by JD Glass
“Hey, Kitt?” I called to her as she started to walk away.
“Yeah, Razor?” Kitt turned.
“I think I’m glad I ate my Wheaties.”
Soon all the lineups, race-changing discussions, and other bureaucratic nonsense were done, and the team sat together on the bench, the other team on the other side of the pool, doing whatever it was they did.
“Okay, we’re outmanned here, but we outgun them,” Coach Robbins said. Sister Attila, who’d arrived some time earlier, stood next to him. “We’ve got stronger players, we’ve got bigger hearts, and we’re determined,” he continued. “We need a good showing in the individual races, but we need to really blow them away in points and time by the relay. You all know how the relays are going to work and how the lineups are set. Our last relay has Kitt, Blade, and Razor as anchors, with the rest of you spread out on the teams. Think of it as ‘Operation Smooth Shave.’” He smiled broadly at his own pun.
It was a really bad joke. Kitt and Blade and I looked at each other, and none of us was particularly pleased. He got back thin smiles all around. “It’s Razor-Blade-Kitt, get it?” he explained, seeming pleased, very pleased with himself.
No one said anything, except for a few, very forced, ha-has. Even Sister Attila looked toward the endless ceiling as if she were asking God why.
Silence continued to grow.
“Okay then, get in there and show ’em”—he gestured to the other side,—“what you can do. First race is up in Þ ve minutes, the
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Þ fty butterß y,” Coach Robbins said and walked off, clipboard in hand, to the table behind the starting blocks where the other coach and the ofÞ cials were.
Sister held up her hand in a “wait” gesture so we wouldn’t disperse.
“Before you get started,” and she looked around at all of us, “remember this. If you hit the water with a clear head and get out of it knowing you’ve done the best you can,” she looked at Kitt, then continued,
“you’ve done a good job. If you hit the water with a clear heart and get out of it knowing you’ve done more than you thought you could,” she paused, looked me dead in the eye, then at the rest of the group,
“the best of your very best, you’ve done a great job, no matter how the timing or the points fall. I know you will all do a great job. I’ll see you in the water.” Sister nodded at us and made her way over to the stands.
At that, each girl wrapped up in her own private world, we made our way to the bench or the starting blocks, depending on what we were slated for.
With a sound like thunder, the Þ rst butterß y event went off, and the water churned with the strong kicking and pulling motions of the swimmers. I always loved to watch this event; the movements of the swimmers were incredible, dramatic. I myself was (and still am) terrible at this stroke, but boy, I admired those who did it, especially those who did it well.
I alternately sat on the bench or walked the length of the deck to each end with other members of the team, screaming encouragement at my teammates each and every time the starter gun went off—hugging, backslapping, and congratulating girls as they came out of the water.
Finally, what seemed like only seconds later, it was my Þ rst event, and with a Þ nal check of my shoulder strap, a snap of the leg, and a tug of my goggles over my eyes, I mounted the second block to stare down my lane, the lines below me wavering in the warm blue water. A swimmer in a green and white suit stood on either side of me.
There were twelve competitors for this event, so it would go off in two heats of six, and Blade was in the second. Girls with the top six times of both combined heats would compete in a third, Þ nal heat, determining Þ rst, second, and third places. This also meant it was possible to come in Þ rst in a heat and not even qualify for the third, if the other six competitors in the other heat all had better times than you. Still, the team would earn points by Þ nishing order in both heats anyway, so it was never a total wash.
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Actually, it was possible to have two heats, then a deciding third, with the majority of swimmers from one or another team. This point system also meant that a team could have consistent Þ rst-place Þ nishes and still not win the meet, if the other team consistently scored second, third, and fourth. It was all about how the points fell and added in the end, although any individual could potentially outperform her entire team.
I focused my sight on the end. A straight-run Þ fty, no turn. I decided to do a dead-ahead sprint. I’d have at least a heat to sit out before a third Þ nal, and then a few events in between before my next few events. I could do this and not burn myself out for later. I was going to do this.
Now.
Later didn’t matter.
Slice the lane.
“Swimmers—on the block!” an ofÞ cial cried out, his voice made mechanical through a bullhorn’s ampliÞ cation.
I curled my toes over the edge and bent my legs and arms, elbows slightly behind my ribs. Good entry was all about form and distance, how you came off the block. Sometimes a good entry could determine the whole race. Or so we were told, anyway.
“On your mark!”
I tensed my arms and legs, hung low over the block, and concentrated on a point about a dozen or so feet in front of me, directly centered, where I wanted to enter. Not that I could really jump that far, but it was always good to aim as if you could.
Bang!
The gun went off, and I imagined my body as a powerful spring uncoiling along its length as I stretched and leaped off, out and above the water.
I skimmed the surface and started moving. Breath, stroke, stroke, stroke, breath, stroke, stroke, stroke. There was no sound except the water rushing by my ears, my hands as they cut through the water. I could hear the sound my legs made.
My arms stretched, my legs moved, and the muscles that stretched over my hips and stomach strained in a gratifying way. I worked harder and felt the burn work its way through. What can I say? Pushing to the limit feels pretty damn good.
