by Bob Balaban
“Hold on to me with both claws, close your eyes, and relax,” Stanley announces. At this point I don’t have sufficient energy left to protest, so I let my cousin walk me farther out into the water while I concentrate on staying alive. “Turn over, Charlie.” I wriggle onto my back. “Good work, cuz.”
What choice do I have? With floating you’re either above the water and doing fine, or you’re sinking and you’re not. There isn’t a lot of in between.
“Remember to breathe slowly and evenly,” Stanley says. “In . . . out . . . in . . . out.” The lack of oxygen, the gentle rippling effect of the water as it rushes past my scaly body, and Stanley’s soothing voice have a decidedly calming effect on me. I float gracefully along the surface, bobbing gently up and down like an enormous scaly green cork.
“In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .” Stanley continues.
“Can we go home now?”
“I hate to burst your bubble, cuz,” Stanley says proudly, “but you’re on your own, and you’re doing just fine.”
What’s he talking about? I turn my pointy head around and notice that my cousin has let go of my claws entirely. That’s funny. No one is holding me up, and nothing bad seems to be happening.
For one brief moment, I consider the amazing possibility that I may actually have just learned how to swim . . . and then I look down into the water and it dawns on me that this is the deepest lake in all of southern Illinois. And that if I were to somehow forget what I was doing, I could actually drown. Alarm bells go off deep in the recesses of my brain. Every muscle in my body tenses up.
I tell myself to relax, but it’s way too late for anything as sensible as that. I open my enormous jaws to tell Stanley to please hold me up, I am having difficulty staying afloat, but a piercing scream emerges instead. I splutter. I flail. I gasp. I take in water and start to choke.
Stanley tries to hold on to me, but I am thrashing around so violently he cannot possibly get a good grip. I promptly begin sinking like a stone.
Down and down, faster and faster I go, like Alice in Wonderland tumbling helplessly down the rabbit hole. I am weak from holding my breath. And numb with fear.
I always thought my entire life would flash before my eyes before I died. But as I hurtle downward through the icy water, I see exactly one thing: Craig Dieterly. His stupid fat face and giant horse teeth loom in front of me, larger than life. He is laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath. He gasps for air. Coughing and spluttering.
I realize the sound I hear is me desperately trying to breathe.
I am growing weaker by the second. I feel the life draining out of my body. With every last fiber of my exhausted being I struggle to remain conscious. I can’t hold on much longer.
My lungs are about to burst when Stanley finally gets hold of me. In my desperation, I strike at him with my claws and powerful legs and try to escape. But he won’t give up. He just holds on tighter and wrestles me back to the surface.
We break through the surface and the cold night air hits me in the face, shocking me back into consciousness. Stanley drags my limp body out of the water and back onto shore. He turns me onto my stomach and pushes on my back with all his might, and water comes pouring out of my lungs like a fountain. He keeps pushing until there isn’t any more, and I sprawl on the ground, waiting for my strength to return.
At last I open my eyes and look around, dazed. “Are you okay?” Stanley asks. I open my jaws to speak, but nothing comes out. “Talk to me, Charlie.”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.” I attempt to stand, but my legs give way. I collapse to the ground in a heap.
Stanley grasps my spindly arms. “One, two, three, go!” he grunts, and together we struggle until at last I am standing upright. “I’m sorry, Charlie.” Stanley says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I can’t swim and I never will.” I slip back into my pj’s and we start the long trek back. Stanley doesn’t let go of my arm until we reach the corner of Lonesome Lane and Cedar Street.
“Think you can make it the rest of the way on your own?” he asks.
“I’ll be fine,” I answer. “What about you, Stanley?”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“I’ll leave your breakfast on the tree stump behind the garage in the morning. And your dinner tomorrow night, too. I won’t forget, Stanley. I promise.”
“I know.” My cousin turns and disappears into the fog, a brave lonely figure in the dark.
