A Matter of Heart

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  There’s only one open lane today.

  We make eye contact. His stare is cold; it has been since we argued on Sunday. I match the freeze. It’s pretty clear that we don’t want it like this, but whatever.

  “I’ll take the left side,” I say.

  He nods and shifts his water bottle, pull buoy, and hand paddles to the right side of the lane. I line up my stuff next to his.

  I’m not pushing myself during these afternoon swims. I can’t—not with the beta-blockers turning my blood to sludge. Not with Mom watching every morning while I take my pill. I’m going to enjoy crushing the bottle of them under my heel when the doctor clears me.

  I also have to be careful that Alec doesn’t guess that I’m basically crippled in the pool. Maybe he wonders. Why else am I swimming in slow motion? But he can’t know for sure. Everyone on the school team has heard I’m taking beta-blockers and waiting for more info from a heart specialist. But I’ve told them I’m getting my speed back. I even started giving Dad made-up swim times.

  He’s added a new line to the chart on his wall—50-meter freestyle times. He’s recorded the winning times in the state this season and charted the regional and national records. I’ll tell him I cut three-tenths of a second off today. I could also mention that I swam faster than this when I was ten years old, but I won’t. I won’t even think it myself. I shift my brain into positivity mode. I’m maintaining a feel for the water and I’m keeping my rhythm. I’m in a freaking pool, aren’t I?

  Alec is already swimming his warm-up. I push off, careful to hug the wall so I don’t bump arms with him. He glides by me, a smooth arrow of brown in our team’s standard black Speedo trunks, which reach halfway down his thighs. Connor’s got more muscle than Alec, but there’s still something strong about the way Alec cuts through the water.

  Mentally, I give myself a slap. Ignore him! I flip at the wall, my mind churning as much as my arms. Why is he here every day, anyway? Coach wants everyone tapering for State. Morning workouts are still pretty hard, and I don’t know of anyone else who’s swimming afternoons. Connor rolled his eyes when I mentioned it. He said one word, with contempt: Desperation.

  Alec’s family moved here so he could swim with Coach, all based on a conversation with Stanford, and now it’s obvious he’s not posting times worth a Stanford scholarship. So of course he’s desperate. At first, I wasn’t sure why Coach accepted Alec on the Horizon team. A lot of swimmers want to compete at Horizon, and there isn’t room for everyone. But it didn’t take me long to see why Coach would snap him up. Alec is a worker. Even now, he’s not just putting in the yards. He pushes himself. He drills. He does all the crap everyone else complains about.

  He’s desperate to improve.

  Connor thinks desperation is a bad thing. He says too much emotion can impact performance, and he’s right about that. I’ve always admired how relaxed and laid-back he is, but I have to admit, he doesn’t leave it all in the pool, either. He’s not a slacker, but if you’re looking for a guy willing to sweat blood and piss chlorine, well, it’s not Connor. I guess I never thought about it before, but since talking to Alec I can’t stop myself.

  My conscience prickles at these thoughts. They feel a little…disloyal. A few weeks ago, I would have agreed about Alec’s desperation. But not anymore.

  There are all kinds of desperation.

  I pull up to the wall, tired. I have no idea how many yards I just swam. I glance up at the clock. Fifteen minutes have gone by. Fifteen minutes equal fifteen hundred yards—or that’s what it would have been two weeks ago.

  Upset, I reach for my water bottle and knock it over. Damn. It rolls a foot and hits the side of Alec’s swim bag. I lean over to grab it, but I overreach and my pinky catches on the open side pocket of his bag. The material flaps down and a box flashes into view.

  I freeze. What the…?

  34

  The sound of splashes grows louder and I look down the pool lane. Alec is heading back. My neck muscles are clenched so tight my shoulders ache. I pop the mouthpiece on my water bottle and pretend to take a drink. Alec flips and a spray of water splashes along the deck and over his bag. I wait until he’s halfway to the other side and then I pull down at the material of his bag, just a little, just an inch. My lungs burn with air I’m holding in. I stare, not believing, but there it is. An inhaler. I don’t have breathing problems, but I know all about albuterol. It’s medicine for a person with asthma.

