Punk Like Me (27 page)

“See there?” I pointed to Kitt, who was out of the water and alternately shaking her hands or her legs loosely. “She’s got all that energy to focus, so she’s putting it into loosening up, and see there?”

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I pointed to another teammate, Mad Max, who as a junior was a classmate of mine and a major power on the team. She was windmilling her arms to loosen her shoulders and rolling her head. “She’s using it too, preparing the body to respond, rehearsing it in her mind.”

“What about Blade?” and Betta pointed to Samantha, who had crouched down at the lower end, submerged to her chin and concentrating down the length of the pool.

“She’s building a strategy, how she’ll approach the lane, where she’ll alternately push, sprint, or just burn it out,” I explained.

“Everyone’s nervous. You just have to use that as a tool to help you, that’s all.” I smiled reassuringly.

“So it’s a perspective thing…”

“Exactly.” I smiled. I knew she’d get it.

“Line up—laps!” called Coach Robbins, letting us know it was time to get out of the water so we could do a few warm-up laps and then sit and wait for our events.

I made my way to the wall to lift myself out and, once on the ground, turned and reached to give Betta a lift out.

She reached up and was on the ground beside me in a second.

“Thanks, Razor.” She smiled at me.

“Hey, no problem,” and I started walking over to the deep end where the starting blocks were and the teams were lining up for laps.

“Razor?” Betta asked behind me.

“Yeah?” I answered, stopping so she could catch up with me.

“Thanks for everything, I’m okay now.”

I turned around and smiled at her. “Glad to help.”

“Slice the lane, Razor!” She grinned up at me and gave me a discreet thumbs-up.

“You show those Þ ghting colors, Betta.” I grinned back, then lightly ran the rest of the way to the starting block, Betta and a few other girls behind me.

I slipped my goggles back over my eyes and waited my turn, which would happen when the girl swimming back touched the wall under me, just like a normal relay. This avoided the collision of bodies, which could actually be dangerous, if you really think about it.

I got up on the block, perched my toes over the edge, and crouched down into a racing start, my hands almost below my feet. I focused on the lane in front of me and watched a swimmer come back my way. The moment she touched the wall I sprang, body stretched and ß ying over

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PUNK LIKE ME

the water. I heard someone yell “Nina!” and then I skimmed the surface and was in, stroke, breath, stroke, breath, since this wasn’t a sprint but a warm-up. The swimmer ahead of me went down for the ß ip and return, and I saw where the end of the lane was marked. The water eddied around me as she made her way back, and we each hugged to our right side of the lane. A few strokes later and I was there at the marker and set up for my ß ip, to return. I went over easily and kicked off the wall, gliding with strong kicks until I reached the surface. Stroke, breath, stroke, breath. I caught a glimpse of Betta closing in on the lane marker as I made my way back. Finally I was at the wall, and Kitt reached down to haul me out, her aqua cap dripping.

“We’re only doing twos, not fours,” she said, referring to the number of laps, “because of the length of the pool.” We started walking over to the benches on the side. “And all the relays will be four hundreds—too dangerous to dive in over another swimmer at the other end. Relays will go off in two heats, instead of one.” I nodded in agreement at that. It made sense, but inside, I quailed a bit at the prospect. That was double what I was going to do, and it was a lot. Okay, I steeled myself. I’m in the pool for hours every practice. I can do this; it’s no different, just more concentrated. Okay, I was okay, I could do this.

“The anchors the same for both?” I asked Kitt. I was unproven as an endurance swimmer and wouldn’t have been surprised if Coach had wanted to switch me. We approached the benches and sat.

“Not in both, and lineups are gonna change for heats, and the rest of your events will remain the same. We’re short-handed.” Kitt smiled ruefully in apology—this was going to be hard on all of us.

