Goldfish

by Nat Luurtsema

  A leaf that will slice your head off if you brake too suddenly. I’m glad we’re not traveling with them.

  Hang on—how are we getting home? We look at each other as the last car leaves and realize, yup, our TV dreams have gone so badly wrong that we arrived in a megatruck but we’re leaving by bus. Hello, Hollywood!

  Hollywood Bowl, just off the traffic circle, that’s my stop.

  We ride the bus in dejected silence. I’m WhatsApping Lav. As I type, something rubs against my chest. It’s my whistle, tucked under my T-shirt. I hold it for comfort.

  “OK,” I say suddenly. “This wasn’t our last chance. There is one more public tryout. It’s next week, and we will be ready. We have one week to find a tank. We’re ready, the routine is ready. We can do this.”

  The boys look doubtful, as do the people around us on the bus. So I pull out my whistle and give it a quiet but encouraging peep.

  “We CAN!” I repeat.

  “Yeah.” Gabriel nods. “OK.”

  “Yeah,” says Roman, starting to smile.

  “Yes!” says a man sitting behind me, caught up in the mood of the moment. He is not joining the team.

  After a pause, Pete shoots me his first smile since he saw Debs’s bespoke pool.

  One week—we can do this. I hold tight to my whistle. I am a coach and this is my team.

  chapter 22

  Lou

  Oh god, Lav, DISASTER at BHT. I don’t know where to begin.

  Lav

  I’ve got the headlines.

  Lou

  How do you know already??

  Lav

  Twitter.

  Lou

  AAARRRGGH!!! **Kills self**

  Lav

  No no it’s OK, it’s not that bad I swear.

  Lou

  Really? HOW?!

  Lav

  Most people are misspelling your name.

  Lou

  … LOU?

  Lav

  People are idiots.

  Lou

  Are they misspelling Roman,

  Gabe, or Pete?

  Lav

  No.

  Lou

  I feel awful.

  Lav

  This will all blow over. Remember when that upperclassman wet herself in assembly?

  Lou

  No.

  Lav

  Exactly.

  No wonder Roman and Pete were so grumpy. They have cool to lose, unlike me. Still, I don’t like the way they snapped at me when things went wrong. I was trying my best, and the whole thing is not my responsibility. I’m two years younger than them, and they treat me like their mom and a servant.

  But I’m not going to get resentful about it. I’ve done enough feeling sorry for myself this summer. We just have to find a tank.

  (However many times I say that, it still sounds ridiculous.)

  That night I go to bed early, tired out after the five a.m. start and all the public humiliation. Thankfully, my parents didn’t make me go through it all again when I got in. Dad just handed me a giant candy bar.

  I lie in bed, feeling bizarrely optimistic despite everything. At least I’m not dealing with this alone.

  I wish I could talk to Hannah about it. Lav isn’t the same—she knows more than me, so it feels more like advice than conversation. Right on cue, she addresses me from the opposite bed. No “Are you awake?” or any of that polite nonsense. Lav has decided it’s Chat O’clock, so Chat Hats on and off we go. She looks up from her phone, musing.

  “The trouble with boys,” she says seriously, “is that they will invariably try to kiss you.”

  I can’t help it—I start laughing.

  “Yes, Laverne,” I reply, “that is my problem with boys. They are always trying to kiss me. I am like bread in a duck pond. Also I wish they would stop writing me love songs; it gets tedious.”

  There is a thoughtful silence.

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Yes! Yes, of course I’m being sarcastic. Good grief, Laverne, look at me.”

  She snaps her bedside light on and stares at me. “You’re so pretty,” she says.

  “Don’t,” I say firmly. “Even to be nice. I am huge. My hair is crazy. I am ripped with muscles. I would be scared to meet me down a dark alleyway.”

  “You’re like one of those androgynous catwalk models!” she protests.

  “That may be, but this is not a catwalk in Milan. This is a suburban town where men yell out of cars to ask if I’ve escaped from a zoo.”

  “I’m going to give you a makeover,” she says firmly.

