Girl Underwater (10 page)

I can't decide if I should be peeved or flattered that Colin Shea
researched
me. “I'm done with distance. Coach is right—I'm not built for it.”

“You're built just fine for it. Don't let Coach talk you out of what drew you to swimming in the first place.”

“But it's better for the team.”

“It's better for the team if you love what you do.”

“Not always.”

He shrugs. I can't believe I'm arguing with Colin Shea.
What a disaster.

“What do you like about the longer distances?” he asks.

“As I said—”

“I'm just asking.”

“It's stupid,” I mumble.

“Try me.”

“Well,” I say, finding my voice again, “people always ask how I can stare at a black line for hours on end. But for me, swimming those kinds of distances was never about staring at a black line on the bottom of the pool. It's about shutting everything else out and existing in your own head, your own thoughts, until the world is ready to have you again.”

He says nothing, but he doesn't have to. I know he gets it.
He understands me.

“Is that dumb?” I finally ask.

“No,” he says. The intensity with which he looks at me makes my nerves hum. “It means you're a distance swimmer. It's in your blood, your heart, your soul. Don't ever lose that.”

“What are you suggesting I do?”

“Talk to Coach.”

“On the first day? I can't.”

“You have to.”

I set my sights on the next golfer, a pudgy retiree. “You don't understand.”

“I
do
understand.” He pauses, like he's building up to something. “Don't take this the wrong way, but when I saw the list of incoming freshmen, I kind of picked you out of a crowd. No one here's from Boston.” He stares at the dirt for a beat before continuing. “Anyway, I struggled in my first few weeks here. Practices were tough. The culture was kind of a shock. I grew up swimming in a community pool in a working-class neighborhood. We didn't have ‘equipment.' I barely had a suit. Sorry to say I borrowed my cousin's, which is nasty, but money was tight in my house. Here, cash flows like a goddamn river.” He shakes his head. “Gosh-darn river, I mean.”

I've never seen someone so angry with himself for unleashing a
goddamn
. “‘Goddamn' isn't that bad a word,” I say.

He looks up, fighting a smile. “Yes, it is. It counts in my sisters' book, in any case.”

“The Book of Cusses?”

“That's right.” He takes a breath, and for the first time, he looks a little uncertain. “The truth is, I just wanted you to feel welcome here. And part of that is swimming your event.”

“Well, I appreciate that. But I'm on a team now.”

He nods, but I can tell he's holding something back.

“Look, you're the best swimmer on the team,” I say. “It's different for you.”

“How's that?”

“Because everything you do contributes to the team. You win all your events; you swim on multiple relays. I just want to be a part of things here.”

“On whose terms, though? Coach's?” He doesn't balk at the question. “Or yours?”

I don't know how this happened, this uneasy tension that makes me feel as though I've disappointed him. Everyone else has set expectations for me in terms of times and splits and races. His expectations are personal. It doesn't make sense. In a span of five minutes, Colin Shea has somehow identified himself as the enemy.

“We should get back,” I say.

“Sure.” He hangs his head. “Look, if I said anything that made you uncomfortable—”

“You didn't.”

The tension breaks with the approach of footsteps and a hearty “Yo!”

I whirl around, expecting to see the whole team staring at us, but it's only one person: Kahale Cooper, one of the freshman recruits. He flashes a wide, easy grin, so unlike Colin's brooding seriousness.

“Hey,” he says to me. “You're a frosh, right?”

“Yeah.” I glance over at Colin, but he's already on his feet. He shakes Kahale's hand and heads toward the golf course without another word.

“That Colin Shea?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah. I think so,” I say, watching him go. “Why?”

“Great swimmer. Serious as all get-out, though.”

“Yeah, but he's . . .”

He raises an eyebrow, hanging on the words I haven't said.

“Never mind.”
Nice
. I was going to say nice, and I'm not entirely sure why I didn't.

“I'm Kahale, by the way. Lee to mainlanders.”

“Mainlanders?”

“I'm from Hawaii.”

“Oh.”

He grins, as effortless as before. I've never met someone so comfortable with total strangers. “Has anyone ever told you your hair looks like fairy dust? I'm serious.” His tone is teasing, but he also seems genuinely captivated by my hair. “Does it have magical powers?”

