Dive Smack, page 25
* * *
I FIND GP walking out of his office with Curtis and I blow right past them to take a peek inside without explanation. Before they close and lock the door. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find but there’s nothing extraordinary inside. Same heavy desk, a few dirty dishes, a couple of easy chairs, but not a single model airplane in sight.
GP straightens up like everything is normal but his face is ashen, punctuated by dark purple crescents under each eye that give me pause.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask, dropping my own agenda. “You look terrible.”
“Chemo has that effect on a person. Not that you’ve been looking so hot yourself lately.”
Chemo?
It takes a minute for that word to sink in.
“You’re sick?”
“You spend your whole life fighting fires and in the end you find out those fires kept fighting back long after they got put out,” GP says. “Ain’t that right, Curtis?”
“Karma truly is a bitch,” Curtis says.
A sense of vertigo hits me so fast I could swear the floor just dropped out beneath my feet. The way he’s been coughing, but not blowing his nose. Jeezus. It’s in his lungs. I can’t believe I didn’t see. He’s all I’ve got left.
“How bad is it?” I direct the question at Curtis.
“Not as good as we hoped.”
“That’s the appointment you didn’t want to tell me about?”
GP doesn’t answer as he takes a seat in his favorite armchair. He looks out the window, away from me, and my eyes start to sting. I wipe a hand under my nose and try to keep it together.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.”
“Before. When I asked if you were sick. I could have done something. Been home more.”
“He didn’t want that for you,” Curtis says. “I’ve been looking out for him. And you. Especially when he has to hole up in his office after treatments and can’t leave the house. But the chemo is starting to take its toll on him. It was time for you to know.”
“Is that why the office is always locked? I assumed you just went in there to pay bills and drink.”
“I did a little of that too,” he says. “Gotta keep a balance between the truth and lies.”
“Cancer is a big fucking lie to keep.”
“Look who’s talkin’. You want to tell me how long you been takin’ pills from Phil Maddox?”
Curtis tosses my prescription bottle at me without warning and it bangs against my chest like a maraca.
Shit.
I sit on the couch and drop the truth. “Since Dad died. Uncle … I mean, Phil’s been refilling the Adderall prescription Dad gave me. I go to see him a couple of times a month and we talk about my issues with focusing at school and diving. But I’ve only been to Green Hill once since Mom died.”
“What the hell were you doing there?” GP coughs in a croupy series that makes me cringe.
“He asked me to come in for blood work so he could check for adverse effects on my liver. I didn’t go alone. Iris Fiorello came with me.”
“That explains the angry voicemail I got from Bert,” Curtis says solemnly.
“Your liver ain’t the thing that needs watchin’, kid. It’s your head. Didn’t you read the article you showed me?”
“They’re just Adderall. Same as Dad prescribed, just a little stronger now that I’m older.”
“Just Adderall just got opened up for debate.”
GP flips Curtis a wary, conspiratorial look.
“I’m already on it,” Curtis says.
“On what? You’re being ridiculous. I need those to focus. Don’t you think I’d be able to tell if they were different?”
GP takes the prescription bottle out of my hand. “That’s the question you should have been asking when you told me you’ve been seeing things. And seeing as you’re still a minor, taking prescription drugs ain’t really up to you. Or him, since I’m the one who’s your guardian.”
“Come on,” I moan. “I have a meet coming up.”
“Then I suggest you take up meditating. ’Cause you ain’t allowed to go back up on that hill. Understand?”
“If I didn’t go to Green Hill I would have never found out about Luanne Cole.”
“We know she was the paramedic working that night,” GP says. “Curtis told me right before you came home.”
“Did he also tell you Luanne Cole is dead?” GP looks at me like I’m nuts until I hand over the article Iris pulled from the E.H.H.S. archives. “We think her twin sister, Lianne, is working as a nurse at Green Hill posing as Luanne. We just don’t know why. But, do you think Luanne could be the same girl Mom told you about in that story?”