  I sigh. Laverne thinks that makeovers are the answer to all of humanity’s problems. If you dropped her into a war zone, she’d start shaping everyone’s eyebrows.

  I feel my eyebrows. They are pretty bad, actually, like slugs covered in dog hair. I try to comb them with my fingernails into roughly the right direction.

  “Just leave it, Lav,” I say quietly into the darkness. I say I don’t care, but I guess I do, because I feel my throat grow hot and tight.

  “Come here,” she says, leaping out of bed and grabbing me by the arm. It is so scary when someone light-footed does that in the dark. She leads me out of our room, and we feel our way along the hallway to Mom’s room, where she’s trying to sleep.

  “Mom,” says Lav, “isn’t Lou pretty?” Mom pushes her eye mask up and stares at us groggily.

  “She’s going to be,” she answers.

  “When?” I demand.

  “Soon.”

  Uh-huh. I’d like a more specific time frame on that, TBH. I don’t want to die just before I get pretty, with everyone at my funeral saying, “Such a shame. She finally grew into that nose.”

  Lav flops down next to Mom and I crawl in the other side. Mom groans but throws the duvet over both of us.

  “You’re too big for this,” she tuts.

  “Mom, don’t fat-shame.”

  “Shut up, Laverne,” she mumbles.

  We lie still for a bit.

  “Mom?” I whisper.

  “Yes,” she whispers back.

  “Is Dad OK?”

  I know Lav isn’t asleep. She’s listening too.

  “He will be.”

  “Are you guys going to get back together?”

  “No, he’ll find a pretty redhead and they’ll have lots of little sheds together.”

  “Mom.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  chapter 23

  8:30

  Great performance yesterday, guys, not a single weak link. This is the strongest team I’ve ever coached. A few of you will be following Hannah soon.

  Debs

  8:31

  Thanks, Debs!

  Nic x

  8:33

  Thanks, Debs! BTW, Lou is still on this group thread, can we take her off it?

  Cammie xxxxxx

  Apparently, creativity works best within constraints—I read that somewhere. I have to remind myself of this on Monday when we find that Debs has booked the swimming pool every evening this week, and we have nowhere to practice. I knew she’d do something like this. She’s making sure we’re not ready for the next tryouts.

  The boys don’t always manage the final lift where Gabe is raised out of the water, Pete and Roman each holding a foot. He balances there, leaning forward in a controlled lean, before the boys throw him up into a high graceful somersault.

  Half the time they perform this perfectly; the rest of the time they slap him into the pool with a loud belly flop. Gabe says not to worry, he never wanted kids anyway.

  I got that joke ages after he made it.

  My little emotional blackmail trick at the tryouts has backfired, and Debs is now watching me like a hawk in hot pants. The situation is so desperate that Ro actually talks to me in public. Alert the media.

  We’re standing next to the vending machine at break time, and he stares intently at the chocolate throughout the conversation so no one will think he’s talking to the big mu
scly weirdo two grades below.

  “I don’t know where else we can go. I’m sorry!” I tell him for the thousandth time.

  “Well, think,” he says impatiently. “This is your job.”

  “No, actually,” I tell him, “my job was helping you put together an underwater routine without you all drowning. I have done that, and I have worked SO hard on this … so … don’t tread on me.”

  You go, girl! I’m glad I had the guts to say that. Pete and Roman can get so focused on what they want that they don’t care about anything or anyone else.

  If only you could put Gabe’s sensitive head on top of one of their bodies. Mmmm Frankenstein boyfriend.

  I get a WhatsApp from Pete in math, where for once I’m enjoying being left alone in my own seat. Our math teacher loves making us pair off to do math exercises together. Why? When do you ever do math as a little double act? Pairing off doesn’t make math more fun, like we’re good cop, bad cop! We’re mavericks, but we get results!

  All that happens is that no one wants to be my partner, so I have to pair up with the teacher. Who doesn’t help me, because she is the math teacher and knows the answers.

  The WhatsApp says: Outside the pool at 9 tonight. Wear dark clothes.

