The raft Madison is referring to is square with a ladder and floats a little distance away from the H dock. It probably fits about five people tops.
I look out at the green water. Other than the few steps I took into Lake Kimball yesterday, I haven’t been in a large body of water since I was asked to leave our high school’s swim team last year. The water is smooth again today—just small, insignificant waves coming to shore. I count them as they lap against the sand.
“Zander,” Madison says.
“Huh?” I snap back to her.
“This is important.” She continues to drone on about the test. “It consists of a stroke check, a five-minute tread, and a diving test.” Madison finally smiles and says, “I’m sure you’ll all do great. Let’s get started!”
We strip down to our suits, each of us glancing at each other, one more self-conscious than the next, except for Cassie who looks too comfortable taking off her clothes. It gets even weirder when Hannah leaves her long-sleeved shirt on.
“I don’t want to get burnt,” she says, even though her skin is caramel colored and I doubt the sun has ever done any damage other than giving her a nice brown glow. I cringe, guessing she’s more worried about exposing the damage she’s inflicted to herself.
We wait by the edge of the lake as Cassie sits down on her towel in her hot-pink bikini and leans her face back into the sun.
“Cassie, would you please join us?” Madison says.
“I’m not taking the test.” Cassie’s face doesn’t move from looking skyward.
“Then I’ll be forced to give you level red. I don’t want to do that.”
“Like you care. And like I’m gonna go in that water anyway. There are probably leeches in there.”
“I do care and there aren’t leeches,” Madison says.
“Well, I’d rather work on my tan.”
“Your tan?” Madison tries to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Cassie is darker than all of us combined. “Fine. If that’s how you want it, I won’t force you. It’s your decision.” Madison gets a red washer out of a bag and throws it down on Cassie’s towel with a black permanent marker. “Please write down your name and hang it on the wooden board. The rest of you can get started.”
My toes squish into the sand as we walk out to waist-deep water, but it feels good. The air is warm and soggy today, like a damp sponge. I skim my hands over the water and feel the liquid course between my fingers.
“For the stroke test, you must swim from dock to dock twice in the red zone with any stroke you choose. Pick your strongest stroke,” Madison says.
When I submerge my head in the cold water, my breath gets tight adjusting to the temperature. It’s like jumping into my school’s barely heated pool at five thirty every morning for two months. I feel like I’m right back on the varsity swim team. But when I open my eyes under water, all that’s around me is green and brown. The water is so murky, I can barely see in front of me.
I glide doing the breaststroke, using as little energy as I can. When I feel the dock, I flip underwater to switch directions. I lag a bit on my turn. My coach would be disappointed my turns are not the speed they used to be.
“Nice job,” Madison says when I’m done.
Next is the five-minute tread.
“You must stay afloat for five minutes, your entire face never going below the surface of the water. If you get tired, come to the dock. Don’t risk it,” Madison says.
I float on my back, looking up at the sun, my legs kicking lightly in the water as my arms flap like wings at my side.
That’s what I always liked about swimming. The way I could get lost in the rhythm. I won every meet by doing that. Every meet until the last one. After that, my dad hung the Camp Padua brochure under one of my mom’s inspirational magnets on the fridge. I walked past it every morning and evening on my way to and from school. One day, I actually stood right in front of it and looked at the smiling faces of the campers posed on the cover.
“What’s that?” Coop asked, chomping on the kale chips my mom made earlier that day. “These taste like ass.”
I touched the glossy paper and almost picked it up, but every few seconds my eyes would drift to the magnet with the word HOPE written on it in script. What a ridiculous word. I made out with Coop on the couch instead of reading the brochure. He didn’t taste like ass from the kale chips, more like a weed.
I close my eyes as the memories come back to me and my chin starts to dip under the water.
My dad cried when I got kicked off the swim team. He begged the coach to let me stay on. He said that I would do better, that I wouldn’t put myself or the team at risk again, but those were his words, not mine. Life is a risk. In the end, my coach said I was a liability.
My dad yelled at me when we got home from the meet, though I’m not sure what he said, I was so lost in French conjugations. When he raised his hand to smack me, my mom grabbed his arm. That’s when my dad started crying. He fell to his knees and hugged me around the waist. My hair was still wet and making the back of my shirt cold, so when he finally let go, I went to the bathroom to blow-dry my hair.
To hope in French: espérer.
I look up at the sky, my mouth so close to the surface of the water I can taste it. A muffled ringing sound brings me out of my trance.
Dori, Katie, and Hannah hold on to the dock as Madison waves her arm calling me back to them.
“Nice job, Zander,” Madison says again. My coach would always say that, too. Nice job, Zander. And he’d pat me on the head like a dog.
“I think I’m done,” Hannah says, pulling herself out of the water.
“Are you sure? You were doing so well,” Madison offers.
“I don’t plan on swimming a lot this summer anyway,” Hannah says and takes a yellow washer.
Madison looks disappointed as Hannah leaves the dock to sit by Cassie on the beach.