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The drop-away point was ahead of me, and I dug within as deeply as I could. It wasn’t about winning, it was about my best time. I had to at least beat my own best time.
The motion was mechanical and intense. I was in the water, focused on breath, focused on muscle. I reached the end wall and stood, gasping. As the water poured off my head, the sound came back on, destroying the peaceful calm of the water, and I could hear cheering from the stands.
“Great race!” greeted Mad Max as she reached down to haul me out, and I stood on deck, shaking and dripping.
I shoved the goggles off my eyes under my chin. “Thanks,” I said, breathless, and we gave each other a brief hug, which Max followed up with a pat on the back. A couple of other girls came up to do the same.
We walked back over to the bench to grab a seat and found Kitt there, the world’s largest towel draped over her shoulders while she waited for the next event. “Nice slice, Razor,” she greeted as I sat down,
“very nice race.”
I sat down and Kitt looked over at me again. “Where’s your towel?”
I was starting to shiver. “Oh fuck, I forgot it in the locker room,” I said out loud, realizing what I had done.
“Here,” she draped an end of her towel over me, “share mine.” I sat there, very grateful to not be freezing. “Thanks, Kitt.” She glanced at me. “No problem, Razor, no problem,” and she focused her attention on the starting blocks. I followed her gaze and watched Samantha, Sammy Blade, take the center block and Betta take an outside one.
“We’ve had the Slice, it’s time for the Dice,” Kitt murmured, watching the swimmers take their marks. Kitt glanced over at me. “You Þ nished in the top three, you know,” she remarked, then returned to the race.
Wow. Not bad. But I didn’t want to know where, which is why she didn’t tell me. It would wr
eck my focus to know if I was Þ rst or second or third. Third, you just get disgusted. Second, you wonder why you didn’t do good enough for Þ rst, and Þ rst, you worry you can’t keep it up. Better to not know and just have your conÞ dence built by the fact that you did well. As it turned out, my time qualiÞ ed me for the third and Þ nal heat for the Þ fty free.
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In the Þ nal heat for the Þ fty, off the block and in the water, as I passed the drop-off point or, actually, shallow point since all entrances were on the deep end, I came up for air and could hear people screaming
“Slice and Dice! Slice and Dice!” and a new one—“Twin Blade!” I put my head back in the water and pulled harder. I slammed my arms into the wall, I was going so hard and so fast. It took me a second to understand that I was done, so I stood and saw Blade standing in her lane. I ducked under the lane divider, ignoring the girl in green, and Blade came over from her side. We hugged each other and patted each other on the back saying, “Great race, great race,” and “that was motherfuckin’ great,” and other such terms that people use when they’ve given everything they’ve got and they’re exhausted and up against the wall, and scared that they’ll fail and relieved that they’re all together, everyone has survived, no matter what the outcome.
The crowd was screaming and Mad Max came swimming over.
She’d been in this heat too, and we were all hugging and cursing and slapping each other.
We stopped for a second and everything was silent as the bullhorn crackled and called out the Þ nish times. The screams were louder than before. We had swept the heat. We hadn’t won the race yet, but we had this event, motherfucker, we had it!
The rest of the meet until the relays passed in a blur, in the water, out of the water, sharing the towel with Kitt or Blade or both, watching the other events, arms and legs numb, chest tight from effort, eyes sore from the pressure of the goggles, and head burning hot from the latex swim cap.
In the Þ rst relay, Kitt and Blade, Mad Max, and me as a team, we nailed the fucker to the ground, baby, almost three body lengths ahead of the competition, fuckin’ A, and while it wasn’t a sweep, it was Þ rst and third, good points, very good points.
It seemed like seconds later that the second relay went off, and as I waited on the center block, alternately focused on the spot in front of me where I wanted to enter and Betta’s cap as it came toward me in the backstroke, I crouched, ready to spring.
She was coming, she was two body lengths away, one, and I was ready, her hand reached for the wall, and I was stretched over her for a moment, her hand touched the wall, and I was off and going in, ß ying, and the water slapped me hard and cold this time when I hit.
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My muscles ached and burned, and I was pulling steadily, pushing, but not too hard; there was another lap coming. Suddenly, my body became lighter than air, and I actually felt the water pulling me along, like I was almost hovering on top of it, and my work became effortless.
I had gotten caught in my opponent’s slipstream and was being pulled in the drag, making my job easier. I’d have plenty left for the return lap. The midpoint came, and I started building to a sprint, found the marker for the return ß ip, and came off the wall with the strongest kick I had in me. I glided underwater for a precious few seconds, then broke the surface, pulling and kicking as if my life depended on it. I imagined the look on Blade’s face, or Kitt’s, if we didn’t do well. I actually heard Sister’s words, telling us what a great job was.
I gasped for air and heard the crowd yelling, “Sweep! Sweep!” and then nothing mattered but the swimming. I kept pulling, kicking, my heart almost bursting, my lungs burning, and the water hissing past my ears as I sliced through.
