Geese Are Never Swans

by Kobe Bryant

  Then one day Darien left home and didn’t return. This was the first time she ran away, but not the last, and my mother had no choice but to bring me along with her to one of Danny’s meets in San Jose. She complained the whole time and acted put out and I didn’t even want to go because I knew I’d hate it. What could be more boring than watching someone swim back and forth in a man-made cube of water? Not to mention, I really couldn’t imagine Danny was any good. My mom was always bragging about him to anyone who would listen, but Danny was a different kid back then—twitchy, nervous, and plagued with headaches, rashes, and other ailments that required visits to specialists and frequent blood draws.

  But in the pool, this all changed. My brother leapt from the blocks with a power I didn’t know he had, streaking for the far side against a field of bigger boys. Watching him fight for dominance, I went crazy. I cheered and yelled and stamped and even hugged my mother when he won. She hugged me back, which was a surprise. I couldn’t remember a time when she’d done that. But she held me close, her cheeks pink, her heart pounding, my nose filled with the scent of her lavender lotion. In her arms, I melted a little, and finally, I understood what might be at the top of the goddamn mountain.

  Everything.

  The meet ended. We tried to get to where the team was gathered, but it was so crowded, my mother and I couldn’t move from the bleachers. Eventually the head coach made his way over to where we were and started talking my mom’s ear off about Danny’s future. What kind of commitment my mother would have to make and what that would mean for our family. He listed off everything she’d have to pay for: private lessons, a private trainer, getting Danny on a more competitive circuit that would have him traveling all over the western states. It sounded like it would cost a ton.

  She agreed to everything without even asking Danny. She ignored my tug on her arm when I grew bored, and I started looking around for Danny, hoping to catch sight of him in the crowd. And there he was. No longer awkward or sickly, my brother stood on a podium, holding a trophy in the air and posing for photos. You could see his destiny in that moment. It was evident in his triumphant grin, stretching from ear to ear, and in the water dripping from his dark curls. The rest of his team lingered in the shadows, unnoticed, and when Danny finally turned and walked toward the locker room, I caught the way his teammates looked at each other. They hated him, I realized.

  Every last one of them.

  29.

  My destiny, it would appear, is to be eternally pissed off. Even now, as I step into the same gilded paradise Danny once ruled and then squandered, nothing comes easy for me.

  I do my best to fit in, adjusting quickly to the practice schedule and showing up to the club early almost every day. This gives the team the impression I’m a morning person, but the truth is that sleep is more work than it’s worth these days. Too much leaves me jumpy, short of breath, with my nerves wrung dry by a dream residue that seeps into my waking hours. I try harder with food, but satiety’s not a natural state for me. It may not be optimal from a physiological standpoint, but I perform best when both underfed and overworked. Hunger sharpens me, I find.

  Struggle defines me.

  Endearing myself to Coach Marks is likewise a challenge. I employ different tactics, ranging from rote obedience to ass kissing to self-deprecating jokester. Nothing works. He simply treats me the way he treats all his swimmers, barring Fitz, who’s his favorite. After a few weeks, in an act of desperation, I try the one thing I shouldn’t—being myself.

  “Why’re we only doing nine workouts a week?” I blurt out at the start of evening practice. It’s a sweltering Thursday in early July. One of those endless days where even darkness can’t beat back the heat and the mosquitoes seem sapped of energy, too lazy to bite or swarm. “We should be doing more.”

  Coach Marks squints at me. “You got a problem with the way I run my team, Bennett?”

  “I’ve got a problem with the way you don’t,” I counter.

  Some of the guys laugh at my response. They think I’m making a joke, which says more about them than it does about me. But Coach Marks knows I’m serious.

  He knows I always am.

  He tugs the brim of his visor. “My goal is to push you when you’re in the water and make sure you’re recovering well when you’re not. To keep you healthy. To keep you injury-free. And to keep you improving.”

  “So one size fits all?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  I tilt my head. “What are you saying?”

  “That if you’re swimming for me, you’re following my program. And I believe in intensity. I want you doing better workouts. Not more.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else could there be?”

  “You make it sound like I shouldn’t ask questions. Like I should just be following orders.”

  “I never said that. But this is a relationship based on trust—which goes both ways, remember—and if you don’t trust me or the way I work, then you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I mumble because I can feel the tide turning against me—no one’s laughing anymore. But it’s not like I’m full of shit. Training isn’t a religion. It’s not a matter of faith or wanting something to believe in. It’s about evidence, which I have plenty of. It’s all written down in my training journal. And yes, I have seen improvement in my times. It’d be hard not to, considering I didn’t have access to a real pool or regular workouts for more than a month.

  But it’s not enough. Not even close.

