“Excellent,” Peyton says. She lifts her chin. “Let’s go.”
Grabbing our towels, we exit through the back door of the locker room, which leads to Holy Redeemer’s Olympic-size pool. My feet pad against damp tile, and the splish-splash sounds remind me of summer. I would so much rather be sunbathing by our pool with Anna. By the look on Anna’s face, so would she.
Peyton, Anna, and I join the rest of our gym class at the end of the pool sectioned off for swimming laps. At the other end are the diving boards. One low and one high, and my stomach tightens when I take in how high the high board truly is. I know what’s coming with that high board, because it’s a Holy Roller tradition. We’re going to have to do a back dive off it. I don’t look at Anna. There are times when I can help her, and times when I can’t. This is one of the latter.
When we’re all lined up on the edge of the pool, Coach Schranker makes a “swimming-is-important” speech that essentially goes like this: Everyone needs to know how to swim. Swimming is an essential life skill. If you cannot swim and you fall into a pool, you will drown. It happens every year, especially in California. Any questions?
“Do we have to go under?” Lydia asks.
“Yes, Lydia, you have to go under,” Coach Schranker says.
“But I don’t want to get my hair wet. It’s bad for my highlights.”
Bad Attitude Cindy snickers. Unlike Anna, she is wearing a bikini, which is silly since we’re going to be swimming laps and—eventually—diving. In fact, I’m surprised it’s not against the dress code. Maybe the administration never saw the need to add “no bikinis” to the list of regulations?
A quick glance reveals that Cindy did, however, shave.
“Put olive oil in your hair,” Tatiana offers. “That’s what French people do.”
“Do not get olive oil in this pool,” Coach Schranker says.
“Coconut oil works, too, and it smells delish,” Tatiana says. She’s forgotten to take off her earrings, which are big gold hoops. If she were wearing high heels, she could compete in a beauty pageant.
“I did a mayonnaise treatment last week,” Lydia says. “It was revolting.”
Coach Schranker blows his whistle. “Girls. There are people who go their whole lives without setting foot in a swimming pool. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to attend a school that has one of the top-ranked swim teams in the country?”
I slouch a little. It’s a familiar theme at Holy Redeemer: how lucky we are and how we don’t appreciate it. It’s true, of course. I know it’s not normal for sixteen-year-olds to receive BMWs on their birthdays, like Bad Attitude Cindy’s sister did, nor is it normal to fly to Paris to buy a Freshman Fling dress, as Lydia did last May. But part of me wants to say, It’s not our fault. It’s not as if we chose this.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Coach Schranker brings up Holy Redeemer’s custodians and cafeteria workers, most of whom are black. Most of Holy Redeemer’s students, big surprise, are white. He informs us that by the grace of God and Headmaster Perkins, the custodians and cafeteria workers are given free lessons in this very pool.
“Do they moan and groan about getting their hair wet?” he says. “No, they do not, and why? Because unlike you girls, they’re grateful for the chance to improve themselves.”
“The lunch ladies do not take swim lessons,” Lydia says, as if the concept is ridiculous.
“Yes, Lydia, they do,” Coach Schranker says. “Every Thursday evening.”
“Why?”
“Because they want to learn to swim. Because when they were young, they weren’t given the same opportunities as you girls.”
“They didn’t have pools?” Jackie Owens says skeptically. Jackie has a big math brain and loves statistics. She loves challenging people, even teachers, on statements that can’t be proven. “Not even public swimming pools, like Garden Hills?”
“Some of them are very afraid of water,” Coach Schranker declares.
This “them-ing” is making me fidget. Everyone’s sneaking peeks at Vonzelle Coulter, who is one of “them” and attends Holy Redeemer on scholarship. Vonzelle’s mom, Chandra, is the head cafeteria lady. In the cafeteria line, white boys in their pink polos jerk their chins at Chandra and say, “‘Wuz up, Chandra! That chocolate pee-can pie is off the hook. Yo yo yo, mama!’”
Vonzelle stares straight ahead, her fingers clenched by her sides.
