A Matter of Heart

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  And he doesn’t mean the tree.

  He’s not looking at me. Will he ever be able to look at me again?

  He’s nearly to the back door when I open my mouth and suddenly words are spilling out. “But it wasn’t bad. Just not like I expected.”

  Dad stops. He slowly turns, disbelief on his face. But finally, finally, he’s looking at me.

  “I mean, it’s different. I’m still getting adjusted.”

  “Abby, it’s okay. You—”

  “But I think I can be fast.”

  He pauses. “Honey, you don’t have to—”

  “Not in the hundred,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll have the endurance. But for a fifty-yard sprint.” I don’t know where these lies are coming from, but I let them rush out, and they sound believable even to my own ears. “I mean, it’ll be long course, so I’d have to swim fifty meters, but still. When you think about it, it’s only twenty-something seconds in the pool. I can cover a lot of water with a good dive off the blocks. I can do twenty seconds before my heart’s even out of zone two.”

  His eyes zero in on mine. He’s got deep-set eyes, a little squinty at the edges, especially when he’s focused. I stare back with eyes of the same color green, and the same intensity.

  He wipes the back of his hand across his lips. “I didn’t think about the fifty. And…you were able to push yourself?”

  I shrug. Which is not technically a yes. “I mean, I know it’s just the fifty.”

  Dad has never liked the 50. He says it’s for hotdoggers, and besides, it’s too hard to control. In a race that short, it’s all about a perfect start or a perfect flip turn if it’s a 25-yard pool. Anyone can win.

  “A lot of good swimmers like the fifty,” he says. He strides back to the kitchen and sets his water glass on the counter. “And you think your time might be competitive?”

  “If I have a chance to get adjusted.” My voice is steady. I can’t believe what I’m saying, but I can’t stop myself either. “I’ve got two weeks to work on it. I’m just not sure how to manage practices. No way I can keep up with all the yards the team is doing.”

  “You don’t have to in order to compete in the fifty,” he says quickly. “Your dive is one of the best. And you can practice that without getting your heart rate up.”

  He heads toward the kitchen table, and I know he’s going to check the swim times from the latest high school meet. I think maybe it’s going to be okay. He isn’t saying anything about State, but he’s thinking it. I’ve already qualified in the 50. I did early on in the season, not expecting to use it. So what if I was slow today? No one has to know. I can tell everyone I’m training for the 50 and they’ll believe me—they’ll believe Fins. In a week, I’ll have a second opinion and none of it will matter anyway.

  I sag against the counter as Dad finds the page with the swim results. I watch him nod and I can practically see the dreams churning to life. I know it’s wrong, making him believe in a lie, but I don’t care. I finally feel alive again.

  30

  When I wake up Monday morning, it’s to the deep nothing of darkness. It’s five o’clock. I stretch and yawn. Swim practice will start soon, and no one bothered to tell my inner clock that I’m not going.

  In a way, things worked out pretty well. Coach called last night to say he’d spoken to the principal. There are insurance concerns—liabilities, since the pool is a school facility. He needs to work some things out before I come back, even if I am on the medicine.

  Bottom line: don’t show up.

  Part of me is glad. Coach would’ve figured out that I’m too weak, too slow on the meds—even for the 50. This way, I can keep the lie alive while I wait to hear from the new doctor. It shouldn’t be long. Dad found a friend of a friend who’s a cardiologist, and he already has the results of my EKG and a disc with the echo.

  But I still feel the sharp sting of betrayal. I expected Coach to fight for me, and instead it’s like he’s already given up. This morning, he’s got someone else swimming in my spot, as if I’m replaceable.

  My eyes close and I square my jaw. Like hell I am! I just need to stay focused, stay positive. I’ll be back. Crying yesterday was a moment of weakness. I’m only sorry Alec saw it.

  Alec. I picture him with his wet hair falling over his forehead, still tall and lean even with his shoulders hunched, the muscles of his abdomen tight enough that I could count his ribs.