  Srsly? If Mom knew a boy had sent me such a sketchy text, we’d be straight down to the police station! Although the thought of Roman—or Pete—thinking of me That Way is hilaire. I’m not sure either of them realizes I’m a girl. I message back:

  I’ll bring weapons, you sort alibis.

  Roman

  Cool

  Pete

  K

  Gabriel

  Oh man I am NOT going back to prison.

  Two people in this team are really doing all the heavy lifting funny-wise.

  I’m just putting my phone back in my pocket when it buzzes with a new email from Hannah. I skim-read with one eye on the teacher. Hannah’s starting to worry me; she sounds more and more stressed. I hope her parents aren’t giving her a hard time, or that the camp isn’t picking up where they leave off. The last thing she needs is to be tag-teamed.

  “Lou—eeze!” snaps Ms. Kearney.

  “Four!” I call out. (Yell a number—it’s always worth a try.) But from the look on her face, it was wrong. And from the silence in the room, it was quite funny. If I say something embarrassing, it’s like someone’s detonated an LOL bomb in the classroom, but funny gets nothing.

  Lav is so right. They’re not friends I haven’t made yet; it’s just bad luck they were born near me. I moodily doodle a fish tank on my math book. I put Cammie in it, add a shark, and leave them to it.

  chapter 24

  Weez are you there? I’ve had such a bad day. My times have started getting worse, I feel really sluggish. I’m homesick too and eating to feel better, but that’s the LAST thing I should do. Told Mom I want to come home, she said she won’t let me make a mistake I’ll regret. So I’m stuck here. Come bust me out?! Joking not joking.

  Hx

  That evening I eat dinner thinking about Hannah and whether I should talk to my parents about her. Or maybe Lav or Mr. Peters? Debs? No way, not Debs, mad idea.

  I feel like showing her emails to anyone would be disloyal. I reply and tell her to stay calm, that she’s probably just having an off week (or month … I don’t add). I send her some photos of us camping and a few badly stuffed animals. If they don’t make her smile. then she’s in real trouble.

  It’s only when the clock strikes seven that I remember I have a more immediate problem. I haven’t asked Mom and Dad for permission to go out tonight. How can I? Moooom, Daaaad, can I go out late at night with three boys you don’t know? Uh-huh, yes, I also suspect we’re off to do something iffy. Don’t wait up! And has anyone got money for vodka?

  It’s time to call in some favors. I corner Lav as we’re washing up after dinner, and I tell her the problem.

  “Wow.” She pauses midscrub. “That almost sounds cool. Who are you and what have you done with Lou?”

  “Ha ha,” I say. “But, help me. You’ve sneaked out loads of times to meet boys. How do you do it?”

  “Not ‘loads of times’!” she protests.

  “Lav, I used to see you walk past my window on the flat roof. I didn’t think Santa Claus had lost weight.”

  “Ah, was that when we had our own bedrooms?”

  “Oh yes. The glory days. Over now.”

  “You tell them you feel ill and need to go to bed. You say your tummy and back hurt.…” She winks at me.

  I wink back.

  She winks again.

  “Lav, why are we winking?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. If I have to spell it out … When’s your period due?”

  “Er … the futuuure?”

  “Seriously, you haven’t started?”

  “I’m all muscle-y, and my BMI is a little … and shut up, OK? Don’t make me self-conscious about it!”

  “I just thought you were dealing with it without any fuss.”

  “Oh no, when it happens, I will make fuss. Now go back to the winking.”

  “OK, when you say your tummy and back hurt, Dad hears period alarm bells and he’ll give you a hot-water bottle and leave you alone.”

  “Brilliant!”

  “Yes, but Mom will become more interested in you and hover around. There’s a book called Blossoming into a Woman that is literally the worst book ever written, and she’ll want to read it with you. However, she’s going out tonight, so the plan is solid.”

  “What time is she heading out?”

  “Eight forty-five.”

  “I’ve got to meet them at nine.”

  “So you’re blossoming at eight forty-six, sharp.”

