by Don Calame
There are six rings down at the bottom of the pool now.
Ulf studies his wristwatch. “In exactly two minutes you will have a sixty-second recess. In that time, I expect you to remove your clothing. Down to your swim trunks.”
Ulf walks over to a pile of bricks I hadn’t noticed until now. He grabs one and hurls it into the pool, barely missing one of the kids. “Heads up,” he says, way too late.
Five more bricks get tossed our way, each kerplunking loudly into the water. I don’t have the energy to dodge, and I secretly wish for one of them to hit me in the temple so I can have an excuse to quit.
“Each of you will dive down twelve feet for a brick and swim it back to shore. Mr. Bottomly, you will dive for your six rings and your brick. Then we will swim four hundred yards of butterfly. For this I will join you. To keep the pace.”
Ulf pulls his shirt off over his head to reveal a severely toned torso with a great big purple birthmark cut diagonally across his chest. If you just glanced at it quickly, you might mistake it for a supervillain insignia.
My limbs feel like deflated inner tubes. The only thing that keeps me going is the fact that I never have to come back here. Ever.
When time is called, we drag ourselves out of the pool. It takes me all sixty seconds of the “recess” to strip off my waterlogged dress shoes, socks, pants, and shirt. My wet clothes must weigh like twenty pounds.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve managed to dive for all the rings and my brick, hating life all the way.
I cling to the edge of the pool like a wet newspaper.
“Now we swim!” Ulf launches himself right over my head into the water.
The other boys follow.
They finish their first lap of butterfly in no time and are headed back toward me before I can even muster the energy to push off from the side.
There’s no chance in hell I’m going to be able to finish sixteen laps of fly. I’m only halfway across the pool when I have to switch to freestyle.
I’ve only taken four strokes when I feel someone grab my legs and yank me backward.
I stop swimming and turn to see what’s going on.
“Do you think that I was born in the morning?” Ulf says, wading there behind me.
“I don’t know.”
“When I say swim the butterfly, I do not mean dance a waltz, I do not mean comb a sheep, and I definitely do not mean swim the crawl. Do you know what I do mean?”
“Swim the butterfly.”
“Yes, well, at least we have determined there is nothing wrong with your hearing.”
Ulf makes me swim all sixteen laps of the fly even though I have to stop every few strokes to tread water.
When I’m finally finished, forty-five minutes later, all the other kids are long gone. I can barely move. I can barely breathe. I’m so light-headed that I have to sit down on the pavement, my head between my knees, before I can even think about getting dressed. I’m not sure how I’m going to bike home.
“We must talk.” Ulf towers over me, pulling his shirt on. His matted hair drips water onto my curled-up legs.
He’s going to tell me that I am not qualified to be in his advanced swim class and that’s just fine with me because, like I said, I don’t plan on ever coming back again anyway.
Ulf crouches down next to me. “I was picking up the pieces of your wallet while you were swimming.” His face is close up to mine. I can smell his vinegary breath. “And I found this, Matthew.” He holds up my DMV identification card, complete with my name and picture and address on it. Mom made me get the ID card for some stupid reason, like if I ever got kidnapped or something, and I’ve never regretted it more than right now.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking down. “I won’t come back.”
Ulf laughs, but not in a something’s-funny way. “I am afraid you will be coming back. Twice a week for the next five weeks. You will finish my course. I do not care if you are a member of this club or not.”
I look up in disbelief. “But —”
“Nobody starts my program and then does not finish it.” He flicks the ID card with one darkened fingernail. “And just to make sure, I will hold on to this. That way I will know where to send the police if you do not show up. Do you know what the consequences are for trespassing and for impersonating a country club member?”
“No,” I say, looking back down, but I have a feeling he’s about to tell me.
Ulf stands and smiles. “You have two choices, Mr. Gratton: my class. Or jail. What will it be?”
I hesitate, because it’s a tough choice. I’ve never been to jail, but it’s hard to imagine it’s much worse than this class. Still, I can’t go to prison. Mom would be pissed. “Your class, I guess,” I say finally.