My hand hit the wall, followed by my shoulder, and I brought myself up just before I smashed my head too. It was a good idea to keep it safe in case I wanted to actually use it for something later.
I hung on to the ridge around the wall by my Þ ngertips, gasping and choking, so numb I couldn’t even understand what I saw or heard.
The crowd must have been on its feet from the sound, and I watched Blade come in, then Kitt, then the other team, and waiting until everyone was Þ nished, then ignoring the girls in their lanes, Blade and Kitt swam over to my lane, and we hugged and kissed and slapped each other, wordless, except for the occasional “Good,” or “Fuckin’ great race,” and we were not Kitt, or Blade, or Razor, but Fran, Samantha, and Nina, hanging onto the ropes and the wall and each other, breathless and exhausted from effort, hope, and fear.
Silence reigned again as the bullhorn crackled and a voice read out the Þ nal times—we heard we had swept the relay, and again we were whooping and yelling and pounding each other. Kitt grabbed my head, kissed the crown, and knuckled it, then did the same to Blade. We looked at each other and dunked her.
Silence stretched, then stretched some more as the judges tallied the points and discussed them. We waited in that quiet, just staring up at the table, waiting to know what had happened, who had won, which
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school team had the honor of defending a Þ rst-place position for the rest of the season.
Finally, the points were read, and as their meaning became clear, pandemonium ensued, as the whole team jumped in the water—we had won! Our school now had a second year of aggressive early Þ rst-place positioning to defend, giving us a great shot at regional—East Coast—
Þ nals at the end of the season.
Coach Robbins came running over to the edge to congratulate us, just as happy as we were. “Great job, girls! Great job!” and he put a hand down to haul Kitt out. She held it a moment, looked sidewise at me and at Blade, then with a kick off the wall, plunk! Coach was in the water.
He went under, then came up a few feet away, spitting out a stream of water like a fountain and pretending to be a ballet dancer, or an overgrown cherub, and we all laughed with him, clowning around some more.
See? It was all okay, we didn’t hurt him. He was the swim team coach, after all; it was Þ ne if he got wet. This time, anyway.
Sister came walking over to the edge of the deck and stood, watching us all with that evaluating expression she sometimes wore.
Finally, we all quieted down and gave her our attention. “Great race, girls, great race,” and she smiled a very rarely seen smile at us. “I knew, I truly knew,” and she glanced at each of us, one by one, “that you would all do a great job, and you all have.” She smiled again. “More than the school, more than I, and more than Coach Robbins,” she nodded at him where he’d gone under and come up again, “you should—all of you,” and she gave us each another glance, “be proud of yourselves. I will see all of you of tomorrow,” and with a Þ nal nod, Sister turned and strode away from the pool.
That seemed to wrap it all up, and in twos and threes we got out of the pool and walked back to the locker room, but not me, not right away. The stands had already emptied, and I knew that Kerry and Nicky would be waiting for me, either by the locker room or at the main door.
I stopped at the bench, took the damn swim cap off my head and sat—I needed a little space to think. I rubbed my hair out a bit and reß ected. I didn’t want to join all the locker-room chat, didn’t want to have to wait for an empty shower, wash, dry, and change in front of everyone. This had been a long day, an exiting one, true, in many ways,
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but really, really long. I just wanted to sit there a little while and let my head drain, let the adrenaline run out of my system until my mind was as clear as the water in the pool I had just struggled and fought in, and I knew what to do next.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice Samantha sit down next to me until she threw a towel and an arm over my shoulders. She had gone into the locker room, taken her cap off, and come back out, not bothering to change out of her swimsuit. �
�You okay?” Her voice was soft, full of concern.
I snuggled gratefully into the terry cloth and the warmth of her arm; I hadn’t even realized I’d been shivering until that second. I enjoyed the warmth a little longer and, jamming both elbows on my knees, made a resting platform out of my hands and buried my face in them for a bit, took a deep breath, then rested my chin on them.
“Yeah, just tired,” I exhaled, staring moodily out over the water, its surface quiet and smooth now that the do-or-die competition was over.
Samantha’s hand was still on my back, and I could feel its heat burning through the towel. Well, at least that spot would be dry, I thought.
“Yeah, me too,” Samantha returned. “Big day, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Samantha rubbed my shoulder for a couple of warm seconds and stood to face me. “C’mon, let’s get out of here and grab a butt.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I stood, stretching, holding the towel out behind me to loosen my back and shoulders.
We started walking to the door that would lead to the locker room.
“Hey, share that thing, it’s cold!” Samantha requested with a laugh and, chagrined, I handed her a corner, which she promptly draped over her back. It wasn’t as big a towel as Kitt’s, though, so Samantha put a hand around my shoulder, and I put an arm around her waist as we approached the door.
I put a hand out to push it open, when it snapped wide and we were brought up short by Kitt, showered and dressed in a white sweatshirt with the team logo on it and a pair of blue jeans and sneakers. The only hint that she’d been in the water at all was her hair, still wet from the shower.
I don’t really know why, you think swimmers would be paranoid about ear infections and stuff, especially since our school competitive season covers the deadest, coldest part of winter, but no one really ever
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