  It’s now 8:50 and Mom still hasn’t gone out. She’s sitting on the sofa all dressed up, but she seems pretty happy watching TV with Dad. They’re shouting insults at the news and laughing ’til they snort.

  Lav and I sit stony-faced watching them. Every time they glance in our direction, we slap big smiles on our faces like, “Good one! David Cameron, huh?” (No idea. I have too many problems in my life to care about national ones.) Finally at nine, Mom kisses all of us and heads out—to meet Dan, whoever he is. Apparently, he’s “in stocks.” Makes me thing of a medieval man with his head in stocks being pelted with rotten veggies. Best of luck, Mom.

  The moment the front door slams, I look at Lav. She shakes her head. We wait, and there’s the familiar sound of Mom’s car starting up and driving off.

  Lav nods. Operation: Blossom is a go.

  “Ooh” I say, “my stomach hurts.”

  “Oh dear,” says Dad, eyes on the TV.

  “And my back,” I add. “And I feel sort of emotional.”

  Lav shoots me daggers. Too much.

  Dad gives me his full attention now. “Would you like a hot-water bottle?”

  “I’ll get it,” Lav says, giving him a Look. “Maybe Lou should have an early night.”

  “OK,” I say, like, “if you think I should.”

  “Feel better, Goldfish!” Dad calls as we shuffle upstairs slowly.

  “That was awful, just in case you were wondering,” Lav hisses, poking me in the back as she follows me up.

  “Sorry, Lav, I’ve never rebelled before.”

  * * *

  We change pace the moment we reach the bedroom. It’s 9:03, and it takes me ten minutes at least to run to the swimming pool. Argh!

  I shake off my bathrobe, and underneath I’m dressed like a mime. Head-to-toe black. Quite a nice outfit, actually, as Lav supplied most of it.

  I put one foot out the window, ready to drop gently onto the flat roof and sneak off over the garage and down via the rainwater barrel, as instructed. And not snag the clothes on anything. Crucial instruction. Lav says if I rip her clothes, I should keep running, never look back, and live life on the run. It’s a bit tempting, given how much I hate school.

  I turn back and Lav is expertly folding clothes and pillows to stuf
f under the duvet. She glances up at me.

  “Just in case he comes up. I’ll stay here now and tell him you are asleep. Now hurry, you’re late. Go make a cool evening uncool.”

  I drop gently onto the roof and run like a cartoon burglar over the garage with pointed toes and fingers. Hee hee, this is fun! When I get to the edge, I sit down and hook my legs over the side, feeling for the garbage can with one foot. I have to be careful; the top is slimy with mildew. I reach downward, further and further, but still can’t feel it. I’ve got like the longest legs of anyone I know. How are they letting me down now?

  I decide to drop the last couple of inches.

  I let go and fall eight feet to the ground, hard.

  I land on the balls of my feet, then fall backward onto my butt and elbows: classic gymnast’s dismount. So where was the garbage can? I stand up quickly and bash my shoulder against it. Oh, there it is, a quarter of an inch to the left. Great work, Lou. That’s going to bruise.

  I’m really late now, but as I step forward, I crash into something big and confusing. It’s metallic, with loads of sticky-out bits that hit me in the stomach, legs, and face, and I lose my balance and fall on top of it.

  I fight it for a while; it seems to be covered in moving parts. Is Dad building a torture machine out in the middle of the yard?

  I can’t believe it—he’s usually so fussy about putting things away. And not a psychopath.

  I finally fight off the Machine of Pain, adding a few more bruises to the collection. It’s been a pretty unstealthy few minutes, and I can picture Lav standing at the bedroom window, shaking her head and wincing at every crash as her idiot sister pratfalls over everything she can find.

  I stand and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was an upside down bike. Of course it was. Something else that Dad’s “repairing.” Once I can see better, I feel my way out of the side gate and start running.

  I’m a fast runner, and without a bag full of books I make great time sprinting along the road. As I approach the pool, I can just about make out the three boys loitering in the gloom, impatiently pacing around the parking lot. Pete’s fiddling with a cigarette packet but not smoking.