by Ariel Kaplan
“I’ll let her know,” I said.
“So what’s new? Last I heard, you were working on an app for your computer class.”
I chomped into my mint. I guess you’re supposed to suck them or let them dissolve, but I can never seem to manage it. “It’s okay. I think I’m almost done.”
“And how’s Bethany?”
“Bethany’s good. Also, Dad’s good, Kit’s good, and Walnut’s good.”
She raised a single eyebrow. I wonder if that’s a thing they teach you in therapist school, the single eyebrow raise.
“And Delia?” she asked.
I cut my eyes toward the clock. I’d been there about three minutes.
“Did you show your husband the thing about the blood pressure?” I asked.
“Aphra,” she said, which meant she was not having my deflection today.
“She’s fine,” I said. “I mean, someone would have told me if she wasn’t.”
“You told me last week you were going to send her an email.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t actually get around to that.”
“When is she coming home, again?” she asked.
“Next week,” I said. “She’s coming home a week from Sunday.”
“I thought we agreed it would be better if you cleared the air before you guys have to share a bathroom again.”
I sighed. “Here’s the thing—”
“No,” she said, cutting me off. I don’t think therapists are supposed to do that, but Dr. Pascal is not about wasting time. “You’ve been telling me about the thing for the last ten months. I know you’re mad at Delia. You feel like she insulted you. You’re mad that she hasn’t apologized. But you don’t get to control Delia. You only control Aphra. So what are you going to do?”
I fiddled with a hangnail.
“Have you reconsidered bringing her in for a few joint sessions with me once she gets back?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, I’ve thought about it, but I don’t want to.”
She nodded. “Okay. Well, I seem to remember you saying that you wanted this summer to be better than last year. You said the tension was really bad for your brother.”
That was true. Kit doesn’t like it when people fight; it makes him super anxious. “He’s just a little kid.”
“He is. And you also said there were five people in your house who deserved to have some peace. Including you.”
“You said that,” I said. “Not me.”
“Pretty sure it was you.”
“I don’t think so.” I tapped my temple. “Photographic memory. You said it.”
She held up her notepad. “I take notes. It was you. And you were right. You also said you thought this had gone on long enough.”
Shoot, I had said that. Maybe I’d come to therapy hungry last week. That was always a bad idea. “Fine. I’ll say something to Delia.”
“Do you want to work out a script? Sometimes that can be helpful.”
“Nah,” I said. “I’ve got this.”
“Aphra…”
“So did I tell you I got a fake boob?”
* * *
—
Back in my car, I opened up my email and sent my sister a note that said, Mom’s roses are blooming. Too bad you can’t smell anymore.
There. I’d said something.
I put my phone away and pulled out of my parking space, and then I stopped and pulled back in. There’s a bookstore across the street from the JCC. I walked over there and found myself standing in the Modern Languages section. I picked up a copy of Learn Russian the Fast and Easy Way. And then I bought it.
I’m not really sure why.
The pit stop at the bookstore made me late for crew, and everyone was halfway through their warm-up run by the time I got there. I sprinted like crazy and managed to catch up to them just as they got to the boathouse.
“You’re late,” Sophie said. Sophie is our coxswain, and she’s tiny but not to be trifled with. You might think she’d cut me some slack since I was the one who recruited her in the first place, but you’d be wrong.
I used to be the coxswain, but by the end of freshman year, it became clear that I was better off as a rower; I’d started working out with the rest of the team, and I was going harder on the erg than most of them, probably because I had a little brother who still insisted on daily piggyback rides despite being well over fifty pounds, which meant that about four times a day I was doing squats with a wriggling kettlebell strapped to my back. Coach Kim wanted to move me into the four-seat, which meant we needed a new coxswain: someone small, loud, and enthusiastic. Where does one find such a person? I should think the answer is obvious. I told Coach Kim I had the perfect person in mind.
So that fall, I’d sat in the front row of a football game against Audubon, watching the halftime show, where Sophie Bell was being tossed repeatedly in the air like she weighed nothing; her braids—black but spray-dyed at the ends with our school colors—were tied into a ponytail that flew over her head every time her team threw her upward. Sophie was only 4'11" and probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, but she shouted louder than any of the others. I wondered where she got the lung capacity. After the halftime show, she’d sat down in the row in front of me.
“Hey,” I said. We didn’t know each other, really, despite having been in algebra together in seventh grade.
“Hey, Aphra,” she said brightly, because among other things, Sophie is very nice.
“Do you have a minute?” I asked.
The other cheerleaders were drinking Gatorade and putting on sweatpants since it was cold out, but she said, “Sure,” and climbed over the bleachers to sit next to me. Everything about her was so put together…the dyed braids, the sparkly eye shadow, the bubble-gum-pink nails that popped against her black skin. I wondered how much of that was required for cheerleading and how much of it was her own style.
“So here’s the thing,” I said. “You look like you’re having an awesome time out there, and you’re obviously really good at this, but how would you like to add a second sport to your résumé?”