“Okay, ladies, the diving test is next. You must swim to the bottom of the lake, find one of the diving sticks, and bring it back to me on the dock. It’s about twelve feet, so if you feel like you’re not going to make it, do not hesitate to come back to the surface. We’ll do this one at a time. Who would like to go first?”
Dori and Katie both take their turns and are successful bringing the yellow diving stick to the surface. When Madison calls on me, I stand, my toes curled over the end of the H dock as she tosses a yellow stick into the water.
My hands hit the water, like slicing ice. The coolness travels down my body, and the deeper I get into Lake Kimball the colder it feels. The yellow stick sits in the sand and I grab it, but stop. I float inches from the bottom, my hand skimming the sand. It’s smooth and falls through my fingers, and I think I could stay here where things just float through time sink to the bottom.
When my lungs start to squeeze as my breath runs out, I slam my feet on the sand and come back to the surface.
“Zander!” Madison yells from the end of the dock. She looks like she’s about to jump in. “I thought you weren’t going to make it for a second. You scared me.”
I give her the yellow diving stick. “Sorry.”
“Kerry said your parents told him you had an issue with swimming.”
“My parents told him that?” I ask. Madison nods. I can tell the concern on her face is real and it only makes me angrier. I don’t want her concern or pity.
I don’t respond. I write my name on the green washer she hands me and hang it on the board. Fini.
CHAPTER 6
Cher Papa,
Je pense que j’ai un cancer.
Cordialement,
Alex Trebek
My hair is still damp and the littlest bit of water clogs my ear as I head toward the archery field. I jump on one leg to get it out as I walk up to the group of campers circling counselor Hayes. I was surprised when Madison showed me the archery field. It seemed a little dangerous considering the camp’s clientele. I have a cabin mate who likes to inflict bodily harm on herself. A
nd Kerry threw a fit over a fork last night.
“With safety we have more fun,” Hayes says, holding up the archery equipment. Turns out that the bows and arrows in his hands are plastic. The kind little kids play with. No pointy arrowheads, only suction cups.
“Figures,” I mumble to myself. I raise my hand to ask if there’s enough time to change activities.
“Yes, Durga, how can I help you?” Hayes holds out an archery set and smiles. He has a full head of black dreadlocks and is as dark as Cassie. One of the dreads even has a jangling bell hanging from the end.
“Durga? My name is Zander.”
Hayes smiles. “Durga is an awesome Hindu warrior goddess. She defeated the mighty Mahishasura when all the other men couldn’t. You look like you might have a little warrior in you.”
I take the bows and arrows, unsure of what to say. I don’t feel like a warrior, Hindu or otherwise; I feel tired, but it’s too late to leave now.
“Archery is about precision and patience.” Hayes blinks slowly. “Kind of like life. We breathe in and aim. Then we breathe out and release. We take our time. It isn’t about hitting the target so much as the path that leads us to the target. As life would be, after you hit one target, there’s always another one in front of you.” Hayes exhales all the breath out from his lungs and smiles. “Let’s breathe together.”
The group of campers takes a deep breath.
“That was a start. Now let’s try it again. When we breathe together, we become a part of something larger than ourselves. Support your neighbor and let them support you,” Hayes says. “It’s the journey, not the destination.”
We take another deep breath and another.
“Inhale. Aim. Exhale. Release. Hit your target. Enjoy the journey.” He lifts and lowers his arms through the air, gesturing for every breath we take. “Great. Now, let’s practice. Just with your bows. Remember to keep breathing. That’s a lesson for everything in life. Just keep breathing.”
Just keep breathing. Please. That’s all I ask. The words pull on my body as my mom’s voice rings in my ear. I don’t want her here with me. I just want to be alone with the humming in my head, like a warm blanket that protects me from cold weather. A blanket I can pull all the way over me and disappear.
“You’re still wearing your bathing suit.”
I turn to find Grover next to me. I lose my focus and drop my bow.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Bek insisted.” Grover gestures to the other side of the group where Bek is practicing aiming and breathing. “You’re still wearing your bathing suit,” he says again.
I don’t respond, but tug on my shirt so it’s not so clingy.
“Are you not answering because you’re still mad at me?” he asks.
“I’m not mad. You made a statement. I don’t have to respond.”
“You’re smart, aren’t you?” Grover tries to nudge my shoulder but I dodge his touch.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Everything matters.” Grover squints at me. “Is this because of your boyfriend who plays football?”
“No,” I say, suddenly protective even though I don’t care much about Coop at all. If he was having sex right now with Miley Ryder, the most popular girl in our grade, I’d probably be more upset that my French grade might drop from a lack of conjugating during kissing than that he’s cheating on me.
Hayes walks up to us. “Are you breathing together?” he asks.
“Always.” Grover wiggles his eyebrows. He licks the suction cup end of his arrow and sticks it on my arm. “Aim. Release. Hit your target.”
I stare down at the arrow that’s covered in Grover’s spit. It’s warm and kind of gross . . . but kind of not.
I pull the arrow free. “Gross,” I say and toss it at him.
Hayes has us line up in front of the plastic targets and practice. Grover doesn’t leave my side, and my ear won’t drain, the echo totally distracting. I stick my finger in my ear and jump up and down. I shake my head. Nothing works.