  I flip in the bed and curl around my pillow. Alec’s image follows me. I can still see him looking at me, watching me. As if he knows something about me now, as if in that moment of weakness, he worked his way inside me. I squirm, my body as unsettled as my thoughts. Maybe it was better when he was shooting me those angry glares.

  I’ve been staring at you for a lot longer than a month.

  I give myself a mental shake. I’m lying in bed thinking about Alec Mendoza. Wouldn’t Jen love to know that!

  Fluffing up the pillow behind my head, I flip onto my back. It’s still dark outside, and my room is as black as a Sharpie. But even so, it’s officially Monday, and Mom said the doctor’s office promised a second opinion by the end of the week.

  In the meantime, I’ve got another interview today with the TV station. Halloween is Saturday, and Jen and I are going all out for Tanya’s party. Plus, when I get to school, I’ll see my very sexy boyfriend, and just for the heck of it, I’m going to engage in what our principal calls “lip-locking.” And I’m going to do it in the hallways even if it is “expressly forbidden.”

  I lay a hand over my heart. It’s beating quiet and regular and slow.

  Beta-blockers. They’re saving me and killing me at the same time.

  31

  When the final bell rings for third period, I’m ready and waiting for the interview, my stuff still inside my pack, my hair brushed and my lip gloss reapplied after seeing Connor during the passing period.

  The lip-lock with Connor was more of a lip-skid. I went in for the kiss and he jerked away. He said Mrs. Kennedy, the VP, was right behind me, but then it wasn’t really her at all. I ended up smearing his cheek with deep berry gloss and then trying to wipe it off. Not exactly smooth. I’m losing my touch on dry land too.

  Now I’m waiting, and Mr. Ruelas glances at my empty desktop and the pack I haven’t unzipped. He looks away as if he’s embarrassed, and I suddenly understand. Heat floods my face. There’s no student runner coming to get me. No pass excusing me from world history. No Maryann Engels waiting to ask me about my life as a swimmer. Just Mr. Ruelas and another quiz. I unzip my pack, but it takes another thirty minutes before I stop looking at the door every time a chair squeaks.

  The truth is lodged liked a rock in my gut. Someone else is getting interviewed today. Thank you, Coach. Yeah, he’s worried, but not about me. It’s all about the program. It would be bad publicity for a swimmer to faint in the pool—can’t risk that.

  The quiz stares up at me from my desk, but I can barely see. My eyes are swimming. I nearly laugh at the thought. They’re the only part of me that is.

  As soon as I see Jen, I know exactly who Coach picked to replace me. She’s waiting for me in the parking lot after school, leaning against her car and looking miserable.

  “I have to tell you something,” she says as I walk up.

  “You got called down to do the interview.”

  Her eyes flare. “You know?”

  “It was either that or your cat died. And you don’t have a cat.”

  She smiles sadly. “I’m sorry, Ab. It sucks so completely. This whole thing. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Did you say no?” Then, before she can answer, before she can do more than stiffen and stare openmouthed, I shake my head. “Forget that. Forget I ever said that, because I didn’t mean it. Of course you said yes. I would have said yes too. It’s a really cool thing.”

  “Yeah,” she says, hurt in her eyes. “For me, it is.”

  Okay, so that’s a slap and I deserve it. This is my best frien
d—if Coach pulled me, at least I should be happy that he chose her. But I’m not happy, and I don’t know if I can be.

  “Jen…,” I say, an apology in my voice. I hug her close, loving her as much as I hate myself. “You’re amazing and you deserve this. You do! I should be happy for you and instead I’m feeling sad for myself.” I close my eyes against her hair. “Maybe I am heartless.”

  “No,” she whispers, and hugs me back. “But you might be human.”

  When we break apart, there’s a wry smile on her face. “I was terrible, if it’s any consolation.”

  “I doubt that.”