  And an adrenaline rush for a swimmer.

  I let go of the material and it pops back up, hiding the box. Holding the dimpled cool deck for support, I slip back to my side, my eyes still glued to the front compartment of Alec’s swim bag.

  I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe it’s not his. I think he’s got a little brother—maybe the inhaler belongs to him. But if it does, why is it in Alec’s bag? The box is still sealed—I saw that much. But for how long? My mind spins from one thought to the next. Is Alec cheating? Planning to cheat? Did he accuse Connor to shift attention away from himself?

  “What are you doing?”

  I gasp so loudly it’s more of a squeal. Water bubbles up around me. I’ve literally jumped at Alec’s voice. Quickly I turn away. “Nothing.” I wipe my eyes as if water has dripped in them and I can’t see anything. Including banned and illegal substances.

  He looks from me to his bag. “Were you messing with my bag?” He lifts it, moves it slightly over, and, I can’t help but notice, zips up the front pocket.

  “No.”

  “Then what?” He pauses and pulls off his goggles. The ice in his gaze has melted to a worried warmth. “Is it your heart? You diz—”

  “No!” I interrupt.

  “Look, Abby. I know what’s going on. If you need—”

  Panic explodes in my veins. What I need is for him to shut up. “Why is there albuterol in your bag?” I blurt.

  He jerks back, shocked, and one arm shoots out over his bag as if protecting it. “What did you say?”

  “I saw it, Alec.”

  It feels as if his whole body has surged up higher, closer. Even in the cool water, heat is rolling off of him. “You went through my bag?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Is there any other way?”

  It’s all I can do not to shift backward, but I won’t let myself. Instead, I lift up, leaning my forearm on the deck until I’m nearly even with him. “Does it matter? I saw it and I know you don’t have asthma.”

  His jaw pulses and the veins along his neck stand out. “What are you saying, Lipman?”

  I struggle with a shaky breath, but I don’t back down. “Are you cheating, Mendoza?”

  Suddenly, he grabs the bag and throws it at me. I cry out as I reflexively catch it, nearly losing it in the water.

  “Open it,” he growls.

  “I don’t want to.” I toss it back.

  “You’ve already done it once. Open it.”

  He throws it at me again and anger pulses through me. I’m breathing but so shallowly I’m nearly dizzy. The air thrums around us as if a storm is gathering inside the Lifeline pool area.

  “Fine.” I set it on the deck, rip the zipper open, and pull out the box. I shake it in front of Alec. “Now what?”

  “Read the label.”

  I read the label out loud. “Lenora Mendoza.”

  “My mother.”

  I wipe more water off my face. “Then why is it in your swim bag?”

  “So I don’t forget to bring it home. I picked it up before school.”

  I shake my head as I say, “And you didn’t leave it in your car? Or in your backpack?”

  “No,” he says, like I’m two years old. “I left it. In. My swim bag.”

  He stares at me and I stare back as I throw him the box. “You’re lying.”

  “Because I have my mom’s unopened inhaler in my bag?”

  “Because you’re desperate.”

  His jaw ticks. “Leave it alone, Lipman.”

 
; “I don’t think so,” I shoot back.

  He runs a hand through his hair, and trickles of water trail over his shoulder and down his chest. “Fine. Then why don’t we talk about why you’re here every afternoon swimming at the speed of a snail? You suddenly like going slow, or is that all you’ve got?”

  I fit my goggles on, ignoring him. But he slides in front of me, blocking the lane. “I saw you that day,” he says. “When Bree beat you.”

  “She didn’t beat me. We weren’t racing.”

  “That’s not how it looked.”

  “Then get your eyes checked.”

  There’s a question in the tilt of his head as he stares at me a second. “You can’t take it, can you?”

  “Take what?”

  “Losing.”

