Synchro Boy, page 16
I just need a good workout, so I’m glad for the extra practice today after school. When I dive in, I breaststroke down deep, feeling the pressure on me as I get close to the bottom of the tank. Feel the pressure squeezing my head, my chest. My underwater world, keeping me together.
When I come up to the surface to swim laps, I go hard, wanting to exhaust myself. Wanting not to think.
After warm-up, Chelsea and I stand on the little ledge at the side of the pool and drill the arm movements to the count.
“One two three four, five six seven eight …” Sunny grabs my upheld hand and brings it forward. “Here.” Then she pushes it back to where I held it before. “Not here. Okay, start again. One two three four, five six seven eight …”
Then we’re back in the water. But Sunny’s on me every other minute.
“Bart, I want your leg to strike the water like lightning hitting the ground.”
“Bart, if there’s a splash, it should be one splash—I shouldn’t hear two. You’re down on the same count, come down together.”
There’s one movement I really like. I sweep my arm around in a circle so it looks like my arm’s making my leg disappear into my body. But I’m not doing it well enough for Sunny.
“Bart, you have to swim sharper!”
“You’re all over the place today.” Chelsea pops up and blinks the water out of her eyes. She’s practising sans goggles, just because she can. “What’s this?” She takes my arm and wiggles it around. “You’re a floppy fish.”
“Well, it’s supposed to be looser, right?”
“Not like that, it’s not.”
I bite my bottom lip. Mom came and watched us practise the other night. “Chelsea’s tolerating you now,” she said. “It’s different from before. Just make sure you let her know how much you appreciate her working with you—she didn’t always want to, right?”
Right.
So I let Chelsea flop my arm around and insult my form, and I take it.
Chels sighs. “Let’s just try from the lift again.”
We submerge, and I take her hips and power whip kick, getting her out of the water to her knees. We submerge again for a quick leg sequence, then surface—and there’s a grin on Chelsea’s face. And there’s no performance. No one watching us. She’s just smiling because … something’s making her happy.
“What?”
“That was better,” she says. “I forget your power every time, until you’ve got me launched.”
Wow. Okay.
“Let’s keep going.”
We finish up our practice with figures using the jugs and ankle weights.
“Do you have to be anywhere?” Chels asks. “Stay if you can. I can help.”
Something at the back of my mind says I should be home. But hell, it’s Friday night. No practice again until Sunday morning. And the more time in the pool before qualifiers, the better … So staying and getting some coaching from Chels feels like a good idea.
“Yeah, I can stay.”
The pool’s quieted down. The water polo team’s left, and there are just a few public swimmers in the lane pool, some kids in the teaching pool. A couple of seniors are practising their water walking in our section now, but there’s still lots of room. We run through the beginning choreography of this new routine and Chelsea stops, comes out of position.
“Okay, roll back should be with a scull by your hips, then a support scull.”
“Hips first?” I wouldn’t have thought. Still, I come out of the figure better than I have before. And after Chelsea shows me swordfish straight leg, she goes under and watches me try it.
“No, no. You’re scooping.” She shows me her scull, and it looks totally different from mine. “Like this.”
I lift one leg, then go into splits, sculling this new way. It’s better.
“It’s always in the sculling, Bart. If you don’t have your sculls down, you won’t swim as sharp.”
“Have you thought about coaching?”
“Oh, yeah …” She nods. “When I’m done competing. That won’t be for a few years, though. You know, we don’t peak until we’re, like, in our twenties. It’s not like gymnastics.”
“I guess that’s good news for me.”
We get out and land drill through a sequence of movements.
“Okay, stop. The movements have to stop at the end. If you kind of smoothly go through each movement, it’s like you’re mumbling.”
“Mumbling?”
“They’ve got to be defined. Okay, close your eyes.”
I shut them, and Chelsea counts, “One two three four, five six seven … Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop.”
“What?” I open my eyes.
“You’re out of sync with me.”
Chelsea arches her back and runs her fingers through her hair, her chest sticks out. I try not to look.
“But Chels, with my eyes closed I can’t see you!”
“That’s not supposed to matter! You have to synchronize to the music. If you go precisely on the count, we’ll be in sync. Think about the movement happening at the very start of the count. Snap it. Sharp.”
Chelsea runs through her movements again, counting. I keep my eyes open this time, but just pay attention to her voice, not what her arms are doing.
“Okay, better.”
“Hey. Why are you doing this, anyway?”
“Doing what?”
“Helping me. What’s changed?”
“Um, you’re doing a duet with me now.” Chelsea looks up at me through her lashes. “And besides, it takes a lot of guts to do what you’re doing.”
I grin. “So I’m gutsy?”
“And you’re dedicated. You know, we’re not that different, you and me. You’re just as much a perfectionist.”
I laugh.
Chelsea just lifts her eyebrows and stares me down.