“God, you’re sexy,” Grover says when I flip my head over and hop on one foot.
“You have problems.”
“I acknowledge that.”
“Don’t say that again,” I groan.
“Okay. But just so you know I acknowledge that.”
We practice aiming and releasing, most of us missing the target over and over again. At one point, Grover throws down his bow and yells, “This is impossible! I can’t clear my brain. In the past ten seconds, I’ve thought about seven different kinds of sandwiches and what Zander would look like eating them.”
“Stop thinking about me,” I say, my voice reverberating in my head. But the water stays.
“That would be impossible.”
Hayes picks up Grover’s bow and hands it to him. “Just breathe,” he says.
I look around at the other campers, who can’t seem to hit the target any better than Grover and I, when I catch Bek nail a bull’s-eye with his plastic arrow. And then somehow he does it again.
I get so entranced by Bek and his ability that I forget about the water in my ear and that Grover thinks about sandwiches and me eating them. Bek’s eyes never leave the target in front of him. He holds the bow up to his cheek, pulls back, inhales, and before he exhales and releases, I watch him say something to himself. He lands another bull’s-eye effortlessly.
I move closer to him to hear what he’s saying, but it’s mumbled and I only catch a little bit because of the damn water in my ear. I jump on my one side, trying to shake it out. Warmth hits my earlobe as the clog finally lets go and Bek’s words ring clear.
“You’re speaking French,” I say. Bek startles at the sound of my voice and drops his bow on the ground.
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.”
“So what’s your secret?” I ask him.
“I don’t have a secret.”
“Yes, you do. I heard you. You said, Voici mon secret.”
“You know French?” When I nod, Bek says, “I don’t have a secret.”
“Then why did you say that?” I ask.
He picks up his bow. “Fine, you caught me. I do have a secret. I have X-ray vision. Nice bathing suit by the way. Grover will be jealous that I saw it first.”
I hug my chest, even though I know he’s lying. “What were you really saying?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even speak French.” Sweat peeks out on Bek’s forehead beneath his blond hair as the lunch bell rings.
“Looks like it’s about time for food. Please bring all equipment back to me,” Hayes says.
“Voici mon secret,” I say to myself as I watch Bek walk across the field toward the mess hall. “Here is my secret.”
“What secret?” Grover asks, coming to stand next to me.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.” Grover says and winks at me. “It’s always something.”
“Don’t think of this as therapy. Think of it as . . . share-apy,” Madison says as we sit around the Circle of Hope. “This is an open forum for you to share with us about your life. I’m here to support you without judgment.” A small figurine sits on Madison’s lap as she gestures to the group.
We sit around the Circle of Hope: a bulimic, a cutter, a depressed teenager, a self-diagnosed manic-depressive-bipolar-anorexic disaster who some days thinks she’s a boy locked in a girl’s body, Madison, and me.
“Is that what Kerry taught you in camp training?” Cassie scoffs.
“Yes.” Madison nods. “Actually, he did.”
“Is he even qualified to train you?”
“Kerry holds a doctorate degree in psychology and social work. He’s written numerous articles about his work at the camp. He’s kind of a genius.”
Cassie’s eyes light up. “You want to screw him, don’t you?”
Madison goes stiff but doesn’t respond to the comment. Instead, she holds up th
e figurine. “This is Saint Anthony of Padua. He’ll be our ‘talking stick.’ We’ll pass him to whoever is sharing as a reminder that it’s their turn to talk. It’s our job to listen.”
I dig my foot into the ground and move the dirt around with the toe of my shoe. I don’t plan on talking. I’ve done too much of it lately and swimming and participating. Right now, I’d just like a nap. An uncontrollable yawning fit comes over me as we sit waiting for anyone to start.
“Okay, I’ll go,” Madison says. “I grew up in Birmingham just a few hours away from here. I’m getting my masters in social work at Michigan State, and my undergrad is in psychology with a minor in English.”
Cassie yawns in unison with me. “That’s not sharing. That’s bragging. Get some real problems, Mads,” she says.
“Please don’t call me Mads.”
“Okay, Mads,” Cassie says.
Madison straightens out and offers St. Anthony to Cassie. “Why don’t you share next?”
Cassie crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t have anything to brag about.”
“Someone else?” Madison looks around the circle. “Dori, what about you?”
Dori glances around at us and reluctantly takes the figurine. “I’m fifteen years old. I’m from Chicago. My mom and dad are divorced and I live with my mom.”
“That’s good.” Madison nods.
“It’s actually not that good. I hate my stepdad.”
“I just meant that it’s good of you to share.”
“Well, it isn’t good. It sucks.” Dori plays with the bottom of her shirt, rolling St. Anthony in the fabric.
“Why don’t you tell us why it sucks?” Madison leans in.
“I don’t know.” Dori’s eyes won’t come off her shirt. “My stepdad is an ass. My mom pays more attention to him than to me. And I wish I could live with my dad, but he moved to Oregon to be with his new wife.”
The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland Page 5