Ulf nods. “We will see you next Tuesday. Oh. And one more thing. Five weeks at twenty dollars a week is one hundred dollars. You will bring it next lesson.”
I don’t look up as Ulf walks away.
I just sit there, shaking my head. Wondering how I keep getting myself into all this crap.
“I DON’T FEEL SO GOOD,” I say to Coop and Sean. I try to lift my arm up over my head, but it’s not happening. I am in serious pain. My whole body feels like it’s being clenched in a giant’s fist.
“What do you expect?” Coop pushes a shopping cart and scans the supermarket shelves. We’re “casually” strolling down the beer aisle of PriceMark, trying to figure out how we can buy a six-pack so we can get into Ronnie Hull’s party tonight. “You’re not supposed to do some sick Extreme Workout when you’ve never even looked at a weight before. Not to mention, signing yourself up for a swim-torture class.”
“I didn’t sign up. It just . . . happened.” I look at all the different beers on the shelves and get a kind of anxious, carsick feeling.
There was talk of trying to get some kind of booze from our parents, but the only alcohol in my house is a bottle of cooking sherry and Sean’s parents are trying to quit drinking, so that just left Coop, who said he would definitely lift a six-pack except that his mom keeps a strict count of all the beer in the house because his dad has diabetes and is only allowed to have two drinks a night.
“What are we doing here?” Sean says. “There’s no way they’re going to sell us alcohol.”
“I’m thinking,” Coop declares. “There has to be some way. Maybe if we buy a whole bunch of other stuff along with the beer, and we pick a cashier that looks sort of clueless . . .”
“This is stupid,” Sean says. “Why can’t we bring something that tastes good? Like Red Bull or Rockstar?”
“Right, dorkus. That won’t get us tagged as a bunch of tools in too much of a hurry.” Coop shakes his head. “Besides, we don’t have to drink it. We just need it to get into the party. It’s like our ticket.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I roll my stiff shoulders. “I don’t even know if I’m gonna be able to go.”
Coop stops walking and stares at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how I can hardly move.”
“Dude. You’ve got to suck it up,” Coop says. “You don’t get invited to a party by a girl that you’re trying to impress and then not show up. You’re practically being handed the keys to Kelly’s missile silo, and you just want to throw them away.”
“First of all, you don’t know that,” I say. “And second, it doesn’t even matter. Once Kelly sees that picture of us in drag, she’ll never be able to look at me without laughing.”
“All the more reason to try and plant the parsnip tonight, dawg.” Coop claps me hard on the shoulder.
“Ow! Jesus!” I groan in agony and shrink away from Coop’s hand.
“What?” Coop says.
“I’m in pain! Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Sorry.” Coop shrugs and starts pushing his cart again. “I didn’t realize you were such a wuss.”
“Whatever.” I try to wave Coop off, but since I can’t lift my arm, I just look like a girlie T. rex.
“What if we get a six-pack of O’Doul’s?” Sean says.
“What the hell is O’Doul’s?” Coop asks.
“It’s a nonalcoholic beer that my dad drinks. They sell it with the soft drinks.”
“I don’t know.” Coop shakes his head. “That seems kind of . . . lame.”
“No one will even be able to tell. It looks exactly like all these other beers. I’m telling you.”
“You think they’ll let us buy it?” I ask.
Sean shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
Coop checks his watch and sighs. “I guess it’s worth a shot. Let’s go take a look.”
We find the O’Doul’s on the shelf in the soda aisle. And Sean’s right. It does look exactly like regular beer. Green bottles in a green cardboard six-pack carrier. You have to look super close to even see that it says “nonalcoholic” on it.
“See, I told you,” Sean says, all proud, holding up the six-pack. “If you saw this at a party, you’d think it was regular beer, right?”
Coop scrunches up his face. “I guess. But what if someone’s heard of it?”
“You hadn’t heard of it,” Sean insists. “Why would anyone else?”