  My brother didn’t leave me anything when he died, but I found his training efforts and split times going back years logged in a spreadsheet on his phone. I printed it out and currently have it pinned to the wall in my room for comparison to my own, and the story his notes tell is that not only did Danny improve faster from where I am now, but he trained harder. A lot harder. In fact, three years earlier, he was at this exact club in this exact same pool doing twelve-plus workouts a week—that’s doubles every weekday plus two workouts a weekend, not even counting dry-land training.

  Next practice, I arrive early and I bring with me the evidence I’ve collected. I try showing it to Coach Marks as he pulls the covers off the diving pool and checks the filters. I have everything he needs to see. Screenshots of then and now. The difference is obvious and undeniable.

  “What’s your point?” he asks, like the point isn’t right in front of his face. But he can’t be bothered to do more than glance at my phone. Part of the pool cover gets twisted and he turns away from me, reaching into the water to get it straightened out before reeling it the rest of the way in.

  I pace behind him while he works. “My point is that this is what you did with Danny when he was my age. Look how many reps he was doing. Plus all those intervals and progressive sets. It was working. His times dropped to national level in a matter of weeks. But I’m capable of more and I’m not working half as hard as he was, which means there’s no way I can improve at the same rate! It’s not possible.”

  “Okay,” he says, still not looking at me.

  I shove my phone back into my pocket. “So which is it: are you sabotaging me on purpose? Or is it that you don’t think I’m good enough to work that hard?”

  Coach Marks turns and shakes water from his hands, flinging the drops back toward the pool in a useless act of conservation. “I’m not sabotaging you.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I also think you’re plenty good enough.”

  “Then why?” A plaintive edge overtakes my voice in a way I hate but can’t help. “I can do it. I know I can.”

  “Because you’re not the same person as your brother. You’re a different swimmer than he was. And I’m different, too. I’m not the same coach I was back then.”

  “Well, why the hell not?” I ask.

  “Gus . . .”
/>   “What?”

  Coach Marks steps back from the pool, his work, and looks around. “Why don’t we sit and talk about this. Somewhere private.”

  I’m instantly wary. “Why do we have to sit?”

  “You seem . . . agitated.”

  Uh-uh. No way. This is my cue to back off because what he’s offering is the last thing I want. Sympathy and sad eyes and all that mealymouthed bullshit won’t do me any good. It won’t do anything but inject a belief in Coach Marks’s head that I’m weak. That I’m not cut out for this.

  I wheel around and march off, heading for the locker room while muttering some excuse about needing to get changed. The worst thing, though, is the betrayal of my own heart. I can’t explain it, but it takes everything I have to walk away from Coach Marks. To keep from running back and confessing that the only thing I want from him is what I’ve always needed. From my mother. From Danny. From everyone I’ve ever known.

  More.

  30.

  After watching Danny dominate at the meet in San Jose, I remember asking my mother if I could learn to swim the way that he did. But she said no. Just right off the bat.

  “But why not?” I whined. “I might be good. Like Danny is. Maybe even better.”

  My mother scowled. “Do you think Danny would like that?”

  “I don’t know.” I couldn’t understand why this would matter. Danny didn’t like a lot of things and most weren’t predictable.

  “I don’t know,” she repeated back to me in a mocking tone. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

  “Never mind,” I said.

  She wouldn’t let it go. “You want everything, don’t you? You think you should get everything that pops into your stupid little head.”

  “I said never mind!”

  “There’s only one of me.” Her voice spiraled louder. “Did you ever stop to think about that? Did you ever stop to think about my needs and if I had the time to drive two kids all over the goddamn place every day, every weekend? I deserve a life, too, you know.”

  “I know. I never said you didn’t!”

  “Oh, just shut up already, would you?” She grabbed my arm and pulled me with her through the crowd in search of Danny. “Your brother’s worked hard for this and he doesn’t want you copying him. It’s selfish to want what you haven’t earned. Don’t you know how to do anything for yourself?”

  “Fine.” I sulked and felt angry and didn’t dare ask again. But inside, I was undeterred. My mother didn’t know what I could do because she didn’t know anything about me. I was a swimmer. Or I would be. This was a truth that had awoken inside me while watching Danny race. My body belonged in that water just as much as his did. Nothing else would tame the fire roaring through my heart, my mind on a daily basis.

  Well, ten years later, it seems Coach Marks won’t be the one to tame those flames, either. He can’t be, not if he won’t put me in the pool and push me to train the way my brother did. Not if he wants me to sit and talk about my feelings more than he wants me in the water. So in the aftermath of trying to get him to up our training intensity, I do what I should’ve done earlier; I plot my own path to glory.

  This takes cunning on my part. And more than a little creativity. After all, breaking into the country club every night isn’t a viable option—not if I want my arrest record to stay clean—so I once again dip into my dead father’s trust fund, this time via a passable forgery of my mother’s signature, and use the money to obtain a second membership at a swim club eight miles outside Lafayette near Clayton Valley, located in a semirural area. No one at this club knows who I am. Honestly, the place is barebones: the pool’s on the smaller side—twenty-five meters long and only five lanes—but unlike our city rec pool, there are no swim teams or lessons. It’s purely for lap swimmers and the occasional family outing. Best of all, there are no distractions like golf courses or country club soirees. There’s a pool. A shower. A small strip of grass.