“Christ almighty,” GP says slowly, skimming the article before handing it to Curtis. “You think Mitch was actually onto something?”
“Onto what?” I ask.
“Kinda makes you feel bad for blowing him off, huh?” Curtis says.
“I was tryin’ to help him move on.”
“Onto what?” I ask more forcefully.
GP sighs. “I think your father may have been looking into the Cole girl after your mother died. Said he thought there was something fishy going on with her and Phil. He became obsessed with everyone who worked the night of the fire.”
“Fishy like injecting me with something that made me sleepy? I remember Uncle Phil telling her to do it, like he was angry.”
Curtis and GP turn their heads to look at each other in slo-mo.
“I felt a sharp pinch right here.” I point to my deltoid. “It was her, Lu … Lianne Cole. I remembered while I was at Green Hill. How I felt myself slipping out of consciousness. Dad had to lift me up. Next thing I knew I was waking up in a hotel and both Mom and our house were gone.”
“Theo,” Curtis says quietly, “your dad wasn’t there during the fire.”
“Sure he was. I remember him carrying me away.”
“That was Phil.”
“Your mother wouldn’t leave the house without you. That’s what he told me, at least. So your dad got a hotel room. He found out about the fire after we got there.” GP whips a flinty look at Curtis. “Can you pull the files for that fire from the station?”
“Yep. And I’ll pull the boxes Mitch left behind in storage,” Curtis says. “I’m with you.”
“So that’s not something a paramedic would do then?”
“Not usually.”
I lean forward. “When I was at Green Hill she was acting nervous while she drew my blood. Afterward, I overheard her talking to he-ain’t-your-goddamn-Uncle-Phil, telling him she thought I recognized her from the night of the fire.”
GP raises an eyebrow. “Did you say or do anything that might have raised that suspicion?”
“I asked her to get me a purple juice box because that’s what she gave me that night. I was testing her to see if she was the same person.”
“That might explain why Phil Maddox showed up at our house.” GP rubs his balding head.
Balding because of the chemo.
“We need to look through Mitch’s things and play it cool. If he thinks we’re suspicious of him for any reason—” Curtis cuts himself off. “You realize what he’s capable of?” he asks GP with thirty-plus years of friendship coloring his worry.
“I know better than anyone,” GP says. “But he’s messed with this family for the last time. We need to make this right. For Theo and for Mitch.”
“Make what right? What’s he capable of?”
My grandfather swipes a hand over his mouth and sighs. “Arson, for one.”
The skin all over my body feels like it might shed and leave me raw, exposed, because this is where I’m supposed to tell GP the truth. I started the fire. But I can’t find the words or the sack to ’fess up.
“What are we trying to make right?” I ask, swallowing hard.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure so I don’t want to say just yet, but your father was looking into a bunch of stuff trying to figure out why your mother…” He stops and looks at me cautiously. “Why Sophia wanted to leave him for Phil after all these years. He wanted to show her Phil wasn’t quite the man she thought. And it looks like he may have been right. Maybe he even got more than he bargained for, kid. That’s something we may never know. But the truth always comes out. Even when it takes longer than expected.”
“I already figured out something was going on between Mom and Phil.”
All three of us go hush quiet for a minute.
“None of us are perfect, kid,” GP says. “But your mother was a good person. I don’t want you thinking poorly of her.”
“I don’t. She’s not the one I blame.”
“Now you’re seeing things like a Mackey.” He looks at Curtis. “It’s risky. But I could go talk to Phil. Tell him I heard he stopped by the house. Do you know if he’s coming to your meet tomorrow?”
“He said he was.”
“If I can catch him alone in the parking lot before—”
“Alone?” Curtis interjects, sounding worried GP is diving into something that requires a spotter.