“A second sport?”
“Mm-hmm. Picture this: literally all you have to do is order people around, and they have to do exactly what you say without talking back.” I pointed a finger at her. “In a boat.”
From the bench, Sigrid Dupain called, “Sophie, get back down here!”
“One sec!” she called back.
“I said now!”
“We’re not even doing anything now!”
“You’re supposed to be on the field until the end of the game!”
Under her breath, Sophie muttered, “Please.” To me, she said, “So I tell people what to do.”
From the stands, a cheer went up. I guessed we’d scored or something. I said, “Loudly, yes.”
“And they have to do it?”
“Unquestioningly. You’re the boss. I mean, except for the coach, but apart from her, yeah, you’re running the show.”
“And what’s the time commitment?”
“Practices five afternoons a week in the spring, regattas on Saturdays.”
Down on the field, someone tackled someone else and there was a lot of grunting. Around us, people shouted, “DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!” Sigrid screamed, “SOPHIE, GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE!”
“Are you for real right now?” Sophie called back. “YOU’RE EATING PRETZELS.” Behind her pom-pom, she flipped Sigrid off. Sigrid scowled and turned back around, her hair ribbons spinning with the speed of her flounce.
“I swear to God,” she said. “So who else is on the team?”
“Oh. Well, right now from our school it’s just me and Bethany Newman—”
“The girl who doesn’t talk?”
I bristled. “She talks.”
“Like every
other Tuesday?”
I got up. “You know, if you’re going to be like that, never mind.”
“Wait,” she said.
I turned back around.
“I’m sorry. You know what? I’ll try it. Can I bring some people?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
Sigrid bellowed, “SOPHIE!” and Sophie muttered, “Might as well get to scream at someone else for a change.”
She’d shown up at our preseason practice the next week, and she’d brought Claire Okeke and Talia Reyes with her.
We have about twenty girls on our team, which is unusually small, and we’re not actually affiliated with a high school. Our team—the junior division of the Occoquan Rowing Club—is made up of all the kids whose high schools don’t have their own teams, so right now we have kids rowing from Middleridge, South County, and Fair Lakes High.
We’re a small but scrappy bunch. This year, we have two standard eights—one varsity and one JV—plus a varsity four, and this season we also have a coxless pair, which sounds dirty but isn’t. I row with the varsity eight on Dullahan, which consists of eight rowers, plus the coxswain. Bethany is the stroke, which means she sits in the stern opposite Sophie because she’s the best technical rower. I sit in the middle because I am strong like bull.
I clipped my feet into the stretchers and waited while Sophie adjusted her headset. “WHO IS READY TO DIE?” she called. I grabbed my oar and we started out into the river. “Hard ten in two!” she called, and we leaned into our strokes.
I like the focus of rowing, but that day I was having trouble keeping my head in it because my brain wanted to think about Greg. Mostly, I was wondering how I’d managed to know him for five years and never learn anything about him besides the fact that he’s cute.
It was kind of a problem. It was, I knew, the exact way people treat Bethany, like she’s pretty and that’s enough. I felt kind of gross for having thought about Greg the same way. I mean, I knew he wasn’t stupid; he takes all the honors classes and he does well. But I never bothered to find out anything else about him.
So I was pretty surprised when we rowed back to the dock and he was standing there with the boys’ team.
We got out and carried Dullahan back to the boathouse. I was very sweaty. I mean, we were all sweaty, but somehow I seemed sweatier than everyone else. I ran my finger across the bridge of my nose.
Bethany hung back next to me. “Ohmigod,” she said.
“Go talk to him!”
“I can’t!”
Because I’m a good friend—and not at all because I wanted to—I took Bethany’s hand in mine and walked up to Greg. “Здравствуйте,” I said, because I’d taken a minute to skim the Easy Russian book while standing in the checkout line at the bookstore. I had no idea whether I was saying it right, but what I lacked in an acceptable accent I made up for with panache. In other words, I rolled the r. I don’t actually know if Russian has rolled r’s.
He smiled. “Здравствуйте.”
Rolled r. I smiled back. “Are you rowing these days?” The season was nearly over; it was a strange time to be starting out.
“Coach Allen’s my next-door neighbor. I told him I was thinking about doing it next year, and he said I could try a couple of practices and see what I think.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, good. I’m sure you’ll be good at it. Don’t you think? Bethany?”
Bethany said, “So good.”
“I mean, I imagine rowing uses a lot of the same muscle groups as swimming, you know. Like, you need a really strong set of delts.”
I elbowed Bethany. She said, “Delts.”
We both stared at Greg’s delts.
We were so, so gross. And I think Bethany maybe was suffering some kind of Greg-induced breakdown.
“I think Bethany needs water,” I said.
“Water,” she repeated, nodding vigorously. I shrugged at Greg and dragged her back in the direction of the cooler.
“What is wrong with me?” she asked once Greg was too far away to hear. She poured part of her water over her head before drinking the rest.
“I don’t even think he noticed,” I said. It was probably true. He probably thought she was silly and adorable.
