“That’s a good question, Dad. I think I may be retarded or something. My drama teacher says I’m ‘in the moment.’ She thinks it’s a good thing,” I reply.
“Well, knock it off,” he barks. “If your mom finds that kind of thing, she’ll freak out. She still thinks you’re a little boy, and you’ll have to see a counselor or something, and we can’t afford it right now, so give it a rest. And another thing, those movies and porn in general—it’s not good for you. It shows you everything wrong. That’s not how it works at all.”
“Oh, I know that, Dad,” I say with certainty.
“You do?” he asks.
“Yeah, I couldn’t go that fast if I practiced every day,” I reply.
“Just knock it off!” he orders, and marches in the house shaking his head. Poor guy.
Approximately 4 1/2 hours later
I’m rudely awoken at nine a.m. by the sound of banging in the backyard. It feels like I just fell asleep. Brock and my dad are out there fixing the demolished fence. My dad is banging the hammer really close to Nick’s face. It’s loud, and Nick obviously doesn’t like the noise this morning. My dad is kind of funny.
Lynn isn’t up yet, which is best for everyone, so I put my coat on and go down and throw some grass seed around where the skid marks are worst. We have to push the old truck into the street because it won’t start.
“That’s weird,” I say to Nick. “It was running great last night.”
I put all the rocks and logs back together where I smashed the truck through the retaining wall. It looks good as new (more or less). After my dad goes inside, Brock comes up to me with his crushed bumper in hand. I start to slowly back away when, surprisingly, he says, “Sorry if I got you in trouble last night.”
I think he just apologized to me for ruining his truck.
“I’m not tryin’ to tell you what to do, Nick, but you don’t need to . . .”
“Yeah I do; you look up to me, and I let you down by getting that drunk.” It may just be the cold wind, but it seems like he’s about to cry.
Everybody looks up to Nick Brock because he’s so tall, but I do because he’s so cool. If there was some cheesy music playing in the background I’d throw my arms around his twenty-inch neck and cry, “It’s okay, Brocky, I still love ya!” Instead I kick a rock and say, “Dude, driving your truck was awesome.”
He laughs. “Looks like you had some trouble with the landing. . . .”
“I didn’t mean to jump it!”
He holds up the bumper and chuckles. “So we got some air, huh?”
“
Dukes of Hazzard
style, bro! If you were awake you would’ve dug it.”
He’s still laughing, so I go ahead and clear my conscience, filling him in as to why he might get pulled over in the near future and thrown in jail for resisting arrest. “I also may have run a cop off the road. . . .”
The nice big brother vibe exits the conversation, and his kind expression morphs to pissed off. Not good!
“But I may not have,” I yell while sprinting away from him. “There was a lot going on!”
I dive into the Merrian High indoor pool on the first day of practice and slip through the water like it’s the finest silk from China . . . not freezing cold, chlorine-laden, urine-tainted Merrian tap water. Ahhh! The water feels sooo good. The world seems perfect at the bottom of a pool. All sounds disappear. It could be July again, and my biggest problem could be what trick to bust off the diving board, but my lungs start to sting and I jump to the surface to fill them with musty air. The snow remains piled high outside the windows, and Andre is jumping into my lane. The stupid swimming coach has put us together. I can see how such a mistake could be made—freshmen, football players, all-city first and second place—but this isn’t going to work. We’re not friends, and I’m not sharing a lane with the punk.
I swim toward Coach Barker to file a protest, but she yells out, “Eight hundred warm-up! I want it fast!” before I can get to her.
Eight hundred what? Meters? Are you crazy, lady? I was thinking of doing a thousand for the whole practice. It’s the first day; let’s not get carried away. But all the other guys swim off, including Andre. Oh no you don’t, punk! I take off after him. Coach may call this “a warm-up,” but with this jerk in my lane, it’s a race to the DEATH. I fly past him:
Eat
my wake, bitch!
