expect me to, you know. . . .” she whispers.

  “What, kiss him?”

  “Shhhhhhhh. God.” Her whole face is red. Even under those bangs. “It’s not that. It’s just, you know, the other.”

  I can’t help laughing. “Do you mean you haven’t—?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.” She points at Woodham. “Pay attention.”

  I blink, not believing, and then not believing my own disbelief. Of course Kate hasn’t done it. Who on Earth would she have done it with? Her parents had to drop her off at their date last weekend. From what little I know about Kate, it wouldn’t surprise me if this were the first time she’s ever gone anywhere alone with anyone, especially a guy. Maybe he’s even the first person she’s kissed. It makes me picture my own first kiss, back in—what? Seventh? That guy Gordy. The bac
k of a dark van, coming home from a meet. I guess my little girlfriends had been in awe about it when I told them, though it hadn’t felt like anything special to me. Kate’s going to need some serious advice.

  A thought of Gavin swims up in my brain, but I clamp it down. It’s important to at least fake-listen as Woodham explains the importance of actual texts in this paper. But as he goes on and on, I start to I feel more and more like a bag of sand again. Black, gritty. The kind that sticks to your skin and gets in your throat. When he releases us to do our research, I want to lie down in one of the aisles and cover myself with a pile of books. Maybe the information will just seep through my skin.

  Kate’s all business though, pulling out her binder and smoothing open a blank page in her notebook. “So, what did you decide you want to focus on?”

  Clearly, Connor and necking are not suitable topics.

  “I don’t know,” I grumble. “Civil War?”

  Her brows come together. “Well, that’s an awful lot to cover.”

  “Doesn’t that mean it’ll be easier?”

  “Um, you can’t exactly cover the entire Civil War in one eight-page paper. Woodham’ll knife you for even trying.”

  “Woodham’s going to knife me no matter what.”

  Her face is both impatient and determined. I watch, unmoved, as she writes out a list, trying to show me how one preps for a paper like this. My eyes are almost too bleary to concentrate on her writing. But we have to have a subject turned in by the end of class.

  “What about this one?” I point. Death of Lincoln.

  Her eyes light up. She goes on for almost five minutes about some actor and his crazy multiple-murder plan, the long chase through the country to catch him and what it meant, the first president to be assassinated.

  I try to blink away the gritty feeling. “You seem pretty charged about the topic. You should take it.”

  “I already have most of my paper outlined already. I just think it’s interesting.”

  Of course she has her paper outlined. “Sure. Conspiracy. Revenge. Sounds great.”