“Anyone who’s afraid of water is an idiot,” Bad Attitude Cindy says. She gives Coach Schranker a charged look and cocks her hip. “I love getting wet.”
There’s ducked-head giggling, and also a gasp from Lydia, who is horribly offended. Peyton puts her lips next to my ear and says, “Ho.”
Coach Schranker blows his whistle. “Into the pool!”
We screech and squeal into the water. Bad Attitude Cindy is the first to duck under, and she rises from the water with her back arched and her head tilted back. It’s a check-out-my-chest move, and Coach Schranker does.
He catches me watching and looks away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JUST DO IT
PE is made of suckage. Practicing the crawl and doing the backstroke aren’t too bad (well, for me), but as the days march by, the thought of our required back dive off the high board takes up more and more of my brain space. It is out there and not going away, no matter how much I want it to.
We’re allowed to do the possibly-spine-snapping dive anytime we want, as long as it’s before the end of the unit. On the final Friday of the three-week session, five girls have yet to meet the requirement: me, Peyton, Tatiana, Jackie, and Anna. Today is the day, or we fail—and that means not just the swim unit, but the whole entire PE class. Just another example of the insanity that is Holy Redeemer.
Vonzelle was the first to do her dive. In fact, she did it the day after the swim unit started. Her mouth set in a line, she climbed the ladder, strode to the end, lifted her hands above her head, and just . . . did it. She was amazing. She was fearless. Or maybe she was just determined to show Coach Schranker that not all of “them” are as afraid of water as he suggested.
Her dive behind her, Vonzelle is sitting in the bleachers today. She’s in her swimsuit, but working on homework. The other girls who’ve done the dive play in the shallow water, doing handstands and floating lazily on their backs.
“I’m so nervous,” Peyton whispers, huddling next to me and Anna. Holy Redeemer’s high-dive extends from an elevated platform, and that’s where we are. Tatiana and Jackie are up here, too. “What if I mess up? I don’t want Steve to think less of me!”
By Steve, she means Coach Schranker.
I look at her in disbelief, like, We have to plunge backward to our death, and you’re worried what “Steve” is going to think of you?
Last Monday, Bad Attitude Cindy did her back dive, only she arched her spine instead of falling straight back. She flipped too far over and smacked the water with a slap, and her thighs, when she climbed up the ladder, were purple with broken blood vessels. Anna rushed to the girls’ locker room and threw up. She made me promise not to tell.
Coach Schranker blows his whistle. “Who’s first? Anna, want to get it over with?”
Anna steps backward to the far edge of the platform. We are so high up, and we’re not even over the water yet. “Couldn’t I write an extra-credit report?” she asks in a quavery voice. “Please?”
“No extra credit,” Coach Schranker says. He scans the line. “Peyton, you ready?”
“Yes,” Peyton says. Then she hyperventilates. “JK. LOL. Enter!”
“Peyton, this isn’t the time,” Coach Schranker says. “Now, come on. Let’s see you give it your best shot.”
“Fine,” Peyton says, stepping onto the board.
“You can do it,” I say. From the corner of my eye, I see Anna clenching and unclenching her fingers.
Peyton’s breaths are shallow as she takes baby steps to the end of the board. It jiggles under her weight. She makes the mistake of glancing down, then q
uickly lifts her eyes.
“The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be,” Coach Schranker says.
Peyton rotates inch by inch until the back of her body faces the pool.
“Now raise your arms,” Coach Schranker instructs. “That’s right. Hands clasped. Now tilt your head so you’re looking at the backs of your hands. Don’t arch your spine.”
“I’m going to faint.” I think I hear Anna whisper.
My heart is drumming, and I’m not the one on the end of the board. I feel suddenly like I have to pee, and I vow to go next just to end this torture.
“Go on, Peyton,” Coach Schranker says.
She scrunches her face and falls backward, and we hold our breaths as she plummets down, down, down.
And then. . .splash. It’s over. She did it. She swims up to the surface, and we cheer when her head pops out of the water.
“Way to go,” Coach Schranker says. “Now wasn’t that easy?”