“It’s perfect,” I say. “O’Doul’s even sounds like a real beer. Let’s get it.”
We throw a bag of pretzels, some potato chips, a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew, and a box of cookies into the cart as well. As distractions. Just in case buying nonalcoholic beer isn’t as easy as Sean thinks it will be.
We go to the express line where there’s no wait and load our groceries onto the conveyor belt. We put the O’Doul’s at the very end so that if there are any questions we can claim that it’s not ours.
The cashier is a tall dude with an accountant’s haircut and a red vest. I try not to look him in the eyes and instead read his nametag: KENNETH — MANAGER.
Damn it.
My eyes dart over to the other cashiers, looking for someone who might cut us a break, but it’s too late. Two hot girls in tank tops and miniskirts step up behind us, and Kenneth-the-manager has already grabbed the bag of pretzels and is running it past his scanner.
Kenneth is robotic in his movements, scanning an item, dropping it into a plastic bag, scanning another, then dropping it in the bag. His inattention makes me relax a little.
Until he grabs the six-pack and swipes it over the scanner.
There’s a loud, prolonged beep that sounds like an alarm. My stomach does a backward somersault.
Kenneth looks at the beer, looks at us, then back at the beer.
We are screwed for sure. Stupid Sean. I don’t know why we trusted him.
Kenneth grabs his red emergency phone. Presumably to call security and have us taken away.
“Wait . . . No,” I blurt out, before he can dial. “Don’t. That’s not ours.”
Kenneth looks at the two hot girls behind us, but they both shake their heads.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You aren’t buying this?”
“I . . . umm . . .” I blink hard. “Why did the alarm go off ? Who are you calling?”
“I need to do a price check,” he says. “Do you or don’t you want this?”
“Of course we want it.” Coop laughs, a little too loudly. “Don’t mind Matt. He’s got Tourette’s. You should hear the kinds of crazy stuff he shouts out at school. It’s like diarrhea of the mouth.” He gestures toward the phone. “It’s okay. Do your price check.”
The two girls behind us turn to each other and giggle.
I feel the heat of humiliation wash over my neck and cheeks.
Kenneth looks at me like I’m a feral raccoon that might dive over the counter and attack him. He keeps an eye on me as he dials the phone.
Once Kenneth has the price of the O’Doul’s, he totals our bill and Coop pays.
We exit the supermarket and I am ready to explode.
“What the hell was that all about?” I shout.
“That was me saving your ass.” Coop grins, lugging the shopping bag.
“I don’t have Tourette’s, butt rot.”
“You could have fooled me,” Coop argues. “With all that blubbering you were doing. I had to say something.”
“You didn’t have to say that.”
Coop rolls his eyes and laughs. “Jesus, dude. Stop being so emo. It’s worse than having Tourette’s.”
We walk around the corner of the PriceMark. Actually, Sean and Coop walk. I’m several steps behind them, doing a sort of Frankenstein’s monster waddle. Stiff legs, stiff arms.
“Pick it up, Grandpa,” Coop calls out. Several people in the parking lot turn to look at me.
I’d shake my head, but I can’t. My neck has seized up.
When I finally make it around the corner, Sean and Coop are standing there laughing at me.
“I hate you both,” I say.
This only makes Sean and Coop break up even more.
“I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”
Coop pretends to look hurt. “Can you believe this guy?” He smacks Sean’s arm. “Talk about ungrateful. Did I or did I not cover for your screwup?”
“Yeah,” I say. “By making me look like a jackass in front of that guy. Not to mention the two hot chicks behind us in line.”
I try to storm off, but all I can do is my stiff-legged totter, which kind of dampens the desired effect.
Coop and Sean easily catch up with me, but I don’t even look at them.
“Screw off.”
“You’re never going to see those people again,” Sean says. “Why do you even care?”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if it was you.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Coop says. “Jeez. You’d think you’d be happy. At least now we can get into the party.”
“Not me,” I say. “I’m not going.”
“Oh, yes you are.” Coop points a finger at me. “Don’t make me have to poke you.”