Man, I’m doing great. I feel strong. It must be all those weights I’ve been lifting. I’m churning up the water faster than I ever have. The first hundred meters is a breeze, but the flip turn starting the second hundred is a little sloppy. My shoulders seem to have caught fire and are starting to burn up. I’m breathing every stroke now, and my lungs might be bleeding. Andre is gaining on me, and I’m fading fast. My arms are still moving, but I don’t think I am. Andre passes me like I’m standing still. DANG IT! Oh, I’ve got nothing, after only two hundred meters, I’m no longer just not moving, I’m starting to sink! I grab the lane line.
Coach Barker notices and yells, “Freshman, get off of my lane line! Let’s GOOO!”
Okay, bitch, I already don’t like you for putting me in this lane with Andre. And now I’m dealing with the repercussions of your dumb-ass decision, so cut me some slack. I shake my head, and with all the strength I have left, I raise my thumb as if to say, “You got it, Coach!” But I don’t move.
Andre passes me again, and the punk has the nerve to stop, and the breath to say, “Pussy!” before swimming off.
I just huff and puff at him. I hope he gets that I’m huffing and puffing in anger. If I could spare a scrap of life, I’d extend a finger at him too, and it wouldn’t be my thumb. I let go of the lane line and get going again. Slowly. Andre passes me a couple more times, but I finally finish the warm-up. Well, six hundred meters . . . five fifty at the least. But I’m definitely warmed up!
The first practice is nuts. I can’t keep up for anything. I’m giving it everything I have and cheating like crazy, but it’s just not enough. Andre isn’t keeping up either, but he’s doing better than I am. Lap after lap, hour after hour. I would’ve quit after ten minutes of this crap and been home by now . . . if Andre weren’t here. But that punk
is
here, pushing me forward, driving my legs to kick, and forcing my arms to thrash this water until they fall off. But I won’t let my arms really fall off, because that would make Andre way too happy. I’ll finish this practice doing a dog paddle if I have to, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me quit.
At dinner, I eat my usual helping of Mom’s famous (not) turkey tetrazzini. And I’m still starving. I’m going to need double the usual amount to fill me up. Only problem is, I can’t reach the serving bowl. It’s two feet away, but it may as well be a mile. I can’t get it. My brain is sending the signal to my arm to get some more tetrazzini, but the shoulder’s paralyzed. I’ll starve to death before this arm will reach out the two feet I need it to.
I can only manage the strength to get to my room and collapse onto the little bed. I’m dead asleep at six forty-five. No pajamas, no teeth brushed, just eyelids and dreams. I’m chasing Andre all night long. He’s in a car and I’m running after him. He’s in a boat and I’m swimming after him. I’m on a bicycle and he’s on a rocket ship. For twelve hours and twenty minutes I chase him. I’m as tired when my dad wakes me up as when I crashed onto the mattress. Running after a guy in your dreams does not make for restful sleep.
I thought I knew what soreness was all about until this morning. Mom will have to send a note to school with Lynn:
Carter will not attend classes today because he is paralyzed.
They say swimming is the best exercise. Well, whoever “they” are, they don’t know Coach Barker. Her brand of swimming can kill you! But I’m going back. Andre isn’t getting a lane all to himself, and he’ll never know what a “pussy” I really am. My Advil breakfast does the trick, and I’m okay as long as I stay perfectly still. I feel pretty good, in fact. I didn’t do any homework last night, but I just aced a math quiz. I don’t need to study more; I just need to sleep more.
I try to hang out with my boys at the lockers, but a stench has filled the halls today. Like a peppermint acid spill.
“It smells like an Altoids factory exploded around here!” Bag yells.
“What is that?” I ask.
“That’s the smell of gayness,” J-Low says.
The football/wrestling coach walks up and starts laughing. “Whew, somebody found the Bengay!”
It reeks, but the stuff must work, because from the smell of it, everybody is using it. My eyes are watering like crazy, but my sinuses are clear as glass.
“I put some on my neck,” Hormone adds. “But somebody took a bath in it!”
“Man, my neck is sore too,” I say, as if someone asked. “I just took a bunch of Advil, though.”
Coach gives me a disgusted look and says, “Why, did you swim into the wall?”