My legs won’t stop shaking. Every muscle in my body aches. In less time than it takes to say “I am never going into the water again as long as I live,” I am tiptoeing into my bedroom, slipping into my warm cozy bed, and dreading the swimming practice that awaits me in only fifteen short hours.
15
WATER, WATER, EVERYWHERE
EVER HEAR OF “Drinkwater’s theory of relativity”? I didn’t think so. It’s sort of like Einstein’s theory of relativity. Only not as well-known. I came up with it last year while waiting in Nurse Nancy’s office for my tetanus booster, and I only told two other people in the entire solar system. Right. Sam and Lucille. Here’s how it goes:
Time expands in proportion to how much you are looking forward to something. It contracts in proportion to how much you are dreading it.
Here’s how it works. Pick a time period. Any time period. Like today, for example. The actual time that elapsed between the beginning of my first-period science class and the beginning of my horrible, terrible, stupid, terrifying, end-of-day swimming practice, as measured by the clock in the cafeteria, was exactly six and a half hours.
The relative time? Less than five minutes. I might as well have been hurtling through space in Han Solo’s spaceship at a velocity surpassing the speed of light; that’s how fast it went.
And now the hour of doom is upon me. I trudge dejectedly down the stairs like I am on my way to my own funeral. Which, come to think of it, I sort of am. Because when I refuse to go into the water today, Coach Grubman is going to kill me. And if he doesn’t, Principal Muchnick will.
“You are valkink very slowly, Mr. Drinkvater,” Mr. Arkady observes when he spots me.
“I’m on my way to swimming practice, Mr. Arkady.”
“Let me congratulate you,” he says. “You are doink a magnificent job of not gettink there.”
“Thanks.”
“I vuss hopink you verr becomink more accustomed to the water, Mr. Drinkvater.” He strokes his long, pointy chin with his bony hand.
“No such luck, I’m afraid,” I reply, thinking about last night with a shudder.
“You vill. Don’t worry. You’ll see.” Mr. Arkady looks at me sympathetically. “On a scale of one to ten, how hard vuss it for you to ace your science midterm the udder day?”
“One, I guess,” I reply. “I do well on tests.”
“Why is that?” Mr. Arkady asks.
“I never really thought about it. It just comes naturally, I guess.”
“And so vill svimmink, yunk lizard. Venn you let it.”
“What do you mean, sir?” I glance at the clock on the wall. The end-of-day bell is going to ring any second. Practice is about to start. I twiddle my claws and shift about anxiously on my very large flippers.
“You come from a lonk line of vater-lovink creatures. You do nut haff to learn to svim. You haff to learn nut to stop yourself from svimmink. Eet ees een your DNA.”
I think Mr. Arkady just gave me some really good advice about swimming. Only I could barely understand a word he said. But before I have a chance to ask him to repeat himself, the bell rings.
I race into the hallway and tear down the back stairs to the locker room. I’ve got to get to practice early so Craig Dieterly and his Bandito friends won’t be there to make fun of me when I change into my bathing suit. I d
ash down the basement corridor and into the boys’ locker room. Great! Nobody’s here yet. I rip off my clothes, shove them into an open locker, and throw on my bathing suit before anyone arrives.
I walk slowly out of the locker room and stare at the Olympic-sized pool that lies before me. The combined odor of chlorine and mildewed towels hits me in the snout like a cement pillow. “Never going in. Never going in. Never going in.” Let them yell at me. Let Coach Grubman wheedle and threaten and complain. How much more can my teammates hate me than they already do? I am never going in.
Speaking of my teammates: where is everybody? It’s much too quiet in here. I don’t hear any shoving and pushing. Craig Dieterly’s obnoxious laughter doesn’t echo through the tiled cavernous space like a delirious hyena. No one’s even making farting sounds with his cupped hand and his underarm. It’s unnerving.