GP ignores him and turns to me. “I never missed one of your meets before, but if I skip this one, it’ll give Curtis and me a chance to put together some old documents of your father’s we put in storage. But if anything should happen to me between now and then, I want you to call Curtis right away. You understand me? He’s the only person I trust with my life. And yours.”
“If anything happens? You mean if you die, from the cancer?”
“It ain’t the goddamn cancer I’m worried about. It’s Phil’s compromised morals. Promise me you’ll call Curtis.”
“I promise.”
“I don’t like this,” Curtis says.
Neither do I. “Maybe I should go with you,” I tell GP.
“No. You gotta go to that meet of yours tomorrow like normal so Phil sees you there, then come home. If any of the conspiracy theories your father was spewing are true, you might get what you need for your family history project and more. You have to trust me on that.”
And I do. Suddenly, I trust him more than anyone. All the way to my core.
THIRTY-TWO
Adjusting the Fulcrum: Adjusting the moveable wheel beneath the diving board to control the amount of spring the diver will receive for a forward or backward take-off.
MONARCHS VS. SHARKS. That’s what the sign says outside the swim complex. Not the most logical pairing since it means taking bets on cute vs. ferocious. Ladybug vs. Grizzly Bear. Crickets vs. Tornadoes. Nobody wants to bet on cute, which is usually to our advantage. But tonight, I might get swallowed alive because my head is not where it should be before taking the board.
It doesn’t help that every season, without fail, some ring-leading jerk from an opposing school tries to fluster our team by flapping their wings and calling us the Butterflies. Tonight’s wannabe champion of snark was Andover Co-Captain Rick Shay, a scrawny prick that never grew into his enormous teeth. No big surprise there since Ricochet, as Chip likes to call him, has been a bootlicking asshat since recreational swim.
But once Chip dove into the pool and kicked their asses, the taunting stopped. That’s how a Monarch does it. Silent as a butterfly.
The same is expected of me.
The locker room is explosive with swimmers keyed up by how many heats they won, making it hard for the springboard divers to prepare. But there are only a few minutes left before the moment of truth. Mine, and Rocco’s.
Chip taps me on the shoulder. “You ready?” He’s bouncing on his toes, amped by how hard he crushed it out there.
“Almost. I need a little extra edge.” I open my locker and pop the tab on a can of Phoenix.
“Can’t say I blame you.” Chip grabs the can and takes a few sips off the top.
When he hands it back I chug the whole thing.
The team is gathered in the common area, waiting for me to lead them to the pool. When I round the corner the whooping and hollering gets louder and echoes in my head, matching the beat of the vein throbbing in my temple.
Ace claps me on the back. “We’re gonna slaughter those Sharks and leave them bleeding on the dock.”
“Andover might need to rethink the food chain,” Trey adds.
Coach Porter enters the locker room and we fall into a hush. “You guys ready to rumble?”
“Yes, Coach,” we say in unison.
He puts a hand to his ear. “I couldn’t hear you, ladies. I asked if you were ready to rumble?”
“Yes, Coach!”
“That’s more like it.”
He stops me on my way through the door. “What about you, Mackey? You ready?”
I give him a quick nod and smile. I better be.
Coach taps my arm with his clipboard. “Attaboy. Show ’em how it’s done.”
We enter the swim complex with “Hells Bells” roaring through the speakers—captain’s choice. I scan the stands for Iris then remember she’s grounded. I go take a seat between Ace and Sully. I need to focus on my first dive, visualize the rotations and twists.
Before I sit, I catch sight of Phil Maddox in the stands. A pit forms in my stomach as I wonder whether or not he already spoke to GP and what was said.
Ace bumps me from the right. “Where are we celebrating after?”
Before I can answer Sully leans in from the opposite side, rubbing the scar under his nose with his index finger. “I heard Les Carter is throwing a party.”
“I’m not going to that,” I say.
“Why not?” Ace chimes in. “You don’t have to like the guy to drink his booze.”
“Let’s focus on diving. Then we can worry about celebrating.”