Everybody’s cracking up like that’s the funniest joke of all time, and Coach struts down the hall all proud because he made a fourteen-year-old look dumb. Way to go; why don’t you go back to the chalkboard and work on some more zingers, jerk.
“Who is the Gayest Ben?” J-Low asks, like a newsman sniffing out a story.
All of the winter sports started yesterday. It could even be one of the drama geeks, because they started rehearsals for a show called
Stomp
. It would be me if I’d known about the stuff. I’m glad it’s not, though, because it’s so much fun looking for the biggest wuss in the school. I wonder who’ll earn the nickname Gayest Ben for life.
After science class I know that I’ve only got one more hour before I have to go back to the pool. I’ve never not wanted to go swimming before, but I’ve never not wanted to do anything more than I don’t want to swim today. I would rather eat my Speedo than put it back on. It’s sopping wet when I find it wadded up at the bottom of my locker. I didn’t plan very well for this yesterday. Hell, I didn’t think I’d live through the night, let alone be back at this locker looking for goggles.
Andre is by himself stretching when I come into the pool. He looks like he’s been working out or something.
He’s all shiny like a bodybuilder in his little Speedo. I have to wear a towel or shorts. I never just rock the Speedo by itself. As I walk past the diving boards I’m hit by a wall of peppermint stench. The closer I get to Andre the wider my sinuses open. I may have found the Gayest Ben!
“It’s stinky in here . . . huh, Ben?” I ask him.
He doesn’t respond. YES! He’s so sore from yesterday, he’s covered himself in greasy antipain cream. I love it. One more Advil and I’d be in a coma right now, but nobody knows that but me! Everybody can smell Andre’s pain from a mile away. The team doesn’t say anything through the stretching part of practice, but no one gets very close to him, either.
We all jump in the pool a little slower than yesterday. I also can’t help but notice that there are a few less dudes in the pool today.
“Two hundred warm-up. Take it slow, fellas,” Coach Barker yells.
We take off, and I’m not setting any records today, but I’m going. My lane is disgusting. A cloud of grease follows my lane partner, and I get a nasty taste of minty grossness every few minutes, but I love knowing Andre hurts.
The warm-up is done, and we all rest on the wall for a second. I bet we’d have a few more bodies in the pool if we’d done a little more of this yesterday, Coach.
“Are you sore, Carter?” Andre pants.
Oh no you don’t, sucker. You and me? Not friends! You are my sworn enemy. And if I’m a little sore, it’s your damn fault. “Nope, not really,” I say, and take off for the first set of really hard laps.
I don’t talk to him during the rest breaks; I don’t talk to him ever. We may share this lane for four years, but I’ll never say a word. Usually I’m the king of jacking around at swim practice, skipping parts of the drills, and not really trying very hard. But not anymore! Not in this lane. I am all business.
The biggest deal in swimming is the four hundred–meter relay team. Only four slots and it’s all about your individual time. You could be the coolest guy in the world, but if you’re a split second slower than the biggest prick on the planet, you’re out! Andre is the fourth-fastest guy (behind three seniors), and I’m number five. So not only did the prick letter in football, but he’s going to get one for swimming too. We both beat out a junior that was on the relay last year, so I get to be the anchorman for the junior-varsity squad. No letterman’s jacket, but it’s pretty cool for a freshman. I’m faster than ever, but it’s not enough. I can get him. I will beat Andre. I could get a silver medal in the Olympics, but if Andre got the gold, it would be a total failure. I want to smoke him.
If I had a nickel for every time I had a new master plan like this written on my arm, I’d have a couple bucks. I usually stick with them for a week or two, but this beating Andre thing is really strong. I’m committed to it. Lap after lap. Day after day. Week after week. My poor body is paying the price. I’m working my tail off . . . literally. I don’t have a butt anymore. I eat more food than anyone I know, but my jeans are practically falling off me. I’m getting ripped. I don’t even skip when I’m sick. Every practice, I make sure to swim at least two hundred more meters than Andre does. I work my starts after practice. I get there early and work my turns. I’m focused. My dad was disappointed in me last summer after I quit mowing lawns; he said that I had “no work ethic.” I didn’t care about it at the time because I had no idea what he was talking about. But I think I’m getting it.