“I think it's the chlorine.”

He laughs. “Nah. It's not that sparkly green color yet.”

I resist the urge to glance up the hill, to see if Colin has changed his mind.
About what?
He didn't seem the type to waffle on things. He wanted me to talk to Coach; essentially, he wanted me to
be myself.
Well, that would be easy if I had the natural abilities of Colin Shea. Instead, I'm Avery Delacorte, borderline in all respects.

“So,” Lee asks, “what's your event?”

This time, I don't hesitate. I
want
to be on the team. I
want
to contribute.

I want it more than anything.

“Middle distance,” I say, and so the fiction begins.

F
riday.

The day before New Year's Eve; the day of Lee's nonnegotiable arrival. I started the morning by blowing off my appointment with Rachel Shriver. My parents will never understand the fundamental truth that
she can't help me
. Waste of time and money.

Lee's plane landed at 4:05
P.M.
He rejected my offer to pick him up, insisting he could handle a cab. I'm not fooled, as the real reason for this kindness has nothing to do with Lee's industriousness and everything to do with my new fear of airports. He was just too nice to say so.

I've never been a nail biter, but my thumbnails are withered down to nubs by the time a grungy yellow cab rounds the corner. It stops at the house next door, and a muscular guy in jeans, sandals, and a light jacket steps out. On anyone else, this fair-weather ensemble might be annoying, but Lee always dresses for summer. The sight of him in those faded blue jeans reminds me that while some things change, others don't.

“Lee!”

He drops his luggage, slipping on slush as he turns toward me. His breathless grin warms my fragile, confused heart.

I thought about this moment for weeks. Anticipated it. Dreaded it. Longed for it. But when it happens, it feels like my old life clicking in place with the new, the before finally finding a thread of attachment to after. When he kisses me, I taste ChapStick on his lips and the echo of cinnamon on his tongue. His lips are cool from the New England chill, but soft and familiar. He isn't tentative or nervous. He just kisses me as he always has, as if nothing has changed.

When he breaks away, his cheeks are flushed. His hair is long and windblown, his face in dire need of a shave. He looks happy. “God, it's so good to see you,” he says.

The sight of him on my lawn sends a calmness through me, making other thoughts seem far away. “You have no idea,” I say, releasing a breath I must have been holding for hours. “I'm the next house over, though.”

He carries his suitcase—the roller is broken—and follows me into the house. Both my parents are working late, which means an hour to ourselves. I lead him up the stairs and take him directly to the guest bedroom. If he's disappointed, he doesn't show it.

“Damn,” he says. “Nice house. Seems old. I mean, historic old. Nice old.” He fidgets with his suitcase. “Is it?”

“Early 1800s.” I knock on the walls, which respond with a hollow echo. “Be careful, though. It's haunted.”

His eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”

“No,” I say, laughing. “Although my brothers liked to say so when I was growing up. Murders, rapes, even a few hangings . . .”

“Where are these brothers of yours? I kind of want to kick their asses.”

He gives an easy smile as he sits on the bed, which groans with his weight. The same thought must flit across both our minds—
It'll be impossible to hook up in here
—as we blush in unison. This is the second time in a minute for Lee, which is unusual, to say the least. Even when his Speedo came off during a race last year, he emerged from the pool like nothing had happened. After a brief discussion with the officials about equipment malfunctions, he dove back in to retrieve it. Naked. A collegiate skinny-dipper with an audience.

“Is the bed okay?” I ask, which does nothing to help the blushing.

“Great.”

“Cool.”

He grasps my hand and pulls me down onto the bed, which brings a new wave of butterflies—but good butterflies. Normal, the way things should be after a long separation. Our reunion is no longer an obstacle to overcome or a milestone to be reached. It happened. We're good. In the wake of five grueling weeks, I'd forgotten what it's like to be in the company of someone so low-maintenance.

“So.” I look down at our hands, linked together. It sends a flutter through me, mingling with a memory that doesn't belong anywhere near here, like a mismatched current. “Excited to meet my parents?”

“Hell yeah. I think I'm gonna like your dad.”

“Really? No one likes my dad.”