  We get in the car and pull on our seat belts. “I couldn’t figure out where to look—the camera or the reporter.” Jen backs out of the parking space, shaking her head at herself. “And what was I supposed to do with my hands? I kept waving them around. I’m going to look like a giant spaz on TV.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She pulls out of the school lot and into traffic. “It was weird being there with Alec,” she adds. “He was so charming, I almost forgot.”

  I straighten the seat belt across my chest, hiding the hitch in my breath. “Forgot what?”

  “That he’s a dick.”

  Jen turns into the parking lot of the strip mall, and I nod. I’m having the same problem.

  32

  It’s not a church, but Jen and I stand there a minute as if in worship. And in fact, the Savers Superstore is something to behold. Together we look out into the huge expanse of wantables. “Think how amazing it would be if the store were filled with water,” Jen says.

  “A super-sized pool?”

  “And we’d get to all the sale stuff first because we swim faster.”

  “But what about the popcorn? Soggy popcorn.”

  Jen nods seriously as we turn toward the snack bar and suck down the scent of rich, buttery popcorn.

  “Smells good,” Jen says.

  “Mmm,” I agree. “And so does the scent of a bargain.” I point to the aisles just off to our right. There’s a little section of things for a dollar, and we used to spend hours there while one of our parents shopped. I always ended up with some wind-up thing that broke in ten minutes while Jen carefully picked out something practical, like a pair of sunglasses guaranteed to protect her corneas from UV rays.

  She sees me eyeing the dollar bins and grabs my arm. “Do not get distracted.”

  “They might have squirt guns,” I say hopefully.

  “We’re not after squirt guns.” She narrows her eyes into an evil stare. I’m not sure if she’s wearing black today in honor of our Halloween shopping, but she looks tough in a fitted black tee, black jeans, and her high-tops. “Serial killers need machine guns.”

  “Can we get the kind with sawed-off barrels?” I ask.

  “You are such a novice.” She steers me past the jewelry racks and into the kid’s clothing section. “No one saws off machine-gun barrels. Do you not know anything about murder history?”

  A woman browsing a rack of SpongeBob pajamas gasps and looks up at us.

  “Sorry,” Jen says.

  “Teenagers,” the woman mutters.

  We take a sharp right out of Kids and into Household Essentials—as if it’s safer to have this conversation in the bleach aisle.

  “You obviously haven’t been paying attention during our Saturday movie nights,” Jen says.

  “If you’re talking about that rental you brought over a month ago, then yeah. I fell asleep during the opening credits.”

  There’s a hitch in her step as she looks at me. “How could you sleep? That was high art,” she says, affronted.

  “It was about a guy with a gun embedded in his chest who shot people through his button-down shirts.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “It’s a metaphor for how the heartlessness of commerce is killing the soul.”

  We’ve reached the toy section, which is good, because I take the opportunity to stop, bend over, and fake hurl.

  “Make fun,” Jen says, looking down her nose. “But that insightful gem got me extra credit from Mrs. Wattley.”

  “Seriously?” I say. “She never gives me extra credit.”

  “Because you never do extra credit.” She points to my right. “That aisle.”

  I lead the way into two rows of play guns. Jen is studying a machete when my phone vibrates. I pull it from my back pocket and check the display. “Finally,” I say.

  “What?” She bends down to study a row of dart guns.

  “Connor. We had a weird encounter after second period and then I didn’t see him again.”

  “You never see him again. He’s got second lunch and then a release. Weird how?”

  “I tried to kiss him and he pulled away.”

  She shrugs as if I’m overreacting. “Maybe he had to get to class.”

  “Connor would rather kiss than get to class. At least,” I add with a glare, “he would have before you fed him that crap.” I text an invite to meet up tonight.

  She looks at me over her shoulder. “You mean the truth?”

  “You know what I mean. You were trying to freak him out.”

  “Maybe he should be freaked out. Someone’s got to get through to you.” She stands up, holding a giant red gun, and wiggles it in question.

  I shrug, but I’m distracted at the beep of my phone and Connor’s reply. “He can’t get together tonight. Math test.”