She continued, “We need at least four decisive wins and to secure that by capping it with a strong score in the relay. You’re anchoring with Blade on butterß y, me on breast, and Mad Max on the back. We’ll get center lane, and this lineup should help give us that decisive scoring.” She ß ashed a quick grin at me, because we both knew that putting all your top swimmers on one team was either incredible arrogance or desperation. Missing that many teammates, and doubling up on events that much, it was both.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling my lungs and diaphragm expand and letting the information sink in while Kitt continued. “On the second set, you’ve got Cricket on butterß y, Froggie on breast, and Betta on back, with Blade and me as the other two

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anchors. We’re gonna try to sweep it.”

I nodded thoughtfully at the new information. We were deÞ nitely desperate. First the strongest swimmers on one team to create a decisive lead, then having them split as anchors to attempt a sweep—Þ rst, second, and third place positions—to hold it. How many girls did the other team actually have, anyway? Well, I’d already known that it was going to be a rough night.

Kitt paused to let me process the information, then slapped me on the back. “Think you can do it?”

“Yeah, I can.” I looked at her steadily with a conÞ dence born of my certainty that I would do it or damn well die trying.

“Great, knew you could,” Kitt said with another pat on the back, then stood. “I’ve got to talk with Blade and Mad Max.”

“Hey, Kitt?” I called to her as she started to walk away.

“Yeah, Razor?” Kitt turned.

“I think I’m glad I ate my Wheaties.”

Soon all the lineups, race-changing discussions, and other bureaucratic nonsense were done, and the team sat together on the bench, the other team on the other side of the pool, doing whatever it was they did.

“Okay, we’re outmanned here, but we outgun them,” Coach Robbins said. Sister Attila, who’d arrived some time earlier, stood next to him. “We’ve got stronger players, we’ve got bigger hearts, and we’re determined,” he continued. “We need a good showing in the individual races, but we need to really blow them away in points and time by the relay. You all know how the relays are going to work and how the lineups are set. Our last relay has Kitt, Blade, and Razor as anchors, with the rest of you spread out on the teams. Think of it as ‘Operation Smooth Shave.’” He smiled broadly at his own pun.

It was a really bad joke. Kitt and Blade and I looked at each other, and none of us was particularly pleased. He got back thin smiles all around. “It’s Razor-Blade-Kitt, get it?” he explained, seeming pleased, very pleased with himself.

No one said anything, except for a few, very forced, ha-has. Even Sister Attila looked toward the endless ceiling as if she were asking God why.

Silence continued to grow.

“Okay then, get in there and show ’em”—he gestured to the other side,—“what you can do. First race is up in Þ ve minutes, the

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Þ fty butterß y,” Coach Robbins said and walked off, clipboard in hand, to the table behind the starting blocks where the other coach and the ofÞ cials were.

Sister held up her hand in a “wait” gesture so we wouldn’t disperse.

“Before you get started,” and she looked around at all of us, “remember this. If you hit the water with a clear head and get out of it knowing you’ve done the best you can,” she looked at Kitt, then continued,

“you’ve done a good job. If you hit the water with a clear heart and get out of it knowing you’ve done more than you thought you could,” she paused, looked me dead in the eye, then at the rest of the group,

“the best of your very best, you’ve done a great job, no matter how the timing or the points fall. I know you will all do a great job. I’ll see you in the water.” Sister nodded at us and made her way over to the stands.

At that, each girl wrapped up in her own private world, we made our way to the bench or the starting blocks, depending on what we were slated for.

With a sound like thunder, the Þ rst butterß y event went off, and the water churned with the strong kicking and pulling motions of the swimmers. I always loved to watch this event; the movements of the swimmers were incredible, dramatic. I myself was (and still am) terrible at this stroke, but boy, I admired those who did it, especially those who did it well.

I alternately sat on the bench or walked the length of the deck to each end with other members of the team, screaming encouragement at my teammates each and every time the starter gun went off—hugging, backslapping, and congratulating girls as they came out of the water.

Finally, what seemed like only seconds later, it was my Þ rst event, and with a Þ nal check of my shoulder strap, a snap of the leg, and a tug of my goggles over my eyes, I mounted the second block to stare down my lane, the lines below me wavering in the warm blue water. A swimmer in a green and white suit stood on either side of me.