  “We weren’t racing,” I say again.

  He laughs. “You’re a bad loser, Lipman.”

  I yank off my goggles. “I’m not a loser. Period.”

  His white teeth gleam at me from the edge of his sneer. “You know your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “You always have to win at everything.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Maybe it’s time someone taught you a lesson.”

  I let my chin drop. “You want to race me? While I’m on heart meds?”

  “I didn’t say a race.”

  “Then what?”

  He pauses for a long moment, his hands on the ridge of his hip bones. “I’ll show you.” He reaches for his bag and pulls something out. Once again, he manages to shock me.

  35

  “A plastic shark?” I say.

  His mouth widens in a bad-boy grin. “One game of Capture the Shark.”

  “No way.” I shake my head. “This is stupid.”

  “Because you can’t handle losing?” He checks behind us and lanes 4 and 5 have opened up. He flips the shark over his shoulder and it hits the water about halfway down lane 4. While it slowly sinks, he stares at me, the challenge between us like a living thing.

  I curl my lip in a show of disgust, but another part of my brain is calculating where the shark dropped in, how deep it’s falling, and how—if I dive just right—I can shoot past Alec.

  “I have nothing to prove. I’m not chasing a toy,” I say. Then I fling myself sideways and dive toward the shark.

  “Hey!” he shouts. But it’s garbled noise because I’m already under the water, clearing the plastic lane line and heading for shark-infested waters.

  The chlorine stings my eyes a little, but it reminds me of when I was a kid. Back then, I didn’t care about goggles or the sting of chemicals. I just dove right in, like now.

  A wave knocks me sideways and Alec is hurtling past. But the shark is just below. One furious kick and I’m there. I scoop it up, but it bobs, then floats free. Alec twists mid-dive and makes a grab. The shark bounces on the waves we’re creating and floats to the top of the water. He reaches for it, but I throw myself between him and the shark, using my body to block.

  “You lose!” I cry as I close in on the shark. But just as my fingers brush over the slippery plastic, my arm is caught from behind. Alec tugs me back and propels himself past me.

  He’s almost on the shark. Instinctively, I grab his leg and pull him down. I’ve caught him off balance and he flails wildly—but no shark!

  The pool is a froth of bubbles as we chase it down the lane, yanking each other back and forth. I swim over the top of Alec and he grabs my waist. I kick, thinking I might’ve landed one in his gut when he tumbles back. But then he’s got my leg again.

  It’s a free-for-all scramble, and each time the shark bobs up, we both grab and it leaps in the air.

  “I got it!” Alec yells. Then it shoots free. He curses, and I laugh.

  It’s in the next lane and I start a dive but I’m laughing too hard and Alec dives, right underneath me, and comes up first. He’s got a hand out for the shark, but I launch myself onto his back and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

  He twists and turns, but I have him caught for just long enough…

  There!

  I grab the tumbling shark in one quick motion, curling my fingers over it tightly. Using my legs, I push off the bottom and shoot up, shaking water out of my eyes as I press the shark skyward in victory.

  “Whoohoo!” I whoop.

  “Damn,” he says, wiping water from his face.

  A laugh bubbles up, frothier than the water around me. I let it out, my shoulders shaking with it while I plant victorious kisses on the shark’s nose.

  “Hey, no kissing my shark!”

  “My shark. I won him fair and square.”

  “You call that fair? I think you broke a few ribs with that kick.”

  “Baby.”

  He grins.

  I grin back.

  Alec smoothes his hair the way he always does, and suddenly I’m back in the world again, aware of the music coming from the overhead speakers, the lady in lane 1 who is staring with a smile on her face, and the slant of sunlight coming in through the huge bank of windows. I’m breathing heavy, but in a good way. I wipe my eyes, wondering when was the last time I laughed that hard.

  When was the last time I laughed?

  “You okay?” he asks. And his eyes are as brown as a cup of espresso and just as warm. “You got a weird look on your face.”

  I shrug and toss him the shark. “That was surprisingly fun.”