“No,” she says giddily. “It was awful.”
He laughs. He puts his hands on his hips and looks up. “All right, who’s next?”
“I’ll go,” I say, at the same time as Jackie. We glance at each other.
“Me first,” Jackie says. “It is statistically advantageous for me to get it over with.”
“And then me,” Tatiana says. “Please, Coach Schranker? I’m feeling like it’s really important for me to go now.”
“Get in line, then,” Coach Schranker says.
We scramble into place behind the board. I end up second to last. The only person behind me is Anna, who doesn’t join the line, but stays put at the back of the platform.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell her. “You’re psyching yourself out, Anna.”
She regards me with round eyes.
“You’re not really going to faint, are you?”
She doesn’t answer. She’s awfully pale.
Jackie goes to the end of the board, turns around, and raises her hands above her head. She threatens to sue if she breaks her neck, then shuts her eyes and falls.
“Yes,” she says when she surfaces. “Exactly the right angle, exactly the right velocity.”
Tatiana doesn’t fare so well. Her legs crumple as she begins her dive, and she flails in the air. She lands on her butt, and Coach Schranker winces.
“Ouch,” he says. “That’s got to hurt.”
Tatiana gasps when she comes out. She pauses on the ladder and tugs her bathing suit out of her butt crack.
“I’m okay,” she says.
“You sure?” Coach Schranker asks.
She nods as tears stream down her face.
“Shoulda locked your knees,” Coach Schranker tells her, shaking his head. “Go on and shower off, then check in with the nurse.”
Coach Schranker gazes up at me and Anna. We’re the only ones left. “That was because she forgot to lock her knees. Don’t do that.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say under my breath. It’s meant to make Anna smile, but she doesn’t. She’s practically in a comatose state.
“Come on, Carly,” Coach Schranker says. He claps. “Let’s go.”
I hold up a finger. “One sec.”
I take three steps to Anna and say, “Anna, you’re scaring me. Would you please act like you’re alive?”
“I’m alive,” she whispers. Her lips barely move.
“Hey,” I say, touching her arm. “Hey. What is it that famous person said? ‘It’ll all work out in the end, and if it doesn’t, that means it’s not the end yet’?”
Anna’s eyes come briefly into focus. “A famous person said that? Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone.”
“What does it even mean?” she says. “And what ‘end’ are they talking about? Death?!”
“Okay, never mind,” I say. “But listen. Do you really want to be up here alone once I do my dive? You’ll be all by yourself. Is that what you want?”
Anna’s expression turns remote again, in a glassy-eyed-doll way. She almost imperceptibly shakes her head.
“Go on, then,” I say, waving her in front of me. “Don’t think about it. Just do it.”
Anna approaches the board, but doesn’t step onto it. She looks back at me and whispers, “I can’t.”
“You can,” I say.
When Peyton balked, Coach Schranker coddled her. With Anna, he grows curt. “You’re wasting time, Anna. Either you go, or let your sister.”
Anna takes one step out onto the board, then another, then another. Her movements are stiff and ungraceful.
Good girl, I encourage her silently. You can do it.
She reaches the end of the board, and, like Peyton, looks down. It’s a mistake. But while Peyton caught herself immediately, Anna keeps looking down, seemingly hypnotized by the water so far away. The girls below cluster together and stare up at her.
“Go for it, Anna,” Peyton calls.
Anna doesn’t move.
Coach Schranker puts his hands on his hips. “Anna, now.”
She still doesn’t move.
“I’m going to give you ten seconds. I’m going to count down, starting now. Ten, nine, eight, seven—”
I don’t understand what his plan is. Is he going to climb the ladder when he reaches “one”? March down the board and push her off?
That is my sister, I want to say. But what good would it do?
At “three,” Anna sinks to a crouch and grips the sides of the board. She’s crying now, like Tatiana. She’s a crying egg at the end of the board.
“For God’s sake,” Coach Schranker says.
“Anna . . .” I manage. But I don’t know what to do. Should I go out there?
“Come on, Anna,” Peyton says.