“Don’t even think about it.” I waddle faster.
Coop picks up his step. Sean is right behind him.
“Are you going to the party?” Coop’s finger hovers in the air.
“No.”
Coop jabs his finger into my chest.
“Ow! Crap!” The pain sends a shock wave through my whole body.
“Are you going to the party?” Coop asks.
“Can’t you see how —”
Coop stabs me in the shoulder.
“Goddamn it!” I wince and cough. I’d punch Coop in the face, but the bones in my arms have turned into Twizzlers.
“Leave him alone,” Sean says.
“No.” Coop glares at Sean. “I’m being a good friend here.” He turns back to me and sticks out his forefinger again. “Do you need more tough love?”
“Please,” I say. It hurts so bad I start to laugh. “I’ll go. I’ll go. Just stop poking me.”
Coop nods and smiles. “You’ll thank me someday.”
I’d like to thank him right now. By tackling him and feeding him some grass. But I have to conserve the limited energy I’ve got left for what is sure to be a long, excruciating traipse home.
SEAN AND I ARE HAVING DINNER at Cooper’s house tonight. Coop’s sister, Angela, is going to drive us to Ronnie Hull’s party, but she said she wasn’t picking anyone up, so Coop invited us over. Mom’s waived the we-eat-dinner-as-a-family rule because Pete’s away.
So here we are, sitting around Coop’s kitchen table with his family. My overtaxed muscles are still screaming at me, but I’ve muffled their cries with a handful of Advil.
I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to Kelly when I see her tonight, but nothing’s coming to mind. Part of me thinks I’ll just improvise, but most of me knows that won’t work; I’ll just end up all tongue-tied and stuck in my head. The more I roll it around, the more nervous I get. I need to find something to distract myself with.
I let my eyes wander around Coop’s kitchen. It’s way darker than mine. Everything painted olive green. Th
e walls, the cabinets. Even the fridge. His house smells like a mixture of sweaty socks and rubber and hard-boiled eggs.
Mr. Redmond is at one end of the table, with his elbows propped up on either side of his empty plate. There’s something Ichabod Crane about him. If Ichabod Crane were a forty-five-year-old machinist with thick greasy hair and dirty calloused hands.
“. . . and then I had to reach down into this vat of filthy old oil to try and find the goddamn ratchet that Al had dropped,” Mr. Redmond says, chewing openmouthed on a piece of nicotine gum. “Right up to my friggin’ armpit.” He gives a little karate chop at his shoulder to show how far. “I shit you not.”
“Walter.” Mrs. Redmond shuffles her Winnie-the-Pooh body over to the table and places a platter of fish sticks down in front of us. “Language.”
Mr. Redmond laughs. “These kids hear worse at school every day, I’m sure.”
“He’s right, Mom,” Angela says, reaching her wiry arm out and forking one fish stick onto her plate. She’s sort of pretty, I guess. Tanned, smooth skin. Long dark hair. But she acts like she’s already an adult. A really old adult. And she bosses Coop around like he’s a dog. So it doesn’t make you like her very much. Or even want to imagine her naked. At least not on a regular basis. “If Lower Rockville High School were a movie, it’d be rated R for sure.”
“Well, I’d like to have a G-rated dinner, thank you very much.” Mrs. Redmond carries three bowls over from the oven. Creamed spinach, canned corn, and Tater Tots. “We have guests.” She puts the bowls down, takes her seat, and blows a phantom string of hair from her face.
Mr. Redmond and Coop grab at the food like if they don’t get theirs right away, there won’t be any left. Mrs. Redmond takes her time placing her paper napkin in her lap, and Angela seems satisfied chopping up her single piece of fish into a dozen pieces.
Sean and I wait until everyone serves themselves before filling our plates.
“Anyway,” Mr. Redmond says, “my point is . . .” He blinks hard, then opens his eyes wide. “I don’t remember what my point was. I’m losing my mind.” He pops some corn into his mouth and chews it right along with his nicotine gum.