  “The game or beating me?”

  “Both,” I admit.

  We work our way back toward our things. “You should have warned me you’re a ringer,” he says.

  “Me? I haven’t played that in years. Even as a kid, my dad didn’t go in for a lot of swimming games.”

  “Was your dad your coach?”

  I nod. “He was a college swimmer. A talented one too. Fourth in the nation in backstroke and working his way up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Crashed on his bicycle and broke his collarbone. Freak accident. He never recovered enough to swim again. But he’s a great coach.”

  We both grab our water bottles and drink. I glance at the clock. I need to get going. But I take another drink, pull off my swim cap, and shake my hair free. “When did you start swimming?”

  He turns and rests his back against the wall. “When I was eight, my mom took me to the pool at the local Y. I was already getting into trouble, and she enrolled me in a kids’ club that was run by a hard-ass named Mr. Macias. He told me I had to swim twenty-five yards to get a wristband for the deep end.”

  “And you got it?”

  “Nearly drowned, but I was going to show him, you know?”

  I smile. Yeah, I know.

  “I wouldn’t take the plastic strip off my wrist. I felt like a beast because I swam twenty-five yards.”

  I laugh. “And then you were hooked?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “On basketball. The hoop was in the deep end. Once I had that bracelet, I could play basketball with the older kids.”

  “How’d you go from basketball to competitive swimming?”

  “Mr. Macias.”

  “He dared you?”

  Alec grins. “Worse. He hired me.”

  My eyes must have widened because he says, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t like he broke any child labor laws.”

  “How old were you?” I ask.

  “Twelve. I picked up all the basketballs and he paid me in Gatorade and Snickers Bars. Then he started telling me all the things I could do with my talent, and telling all the other kids the things I could do. So I started doing them.”

  “Sounds like a cool guy.”

  “The best,” he agrees. “I got a real job there at sixteen and taught classes up until I moved here in June.”

  “That’s what you meant when you said you had teaching experience.”

  He shrugs. “So what about you?” he asks. “How did it happen for you? And don’t tell me you started out drilling a thousand.”

 
“I guess not,” I admit. “I learned to swim on my dad’s back in our pool. It’s one of those kidney bean pools, but it felt like an ocean when I was little. He’d carry me around like a princess and we’d make up stories. We’d have to brave the crocodile-infested moat or the murky swamp—something. But not snakes. Water snakes scared me.”

  He laughs.

  “I think Dad finally got tired of dragging me around the pool and told me I’d better help him swim. So he’d dolphin kick while I held on with one arm and pretended to swim with the other. That’s how I learned. In the backyard, with my dad.”

  I smile at the memory. Until a wave of embarrassment washes heat through my cheeks. I’m telling all this to Alec.

  “Anyway,” I say. “From that moment on, I fell in love with swimming and became really dedicated. I like being the best. I like winning blue, and I’m going to like winning gold even better.”

  “Olympics, huh? That’s a hell of a goal.”

  “Swim scholarships to Stanford don’t exactly grow on trees, either.”

  His smile fades. I watch him drop the shark back into his bag, and I’m reminded of what else is in his bag. Maybe it is his mother’s, but that doesn’t mean he might not use it himself. Just how far is he willing to go for what he wants?

  I glance up at him and our eyes lock. A tremor runs over my skin and goose bumps spike along my arms. Because I can see it in his eyes—he’s wondering the same thing about me.

  36

  I’m smothered by darkness and silence again as I wake up. I tilt my head to see the clock but I already know: five a.m. Thank you, inner clock. “Good morning, Thursday,” I whisper. “Let today be the day.”

  It started as a morning mantra. It’s become a daily prayer.

  Good morning, Monday. Let today be the day.

  Good morning, Tuesday. Let today be the day.

  Good morning, Wednesday. Let today be the day.

  Still no call from the cardiologist. Each day that goes by, it’s like the knot inside my throat doubles. I’m waiting for the news so I can breathe again.