Suddenly wet feet slap against the tiled floor. I quickly turn to see every one of the fifteen Sardines lined up behind me in a solid phalanx. No one says a thing. They just lock arms and walk slowly, inexorably toward me, like those terrifying townspeople who have had their brains scooped out in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
What do they think they’re going to do, push me in? I’ll yell for Coach Grubman and he’ll come to my rescue. Coach might not like me all that much, but he can’t exactly afford to have a student drown during swimming practice, either. Which is when I start to feel relieved. Which is when it dawns on me that Coach Grubman is nowhere to be seen.
I know this because when I holler “COACH!!!!!” at the top of my mighty lungs, not one single person comes running out of the locker room to stop them.
“Save your breath, Swamp Thing.” Craig Dieterly doesn’t even bother to raise his voice. “It’s just you and us,” he says, gesturing to the other Banditos, who continue their steady march toward me. “Coach Grubman isn’t here to save you this time.”
“Yes, he is,” I insist feebly. “He’s about to open the door any second. Oh wow. Listen to that.” I cock my pointy head to one side. “Here he comes now. I can hear him with my superpowerful creature hearing.”
“No, you can’t,” Norm Swerling murmurs.
“Oh yeah? How do you know?” I try to sound tough and brave. But all I really sound is scared and little. Which, considering I am eight and a half feet tall and weigh over seven hundred and fifty pounds, is something of an accomplishment.
“Because Coach Grubman put a note into our cubbies saying he’d be fifteen minutes late for practice today, only somehow you never got yours,” Dirk or Dack Schlissel says smugly.
Craig Dieterly smiles cheerfully. “Say, what’s this I see in my bathing suit?” Dieterly pulls out a wadded-up, soggy piece of paper and unfolds it. “It’s got your name on it, Minnow Mouth.” He holds it up and waves it at me. “What do you know? It’s a note from Coach Grubman.” I don’t even bother to look. “Hey, Drinkwater, are you ready for a nice refreshing dunk? Heads up, fellow Sardines. On the count of three we play ‘push the creature into the pool.’ Ready, everyone? On your mark . . . get set . . .”
“Please don’t. I’m begging you. I can’t swim.”
“What did you say?” Craig Dieterly cups his ear. “I can’t hear you,” he taunts.
“He said he can’t swim,” Larry Wykoff whispers urgently. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea, guys. It could be really dangerous.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you, Wykoff.” Craig Dieterly glares viciously at him. “Everybody, man your battle stations and . . . go!!!”
My teammates gather around and start pushing me toward the dreaded pool. I push back as hard as I can, but my flippers slip and slide on the tiled floor, and within seconds I crash into the deep end.
The team cheers wildly as my head sinks beneath the water. I reach blindly for the edge of the pool, coughing and spluttering, until I get a firm grip with one of my claws.
I take a deep, satisfying gulp of air. And then another one. But Craig Dieterly and the Schlissel twins try to pry my claws loose. I am about to slip back into the water when Coach Grubman races into the room shouting, “What’s going on here?”
“If you tell on us you’re done for, so don’t even think about it,” Craig Dieterly whispers furiously into my earflap.
Coach Grubman’s rubber band is spinning around his hands so fast you can barely see it. “It’s unsafe to go into the water without an adult present. You should know better. I’m surprised at you, Drinkwater,” he barks. “Do you hear me?”
“But Coach . . . you don’t understand . . . I didn’t do anything. I was just . . .”
“I don’t want to hear another word.”
“We told him not to go in, but he wouldn’t listen to us, Coach,” Craig Dieterly lies.
“Enough!!!” Coach grabs my shoulders and helps drag my enormous bulk from the pool. “You will remain silent and stay out of trouble for the rest of practice. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Absolutely, sir.” So I lie by the side of the water and watch as Coach blows three ear-splitting blasts into his whistle. Evidently this is some kind of secret code for people who understand whistle-blowing because everybody springs into action and runs around choosing teams.
Within nanoseconds, four groups of Sardines are eagerly lined up along the deep end of the pool while I watch, numbly, from the tiled floor. Swimmer after swimmer completes his qualifying rounds for tomorrow’s big meet against the Carbondale Catfish.