There were twelve competitors for this event, so it would go off in two heats of six, and Blade was in the second. Girls with the top six times of both combined heats would compete in a third, Þ nal heat, determining Þ rst, second, and third places. This also meant it was possible to come in Þ rst in a heat and not even qualify for the third, if the other six competitors in the other heat all had better times than you. Still, the team would earn points by Þ nishing order in both heats anyway, so it was never a total wash.

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Actually, it was possible to have two heats, then a deciding third, with the majority of swimmers from one or another team. This point system also meant that a team could have consistent Þ rst-place Þ nishes and still not win the meet, if the other team consistently scored second, third, and fourth. It was all about how the points fell and added in the end, although any individual could potentially outperform her entire team.

I focused my sight on the end. A straight-run Þ fty, no turn. I decided to do a dead-ahead sprint. I’d have at least a heat to sit out before a third Þ nal, and then a few events in between before my next few events. I could do this and not burn myself out for later. I was going to do this.

Now.

Later didn’t matter.

Slice the lane.

“Swimmers—on the block!” an ofÞ cial cried out, his voice made mechanical through a bullhorn’s ampliÞ cation.

I curled my toes over the edge and bent my legs and arms, elbows slightly behind my ribs. Good entry was all about form and distance, how you came off the block. Sometimes a good entry could determine the whole race. Or so we were told, anyway.

“On your mark!”

I tensed my arms and legs, hung low over the block, and concentrated on a point about a dozen or so feet in front of me, directly centered, where I wanted to enter. Not that I could really jump that far, but it was always good to aim as if you could.

Bang!

The gun went off, and I imagined my body as a powerful spring uncoiling along its length as I stretched and leaped off, out and above the water.

I skimmed the surface and started moving. Breath, stroke, stroke, stroke, breath, stroke, stroke, stroke. There was no sound except the water rushing by my ears, my hands as they cut through the water. I could hear the sound my legs made.

My arms stretched, my legs moved, and the muscles that stretched over my hips and stomach strained in a gratifying way. I worked harder and felt the burn work its way through. What can I say? Pushing to the limit feels pretty damn good.

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The drop-away point was ahead of me, and I dug within as deeply as I could. It wasn’t about winning, it was about my best time. I had to at least beat my own best time.

The motion was mechanical and intense. I was in the water, focused on breath, focused on muscle. I reached the end wall and stood, gasping. As the water poured off my head, the sound came back on, destroying the peaceful calm of the water, and I could hear cheering from the stands.

“Great race!” greeted Mad Max as she reached down to haul me out, and I stood on deck, shaking and dripping.

I shoved the goggles off my eyes under my chin. “Thanks,” I said, breathless, and we gave each other a brief hug, which Max followed up with a pat on the back. A couple of other girls came up to do the same.

We walked back over to the bench to grab a seat and found Kitt there, the world’s largest towel draped over her shoulders while she waited for the next event. “Nice slice, Razor,” she greeted as I sat down,

“very nice race.”

I sat down and Kitt looked over at me again. “Where’s your towel?”

I was starting to shiver. “Oh fuck, I forgot it in the locker room,” I said out loud, realizing what I had done.

“Here,” she draped an end of her towel over me, “share mine.” I sat there, very grateful to not be freezing. “Thanks, Kitt.” She glanced at me. “No problem, Razor, no problem,” and she focused her attention on the starting blocks. I followed her gaze and watched Samantha, Sammy Blade, take the center block and Betta take an outside one.

“We’ve had the Slice, it’s time for the Dice,” Kitt murmured, watching the swimmers take their marks. Kitt glanced over at me. “You Þ nished in the top three, you know,” she remarked, then returned to the race.

Wow. Not bad. But I didn’t want to know where, which is why she didn’t tell me. It would wreck my focus to know if I was Þ rst or second or third. Third, you just get disgusted. Second, you wonder why you didn’t do good enough for Þ rst, and Þ rst, you worry you can’t keep it up. Better to not know and just have your conÞ dence built by the fact that you did well. As it turned out, my time qualiÞ ed me for the third and Þ nal heat for the Þ fty free.