My mom is worried about me, and says, “You’ve got a hungry look in your eyes, young man.”
I tell her, “That’s because I
am
hungry!” All the time. I don’t just want junk food, either. Protein and vegetables is all I want these days.
Coach Barker says, “Ding Dongs and Coke won’t make you swim faster.” If they did, it would be cool. But they don’t, so I don’t even bother with them anymore.
I swim in all the events and all the meets my coach will let me, but it’s hard on me. Not just on my body, but my spirit is taking a beating as well. In the summer, I win. I won almost every race I entered, except when I swam against Andre. And then I’d at least get second. But I’m not even close to winning any of these races. Neither is Andre, though. My dad tells me not to sweat it and to “just swim against the clock and try to beat yourself.”
I keep track of my time, but I’m not trying to beat myself. I’m trying to beat Andre. I was three seconds slower than him in the hundred-meter freestyle at the beginning of the season. And now I’m one and four-one-hundredths of a second slower than him. That doesn’t sound like much time, but it’s a lot in the pool. It just sucks because when I shave some time off, Andre does too; it’s a vicious cycle. I hate him, but I sometimes wish he sat next to me in math class or something. I’d study until my brain fell out to get a higher score than him on a quiz.
* * *
The state championships are coming up, and practices are getting even harder. I guess our relay team has been invited to go, and it’s a big deal. Andre and the rest of the seniors get to spend the night in a college dorm together, and they have to shave their heads. I’m so jealous it hurts. We have the junior varsity championships here at Merrian High next week, and it’s my last opportunity to beat Andre before State. It makes me work even harder than I was before, because I know if I can beat him, I’ll be the one with the shaved head!
Everybody shaves off their body hair before the JV championships. The razor is supposed to shave time as well as hair. Apparently, my leg and armpit hair have been slowing me down and I didn’t know it.
The team gathers in the shower room after practice and lathers up. By the time I finish swimming my extra laps, Andre’s head is completely shaved and he’s almost done with his legs. I guess somebody’s pretty confident that I won’t beat him at the JV championships.
Won’t that be embarrassing when people ask, “Why did you shave your head, Andre?”
And he has to reply, “Oh, I was supposed to swim at State, but after Carter smoked me, I didn’t get to go!”
I’ve got to catch up. I want to beat him at everything, leg shaving included. So I slap the cream on my legs. I grab a razor out of a bag and another one off the floor. Andre is only using one razor; I’ll use two. I rip the blades up my legs over and over again. From the foot to the knee, from the thigh to the Speedo. Top to bottom. I’ve got more hair than I thought I did. This is taking some effort. I’m ripping through it, though, and gaining on Andre. The blades get clogged, so I rinse them out real fast and keep moving. I space off for just a second to notice a river of blood running down the drain. Man, that is gross. It’s like a horror movie. Somebody in here is cut—bad. That has got to hurt. No one is screaming, though. I’d be crying like a bitch if . . . Man, is it hot in here? Like steamy/fuzzy. I’m feeling kind of tired all the sudden. Shaving really takes it out of you. Maybe my leg hair is like that guy in the Bible whose strength is in his long hair and when his chick cuts it off, he gets really weak. I’m just pushing myself too hard these days. I can’t even catch my breath. I can’t wait to just go swimming for fun and not kill myself in the pool for three hours a day. I really want to go back to Gray Goose Lake and hit that roooope swing. It’ll be soooo niiicccee. . . .
“CARTER! Carter, get up, dog!” someone yells from far away.
“Mom, get out,” I yell, all groggy. “I’m up!”
Andre is slapping me in my face, so I try to defend myself with a retardo karate block.
“Carter, you’re bleeding, dude!” one of the seniors yells.
“Where is bleed come for?” I mumble, and pass out again.
I don’t remember much else. I don’t have to go to the hospital or anything, but I lost a lot of blood. I’m just going to say it: fourteen-year-olds should not handle razor blades. If I did get checked into the hospital they’d think I was one of those self-mutilator kids. I am when it comes to beating Andre, but I didn’t mean to carve myself up like a turkey.