I watch the first two divers prep their fulcrums and prepare to dive, thinking: speed it up, guys. Points off for stalling. I lean forward with my arms resting on my knees and look for Rocco on the Andover bench. He’s crouched forward in the same position, staring straight at me. The left side of his mouth curves in a grin before he bites his tongue and flips me the rock-on symbol.
I wonder if Rocco knows that hand gesture is also the sign of the devil. Exactly what he should feel like right now for giving me bogus info. I start pumping my knee up and down so fast I could churn butter. Maybe there’s still time to talk to him before he dives. I head to their bench but Coach McGee throws up a block.
“You can’t be over here right now, son.”
“I just want to wish an old teammate good luck.”
“You’ll have to wait and congratulate him after the meet.” He flips me an arrogant grin and I spy a grayish wad of chewing gum wedged between his teeth and cheek.
Apparently he missed the part where we whooped their ass in swimming.
“Hold on. You’re Theo Mackey, right?” he asks. “Rocco told me you came by looking for some information about your mom. I was set to pull her files for you over the weekend, but someone trashed the coaches’ offices last night. It’ll take weeks to straighten out the mess. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
My eyes zero in on the shark embroidered on the breast pocket of his red polo shirt. “No, sir. But I’m sorry to hear about it.”
Rocco is waving his arms, fighting for my attention in the background. He gives me a questioning look over his coach’s shoulder. All I have time to do is shake my head and mouth, “Don’t do it.”
But it’s no use.
Rocco is nodding back at me in exaggerated movements, pointing with both hands stretched all the way out. He mouths back, “Oh yeah! It’s on.”
“Son,” the Andover coach says. “It’s time to go.”
I trudge back to my team as the announcer starts reading the latest scores. Our guys are already ahead. There’s nothing left to do now but wait. When Sully’s name hits the board I know I’m almost up. Unfortunately, this is when Uncle Phil chooses to come over to the bench to talk to me. Something he’s never done before.
“Why were you talking to the Andover coach?” he asks, eyes fixed on Coach McGee.
I steal a glance at Coach McGee before I look back at Uncle Phil, straightening his collar, his knuckles scraped red-raw.
“Someone trashed the coaches’ offices last night. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
I feed him a half-lie, looking for the truth with an alarm ringing in my head. “I went to wish Rocco luck. What happened to your hand?”
“Flat tire.” He spills the excuse easily. Maybe too easily.
But I don’t have time to harp on it because I need to prep for the board. “I’m on a first-name basis with roadside assistance,” I say, feeding him an equally easy lie. “But I’m about to dive so…” I rock back on my heels.
“Yes. Right,” he says. “Break a leg.”
Wrong thing to say to a diver but I let the smell of chlorine refresh my senses on the way to the ladder. Breathing in, out, in, out. Ready or not.
The din of the crowd has an echo-like quality tonight. I give myself a minute to pull my shit together. Then it’s go time. Mom’s dive for the win.
I get good height and enter my first rotation. So far so good. But then the water turns bloodred again, right before my eyes. I shut them tight—a major diving no-no. Not because points can be deducted, but because I’m basically flying blind and a danger to myself. I go on instinct alone, coming out of the rotations to start my first twist, counting the spirals—one, two, three—and a half. I straighten out and enter the pool like an arrow, hand over hand. Boom. Water rushes past me. I nailed it.
Para mi madre.
The crowd goes nuts when I break the surface. I climb out and wait for my scores. Our school uses a three-judge panel and scores between 1–10, totaled, then multiplied by the degree of difficulty. I hold my breath until my scores illuminate the board, one at a time: 8.5, 9.0, 8.5. Not too shabby.
I’m so pumped about my scores that when Trey starts nudging me I get annoyed.
Until I see why he’s so hell-bent on elbowing me to death.
Rocco is on the three-meter facing backward.
My eyes shoot back to the scoreboard where it says Bennett 5239D.