“Your mom must like him a little bit.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face, twirls it in his fingers. Still captivated by my hair—maybe even more so, now that it's blond again.

“So how's the team? How's school? I'm so out of the loop.”

“The team's good. Coach took the, uh . . .” He clears his throat as he scrambles for different words. Lee knows the rules now. “Coach took some time off at the end of last semester.”

“Oh.”

“The team is kind of like family to him, so, you know, he took it hard. But he'll be back in January.” Lee clears his throat, tries to sound casual. “So . . . are
you
coming back in January?”

There is no hesitation in my voice when I say, “Definitely.”

“Really?” He jumps off the bed and does a fist pump that would make Edward proud. “That's awesome, Aves! I knew you were kind of on the fence . . .”

“I want to come back. My life is in California now.”
My life.
My life should have ended at the bottom of that lake, but I don't tell Lee that.

He sits back down on the bed, his voice quiet. “I . . . prayed for you. I know, it sounds nuts—I was raised by atheists, for Chrissakes.” He laughs nervously, like he's trying hard to keep it together. “When Coach burst out of his office during practice and told us you'd survived, I cried in the pool.” He gives me a sheepish look. “I know, crying in the pool is for pansies, but I did it.”

I reach for his hand. “I'm sorry, Lee.”

“No, I'm sorry. And I know you don't like to talk about this, and I get that, I really do, but it's just been weighing on me.”

“I know.” I pull him close, wanting to reassure him even though words are just words, and they don't change what happened.

“Anyway, you hungry?” He settles easily into his usual good mood. “'Cause I'm starving.”

I don't dare admit that my stomach has been in knots all day. “Sure, I could eat.”

“I'm so relieved you said that.”

“Well, I'm no stranger to your eight-thousand-calorie diet.”

He grasps my hand and twirls me off the bed. “I need my strength to seduce you,” he says, then laughs when he sees my eyes roll.

“I don't think it'll take eight thousand calories to seduce me.”

“Five thousand?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, well, before that happens, I need to wash the plane off me.”

“Good idea.” I hand him a stack of towels before he can propose any other seduction activities. Emotional intimacy is one thing, physical intimacy quite another. I know the subject will come up, but I'm not ready to broach it now.

As Lee digs into his suitcase for a change of clothes, I can imagine Rachel Shriver's two-hundred-fifty-dollar words of wisdom:
Give it time.

Such a fallacy.

•

Lee lets me pick the restaurant, so I choose Anna's Taqueria in Brookline: quick, crowded, and very loud. Lee gives me hell because this isn't California, and any burrito consumed outside that state is substandard, but I like Anna's. And, most important, it's quick, crowded, and very loud, which means we'll blend in. If a reporter
does
stumble in, Lee will beat him down—or at least throw him out.

Lee knocks on my bedroom door. “You in there, babe? I'm ready for this shitty East Coast burrito you promised me.”

My turnaround time is usually fast. As a swimmer, I've developed a routine: alarm, snooze, pee, brush teeth, put suit on, walk to pool. I don't shower or even brush my hair. Don't check my e-mail. I just get up and go, barely conscious as I stumble across campus while most people are still sleeping off a hangover or pushing through the worst hour of an all-nighter.

But tonight, I can't seem to mobilize. I've been in my room for over an hour, fussing over my hair and clothes and accessories. Anna's Taqueria is not a fancy place. Plastic chairs, Formica tables, paper cups. The ordering is done assembly-line style. Two sweaty guys behind a glass divider spoon out beans and meats and guacamole. Sometimes cheese. Lots of salsa. If you don't know what you want, they tell you to get out of line so someone who
does
know can eat. Their entire business model is based on efficiency, although the food's pretty good, too.

The point is, I could show up in sweats and fit right in. But because tonight is about Lee instead of me, and because I'm so desperately fixated on what it means to be
normal,
and because I haven't really left the house except for the occasional snowy run with Edward, I want this to be perfect. I want it to mean something.

And so I find myself standing in front of the mirror, appraising a pair of skinny jeans and a top that really has no business being worn before April. It's a bright, satiny white, which is not a color I often wear. Admittedly, the white brightens me up—my pale, freckled face; my spectral green eyes. Even my hair looks a little blonder than usual, which may just be the dye fading. I went back to my natural color as soon as I was able to shower on my own.