“Literally all I did was repeat the last word you said. Three times. I did it three times.”
I glanced over to where Greg was climbing into the middle of the boat. He looked at us and waved.
Bethany waved back. “I think I’ve decided to give up.”
“Give up? You’ve been trying to talk to him for, like, three days, and you haven’t even had a conversation yet. That’s just…I don’t know. Aborting the mission before you even start.”
We sat on the grass and stretched; Bethany and I did a V-sit foot to foot and took turns pulling each other forward to get the kinks out of our backs. We watched the boys’ team; Coach Allen looked to be explaining boat terms to Greg and was giving him a brief demonstration of what to do with his oar.
I wondered why Greg was interested in rowing next year. He still swam on his year-round team, so I was a little surprised he had time.
We watched the boys working their way across the lake in Bucephalus; John O’Malley’s super loud once he gets in a boat, and we could hear him from several hundred yards off.
“Go!” he said. “Go, go!”
We watched them go a few hundred feet. They looked all right, I guess. Greg wasn’t feathering his strokes right, but it was his first day. And then he lost control of his oar, which snapped back at him, catching him across the chest.
“Ouch,” I said.
“Do you think he’s okay?” Bethany asked.
The rest of the guys in the boat were laughing while Greg rubbed his sternum. He said something to them that we couldn’t hear. If it had been me, I would have told them off for laughing, but apparently he’s a little nicer than I am, because they just laughed some more and started rowing again. Two minutes later, he did it again.
Bethany said, “What is he even doing wrong?”
It was hard to see from where we were sitting, but it looked like he was probably just rowing too deep. We watched them for a few more minutes; John appeared to be calling directions to Greg, but it didn’t seem to be helping. Most guys, I think, would be planning on giving up now. I figured he’d be back in the pool by tomorrow morning and that was the last we’d see of him.
When they got back to the shore, their coach beckoned me over. “Aphra,” he said. “Would you take Greg out in Selkie? Just give him the lay of the land for a bit.”
I looked at him a little dubiously, because Selkie is one of our pairs and rowing a pair is hard. I’d done it in practice only enough times to know that it’s not really my thing; if both people don’t know what they’re doing, it’s just a hot mess of swearing and rowing in circles, and I’d already watched Greg eat his oar twice. It would have made more sense to take him out in one of the fours if he didn’t want the whole team out there.
“Just for ten minutes,” he said. “I just want him to concentrate on what the oar is supposed to do without worrying about keeping up a stroke rhythm.”
“O-okay,” I said. Greg looked a little guilty. “But you know, Bethany’s a better technical rower.” I gave her a little push forward with my shoulder.
Coach Allen looked at Bethany, frowning just a little. I willed her to speak, take control of the situation, and spend ten minutes in a boat with the boy she liked. Instead, she looked a little like she might barf.
“You’ve got the coxing experience,” he said. “Just take him for a spin for a few minutes.”
I guess I should have been flattered that he thought I was a better teacher, but it irked me. Bethany was always being overlooked, and in this particular case, she really was a better rower than me. But people see a pretty girl who
doesn’t want to talk and they think she’s either a snob or she’s stupid. I’m not sure which one Coach Allen was assuming right then. “I really think Bethany—”
But Bethany just whispered to me, “It’s okay, Aphra. You go.”
I said, “But—”
Allen slapped me on the shoulder. “Great! Don’t go easy on him.” He walked away.
“Right,” I said. “Well, let’s go see what those delts have got going on.”
* * *
—
In Selkie, I sat in the stroke and put Greg in the bow so that he could copy my movements. “Okay,” I said. “We’re going to do a little drill. Check your oar.”
“What?”
“Put the blade in, but flat side out. You’re going to hold us still, and I’m going to row us around in a circle so you can see what a good catch looks like. Watch the end of my oar.” I demonstrated for a few minutes. “Now you,” I said, looking over my left shoulder to watch the end of his oar. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re digging too deep. Hence the crab-catching.”
“Crab-catching?”
“Catching a crab is when you lose control of your oar. It’s like Goldilocks: it has to be just right. If you go in too deep, you’ll catch a crab. Too shallow and you’re skimming, and then the boat won’t go straight. Try it again.”
He did, a little better. I held us steady while he went around in another circle. I was actually starting to enjoy myself—late afternoon was my favorite time to be out on the water. The sun was starting to sink overhead, and Greg’s oars cast a series of ripples across the water.
He grunted. “You okay?” I asked. “We should probably head back in a minute.”
“You don’t have to go easy on me,” he said.
“I’m not. I already rowed for two hours and I’m tired.”
It was strange talking to him, being just a few feet from him, but not being able to see him. But I guess that meant he couldn’t see my face, either. I wondered what the back of my neck looks like. Probably like the back of everyone else’s neck.
He was quiet for a few minutes. I called out a few rowing terms so he’d get used to hearing them. He was a pretty quick study. Of course. What are a couple of boat words to someone who speaks six languages?