  That’s it.

  From there, it’s easy to get into a routine. A little more forgery gets the Mink’s registration renewed under Danny’s name, and with my brother’s driver’s license stored in my wallet in case of emergency, I start showing up at the Clayton Valley pool around ten every evening on the days we’re not doing doubles. This is late enough that all the families and sunbathers have left but not so late the place is closed down. I have until midnight to do my thing. Occasionally I run into other lap swimmers, but they don’t bother me. Once I’m in the water, in my lane, there’s nothing on my mind but the rhythm of my body casting its own wake.

  Soon, I’m getting in thirteen workouts a week. It’s not long before I feel the difference in my strength. My speed. Coach Marks can see it, too. My progress is right there on his stopwatch and I’ve never had my times drop like this. Even swimming for my high school team, we never got enough time in the water. Too many scheduling demands and conflicts. But other than babysitting Winter, going to group, and avoiding my mother, my life now revolves around one purpose and one purpose only, and the improvement I’m seeing pushes me to work harder. I’m diligent about hitting the gym, putting on muscle, and while my sleep’s still shit, I vow to get better with eating. With making sure I get what I need, right down to the fucking gram.

  Whatever it takes.

  I’m willing to give.

  31.

  “Not only will our group be ending this week, but we’re into August already and that means school will be starting up again. This is a big transition. Two transitions, really.” Marco pauses and sits back to let the impact of his words sink in.

  Glancing around the therapy room, I understand what he’s doing but I’m doubtful the impact he’s anticipating is actually happening. No one wants to purposely make him feel useless, but the primary emotion I’m reading off the other group members is relief. But that, as Marco is so fond of saying, may just be my own projection.

  “Lynette, how are you feeling about all of this?” He stacks the odds in his favor by asking the one girl in the room who’s openly weeping. Thirteen years old, Lynette Kernfield’s a mousy thing with knotted hair and bony shoulders. Eight months ago, her beloved baby brother drowned in the bath while she was supposed to be watching him, and I mean, fuck. What can you say about something like that other than the world is a shitty place littered with the offal of human suffering? I don’t know the girl or her family in any context other than this room, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been more traumatized by her brother’s death than my own. We all have. Anyway, Lynette is almost always weeping, and her sorrow is the kind that makes you wish those memory-erasing technologies you see in movies were real.

  “I don’t know,” Lynette says in response to Marco’s question about her feelings. “But I’m looking forward to school. I’ll be in ninth grade this year. High school. I love science and I’ll get to take biology where we do real lab work. I want to do debate, too.”

  “Wonderful.” Marco beams but everyone else stares at the floor in collective horror. This time I’m positive they’re thinking the same thing I am, which is some variant of For the love of Christ, please let everything be okay for Lynette. Let her be happy and not have ninth grade be the shit storm of misery we all know it will be. Don’t let asshole boys call her a cunt or a baby killer and don’t let rich-bitch girls who only care about their image shun her for her awkward mannerisms or throw tampons at her in the shower like in Carrie. Just please, for once, don’t let the lamb be eaten by the lion.

  “Gus?” Marco says. “Any thoughts about your future? How’s swimming coming?”

  “Could be better.”

  “How so?”

  I shrug. “I’m working my ass off and my coach still hasn’t put me on the roster for any of the meets this summer. None of the good ones anyway.”

  “You ask him why?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  �
�Why would you do that?”

  “The more I ask, the less likely he is to say yes. That’s what he says anyway, so now I’m trying persuasion by silence.”

  “Sounds like superstition,” Marco says.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “What about school? You looking forward to that?”

  “I don’t even know when it starts.”

  “Will there be people there who will want to talk about your brother?”

  I fold my arms. “Nobody there knew him. He mostly did online schooling from eighth grade on. Besides, Danny hated school. Thought it was a waste of time.”

  “How so?”

  “He said the only purpose of our education system was to teach us not to question why we were there in the first place.”

  “Sounds like something you would say.”

  “I guess. It’s probably the only thing Danny and I had in common.”

  “Besides swimming, you mean.”

  “Right,” I say.

  Marco gives me a funny look before moving on to someone else and I’m left feeling more than a little confused. It’s true that I’m not looking forward to school, but I’m not sure how the swimming connection between Danny and me slipped my mind. It’s usually all I think about. Anyway, everyone gets a chance to speak and near the end of the session we’re forced to do some dippy closing exercise where we all walk around with pens and pieces of paper taped to our backs. Marco instructs us to write a personalized message of gratitude to the other members, along with a positive memory of their contribution to the group. It’s basically the worst and I can’t fathom that there are people in the world who enjoy contrived sap like this.