“Yeah,” says Jackie. “The longer you wait, the higher the odds you’ll mess up.”
The group of them starts up like baby birds: You can do it, Anna. Don’t be scared. Just think how good you’ll feel when it’s over. The girls from the shallow end look over at the commotion. So does Vonzelle from the bleachers.
Anna cries harder, and Coach Schranker shakes his head. “Get off the board,” he says, disgusted. “You’re done. You fail.”
I want to tell him he’s being a bastard, that he didn’t treat Peyton this way or any of the other girls. But he’s a teacher, and I’m just me. I don’t think a confident voice and a firm handshake is the solution here.
Anyway, I doubt I could pull off either one.
“Get off the board, Anna,” Coach Schranker says.
Dropping from her crouch to her bottom, Anna scoots backward in small increments, her fingers gripping each edge of the board. Her suit’s going to be ruined. When she’s back to the front of the board, she twists awkwardly around the way you’d twist on a Sit’n Spin. She steps with trembling legs onto the platform part where I am. She drags her forearm under her nose and doesn’t meet my eyes.
“You’re up, Carly,” Coach Schranker says. “No excuses.”
The other girls in the class keep their necks craned. As I step onto the board, Peyton calls, “Come on, Carly. You can do it.”
Of course I can, I think angrily.
The board is rough, with points of plaster poking the undersides of my feet. It bounces as I approach the end. It’s so fragile, this slim, buckling sliver of fiberglass.
I turn around and slide my heels off the edge of the board like I’m supposed to. There is nothing beneath them but air.
Don’t look.
I lift my eyes, expecting to see Anna on the platform. But she’s gone. Okay, fine. Can’t think about it now. I raise my arms above my head and clasp my hands. The board jiggles.
“Let your hands break the water,” Coach Schranker says. At least I think he does. I can’t breathe normally, and my thoughts have grown slippery-slide-y.
“You’re golden, Carly,” calls Peyton.
“Don’t be scared!” says someone else.
I focus on my hands, on my four visible knuckles. I feel prec
arious, and I surrender to it.
I fall.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BIG SISTERS DON’T TAG ALONG
Anna and I don’t talk about what happened in PE, and we don’t mention it to Mom when we get home from school. Mom doesn’t ask, and I know that Dad, when he gets home from work, won’t, either. Other parents might be interested in the fact that their children are plunging backward off twelve-foot-high planks. Other parents might at least be aware of the fact that such plunging goes on at the school to which they fork over twenty thousand dollars a year. Twenty thousand dollars per child.
But Mom is oblivious, and for Anna’s sake, I guess that’s good.
“Girls, your father and I are going to Pricci’s tonight with one of your father’s clients,” Mom says as she arranges the flowers she bought at Whole Foods. “Would either of you like to join us?”
I glance at Anna, who glances at me. It’s a sisters reflex. Go to Pricci’s-of-the-yummy-baked-Brie-appetizer and eat with boring client, or stay at home and fend for ourselves?
Only in this case, the reflex is just that—a reflex. I immediately jerk my eyes away, because I feel like crap for not saving Anna from Coach Schranker. So instead of deciding together what we want to do, I pretend I’m interested in something on the counter.
“Um . . . sure, I’ll go,” I say casually. I expect Anna to say “me, too,” and I’m already thinking, Well, at least we’ll be in a group. At least it won’t be just her and me awkwardly watching TV and hoping Swimfan doesn’t come on. Or Jaws. Or that movie about the surfer girl who almost drowns.
But Anna doesn’t say “me, too.” She says, “I don’t feel like going out. I’ll, um . . . I think I’ll call Georgia and maybe go hang at her house.”
“But going to Georgia’s would be going out,” I say.
She shrugs.
I open my mouth, then shut it. Who am I to question her plans? It irritates me, though. There’s no good reason why. It just does.
“That’s fine, as long as you’re home by ten,” Mom says.
“I’ll see if Joe can drop me off,” Anna says. Joe is Georgia’s college-age brother, who lives at home, goes to Emory, and is pretty darn hot.
Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Page 7