  She switches the red gun for a rifle and pretends to aim at a display of G.I. Joe figures. “You have a math test tomorrow too, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “But I can study in the morning. I just want to know we’re okay.”

  Jen hangs the rifle up. “Why wouldn’t you be? You think Connor is going to ditch you because you have HCM?”

  “Might have HCM. And…no.” But Connor doesn’t like complications. I lick my lips. “Jen, do you think Connor’s recovery in September was a little too fast?”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Because of what Alec said?”

  “He has a point.”

  “You actually think Connor would cheat?”

  My stomach twists around the question. The thought of it is so awful. How can I go there? “No,” I say. “Never mind. You’re right.”

  I distract myself by looking at more guns and pulling my thoughts back to this shopping trip and the upcoming party and anything else positive. Which reminds me.

  “I found some good news online,” I say, tapping Jen’s shoulder. “A blog by a conditioning coach. He said a swimmer can miss up to a month before losing their conditioning.”

  “A month?” Jen reaches up high for a gun that could double as a cannon. “You mind showing that to Coach? I’d like a day off once in a while.”

  “It’s not exactly part of a training program, but the point is a week out of the pool isn’t going to kill my chances. In fact, Dad says it’s better to be one percent undertrained than ten percent overtrained.”

  “As if we need you any faster than you already are.” She holds up the cannon. “What about this one?”

  “Looks like a pool toy.”

  She sets it back on the shelf and turns to a display of laser-sighted, double-barreled guns.

  “I have a new plan,” I tell her. “I’m going to visualize positivity and have a great time on Saturday night.”

  “Is positivity a word?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I say, “it is. I looked it up. And we are positivity going to look amazing in our sexy serial-killer vests.”

  She puts a shotgun in my hand. “What about this?”

  “Nice in a lethal sort of way.” Then I add, “Seriously, Jen. I’ve seen you in that push-up bra. You’re going to knock the guys dead with your cleavage.”

  “Only if I hit them with it.”

  “Ha,” I say. “You know there are guys who are interested, if you’d only—”

  She cuts me off. “Do we need another lesson in frontal lobe science?”

  “You can hav
e a boyfriend without having sex.”

  “I don’t want a boyfriend.”

  “There isn’t anyone?”

  Is that a teeny, tiny blush on her cheeks? “Jennifer Stein. Are you in like with someone?”

  “No!”

  “You are. You’re blushing.”

  “I never blush.”

  “Who is he?”

  Her eyebrows snap down. “There’s no one.”

  “If there was, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” But she’s not meeting my eye as she grips a shotgun and spins away. “Let’s see what they have for cheap heels.”

  33

  Alec is behind me.

  Again.

  It’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’ve developed some type of blue-beater Honda radar. When I pull into the Lifeline parking lot, there it is.

  There he is.

  Slowly, I slide my mom’s van into a shady spot, but half my attention is focused on Alec as he pulls his swim bag from his backseat. He’s graceful for a guy; maybe that’s why I let myself watch him. He swims here every afternoon and there’s nothing I can do about it. Free country and all. But I’ve gotten good at ignoring him. If only I could push the delete button on that conversation after our class on Sunday. Specifically, that last little bit. I’ve tried, but his words keep coming back to me like a bug bite that suddenly starts itching out of nowhere.

  Even worse, since he said he’s been watching me, I keep catching myself watching him. It’s seriously beginning to piss me off too. Wary strangers is what we were and what I want us to be. Snatching my swim bag, I slam the van door shut. My focus needs to be on the pool and keeping myself in shape until the doctor calls. Alec is nothing more than a distraction.

  I’m good at eliminating distractions.

  In the locker room, I slip on a green Speedo one-piece, shove my things in a locker, and carry my equipment bag to the pool area.

  I see Alec head out of the men’s room at the same moment, but I don’t spare him a glance or a word. He ignores me too. But now I see a bigger problem.