Finally Coach Grubman blows another couple of blasts on his whistle. It must be the end of today’s practice because everyone gets out of the pool. Thank goodness.
“Get some rest tonight, ladies and germs,” Coach announces through his bullhorn. “The bus for Carbondale leaves at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon from the rear of the building. Be on time. And be prepared to whup those pesky Catfish like they’ve never been whupped before.”
“YEAH!!!!!!!!” The entire team throws their towels in the air and erupts into raucous sustained yelling and screaming. I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but it appears to involve some form of killing or maiming. I get to my feet and walk shakily in the direction of the locker room.
“Hold on, Charlie,” Coach Grubman calls. “You are officially on the swimming team, and that means you have a role to play at this meet, just like everyone else. You’re going to be our mascot at the game tomorrow.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Coach says simply. “Here’s your outfit.” Coach hurls an enormous green felt Sardine costume at me. I catch it in my claws. It’s got stupid-looking rubber fins, big dumb googly eyes, and silver sparkles all over it.
Oh no. Tell me this isn’t happening. I can’t wear this thing in public. I’m already strange-looking enough. I’ll never live it down.
Coach hands me a few pieces of densely typed paper neatly stapled together. “These are your cheers. Learn them well, and perform them with plenty of pep. Don’t slack off. Don’t screw up.” He turns on his heels and heads for his office.
According to Drinkwater’s theory of relativity, tomorrow afternoon’s meet will be starting in approximately twenty-five minutes and fifteen seconds. The countdown has begun.
16
JUST DESSERTS
“TURN OUT THE lights, Fred,” my mom calls from the kitchen. “It’s time.”
My dad jumps up from the table and switches off the chandelier, plunging the dining room into relative darkness.
Light spills in from the hallway. I can still see Aunt Harriet grinning from ear to ear. It’s her birthday today, and boy is she happy.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday . . .” My mom pushes open the door with her hip and enters the room. Her face glows from the light of fifty-three brightly burning candles. She proudly carries in the same high-calorie, sugar-laden, dense chocolate mocha fudge
birthday cake she makes every year. Aunt Harriet loves it. I dare you to think of a dessert Aunt Harriet doesn’t love. No wonder she’s got a heart problem. Balthazar lies eagerly at her feet, waiting for a morsel of food to drop.
We all join in the song. My dad conducts with his fork. Dave throws a handful of confetti. Uncle Marvin toots his noisemaker enthusiastically. Aunt Harriet just stares at the cake longingly and licks her lips. “Make a wish, Harriet,” my mom says as she carefully sets her creation down on the table. My aunt closes her eyes tightly and scrunches up her face for so long the candles have left a puddle of sticky wax over much of the cake by the time she gets around to blowing them out.
Aunt Harriet always takes forever to make her wish. I never knew why before. I do now. I bet she’s wishing that Stanley’s happy and safe. She must miss him a lot. I wish I could tell her how noble and brave he is. And how much he enjoys living under Crater Lake. But I can’t. Not now, anyway. Not while he’s still searching for the antidote. When I got home from school this afternoon, I put his dinner out behind the garage. His breakfast was gone. But last time I looked, dinner was still sitting there, untouched. I hope nothing happened to him.
“When are you planning to cut the cake, Doris?” Aunt Harriet asks as soon as she blows out the last candle. “I’m starving.” Evidently being sad about her son hasn’t affected her appetite.
“Soon, Harriet,” my mom replies. “But first, in honor of your special day, I’d like everyone at the table to tell us about one special thing that happened to them today. You go first, Marv.”
“Got my finger stuck in a bottle this morning,” Uncle Marvin says cheerfully. “Boy, did that hurt.”
“What’s so special about that?” my dad asks.
“Got it out again!” He laughs and waves his bandaged finger.
“When do I get my cake?” Aunt Harriet persists.
“What about you, Charlie?” My mom ignores her sister. “Do you have anything special you’d like to tell us about?”
“Not really,” I say.