“I'm hungry!” Lee wails. He leans against the door so it squeaks in the frame. I locked it earlier, but if he knew this, he'd probably be hurt.

“Coming!”

It takes me a solid minute to find a matching pair of earrings: small silver hoops embedded with three turquoise stones. This is why I stopped wearing anything other than cheap studs. Not only did the pool eat them all, but searching for jewelry adds precious minutes to my morning routine.

I stab the hoops in my ears, put on a jacket, and throw open the door. Lee's jaw drops as his eyes wash over me like a warm rain. A mischievous smile curls at his lips. I brush by him before my blushing collarbone can give me away.

“Should I change?” he calls after me. “I thought you said this place was casual—”

“It's casual. Let's go.”

I hand him my dad's down coat, which matches my own except for size. It's hideous but warm, packed with goose feathers from hood to heel, although on Lee, it barely grazes his calves. He's a good bit taller than my dad, but shorter than Colin.

Colin.
His name keeps popping into my head in ways that threaten to ruin the whole night. After Coach's last e-mail, I shut my laptop down for good and exchanged my smartphone for a cheapie off eBay. Unfortunately, I haven't found a way to shut down my own thoughts.

“Is this place far?” Lee asks.

“Not too far.”

“Like, are we gonna freeze before we get there?”

“Not if you zip up that coat.”

After fumbling with the zipper, Lee loops his arm through mine. His first step is a near disaster on a sheet of ice, thanks in large part to a pair of Edward's old Nikes. They have to be at least a decade old. “Nice shoes,” I say.

“You're sure Edward doesn't have athlete's foot, right? 'Cause I see enough of that in the locker room . . .”

“I'm positive,” I say, smirking. “Edward is very hygienic.”

“I can't believe you hid my sandals.”

“Well, I don't want you to get frostbite.” My fingers start to tingle, but my mind wills it away. “You'll thank me later.”

“I'm sure I will.” He grins. “So. Excited for this shitty burrito?”

“Are you gonna give me a hard time about it later if it's bad?”

“You bet.” He gives me a nudge, which sends him careening sideways on the ice. I can't help but laugh a little bit.

I slow my stride until he's found his footing. He stares at his feet, waiting for them to betray him again. “You're really not a cold-weather person, are you?” I ask.

“Who would voluntarily live in a cold climate? I'm serious. Answer me that.”

“It grows on you.”

“Well, I'm glad it doesn't have to. I'm sticking with Cali.”

He exhales through gritted teeth as he proceeds to walk with his head down, eyes on the ground. He keeps his arm looped around mine, but it's more for support than affection. I like it, though. Lee has always been the strong, confident, gregarious one. Even when we're alone, I sometimes struggle to be heard. But here, on the streets of my hometown, those battles don't exist. I'm in my element. The size and spectacle of California is three thousand miles away, along with all the insecurities that go along with it.

“You sure this place is walkable?” Lee asks.

“Just up the block.” I point toward the quaint, haphazard intersection known as Coolidge Corner. Few of the streets in or near Boston are aligned or even planned out, and the intersection of Harvard and Beacon is no exception. Little side streets branch off the main thoroughfares in every direction, confusing tourists and frustrating shopkeepers. But the locals navigate them with ease, like it's some great secret we're all in on.

“Weren't we just on this street?” Lee asks, dazed.

“No.”

“It looks familiar . . .”

“Anna's is right up that way.” I point across the street and up the hill, toward a little storefront with yellow paneling and a cozy interior. Despite the chill, the night feels electric, swollen with anticipation. Then again, tomorrow
is
New Year's Eve, and people always get excited about the illusion of a fresh start.

Lee has found his balance in Edward's Nikes. As we cross the intersection, the din of conversation and the scent of Mexican food waft down the street. I hike up the hood of my coat and practically strangle myself with the neck strap. Better to be unfashionable than to be recognized. Last thing I need right now is a repeat of the eggnog incident.

“Aves, is that really necessary?” Lee tugs on the strap. “You look like an arctic bag lady.”

“It's cold.”

“True,” he muses. He pulls his hat over his ears.