“Okay. Maybe.” She’s right. There’s a thread of competitive perfectionism that runs in both of us, and I know we could go far if we competed together. Oh, man, and then wouldn’t people have to swallow everything they’ve ever whispered about me in the halls.
“Now close your eyes.” She counts through the sequence again.
“How was that?”
“Good.” She studies my face, and I stare right back at the complete symmetry of hers.
“Hey,” she says. “Your lips are chapped. Come here.”
Chelsea drags me by the arm to where we dropped our stuff on the other side of a giant stack of mats. She leans over, digging around in her bag with her head down. Her suit’s cut low enough I see a little cleavage. Riley is not wrong—nobody is wrong about Chelsea. She’s gorgeous. Especially the way she’s a little standoffish. A little removed … like you’re just not good enough for her. Because then, when she does start to look at you—it’s like you’ve levelled up.
She’s found what she’s looking for and stands up, holding a little tub of lip balm.
She stares at my lips while she puts a little on her finger, then rubs my bottom lip. Man, what is it with the lip stuff? Is this just the way synchro girls flirt? What if she’s setting me up to mock me?
“Hey, Chels. Do you remember the grade seven dance?”
“Yeah …”
“Yeah, but do you remember when I asked you to dance?”
Chelsea’s smile falls. So I guess she does remember laughing at me, at the idea that she would have anything to do with Bart Lively, the skinny kid everyone thought was gay.
“That was a long time ago,” she says. “Do you still think I’m awful?”
“What? No, geez. I don’t think you’re awful.”
“So do you like me now?”
She dips her finger back in the lip balm. I’m confused.
“Chels, you didn’t even want me in the club. I should be asking you if you like me.”
“What do you think? I saved your life, didn’t I?”
“Well. Touché.”
Chelsea finishes my bottom lip, then screws the cap back on, staring into my eyes like she’s saying, Now you’re good. She takes my hand to give it a squeeze, and I squeeze back—but then she doesn’t let go.
So I take a step toward her. She brushes her fingers over my short, wet hair. And then she presses her lips to mine.
Wow. What would Riley think? What would the Rosa Waves guys do if they could see this?
It’s kind of surreal. Chelsea Gates! my brain shouts. Chelsea Gates and me, surrounded by some kind of lust haze.
Ha, my brain says. So there. So there, everyone in grade seven! So there, Chelsea’s judgy friends. If they could see her now.
“It tastes good, right?” she asks.
“Mmm-hmm.” I put Chelsea’s finger in my mouth. She doesn’t pull it away. She doesn’t smack sense into me. She doesn’t tell me to get lost. And oh, I’m not good. I’ve spent the past few mornings with Erika, playing with the distance between neutral and turned on, and it’s an awfully short trip. I figure Chelsea and I will snap out of this. But I should know better by now—I’ve had to tear myself out of the same haze every morning this week. I don’t snap. I wrench.
I manage to pull away. “Thanks for the balm.”
“Your lips feel better now?”
“Mmm. I think so.”
“Let me check again.”
A wave of desire ripples out through my whole body as Chelsea reaches for me. I press my hips against her.
She chuckles.
“Oh, don’t look so proud, Chels.” I nuzzle into her neck and close my eyes. I taste the chlorine and salt on her skin. My lips trail back up her neck again to her lips, and when I open my eyes, I’m thinking, Erika. Oh my God. What’s going on?
It takes a moment to drag myself out of the haze. It takes that moment for my brain to get through, screaming at me, Erika. Erika. Erika.
Yeah, I don’t want to be doing this with Chelsea. Not actually. And I feel panic, my heart racing, but not with desire now.
Then my brain finally gets into full gear and I’m feeling the panic completely and I don’t know why my brain is still screaming, Erika! Erika! when I’ve finally figured it out.
Yeah, brain. Got it.
And then I realize—Erika is staring back at us from behind the glass in the lobby. I see the flash of her red toque on the stairs, heading up. Heading away.
No. No. No.
All the Ha, all the So there, turns to shame. The shame burns into the wrinkles of my waterlogged skin.
“Chelsea, stop,” I whisper. I push her shoulders away from me. For a flash, she looks hurt. But I haven’t got a spare second, because Erika is gone.
I run away from Chelsea. It’s an awkward, slow run across wet tiles with half a hard-on, trying to be careful not to wipe out. I run up the back stairs, past the divers’ land training practice, and slam into the heavy doors to outside. A wave of cool air hits my hot cheeks.
“Erika!” I shout. I run, barefoot and wet, out into the parking lot. I scan the cars, trying to spot her little silver sedan. She’s leaving—barely slowing down for the speed bump before the crosswalk. We lock eyes, but she presses on the gas and keeps going.
Shit.
When I get back on deck, Chelsea’s gone. Her bag’s gone. I grab mine and get changed fast.
I ride my bike into Erika’s neighbourhood. There’s no porch light on for me tonight, but I ring the doorbell and hear arguing from inside, up the stairs. Then thumping. Then Erika opens the door.
“I made a mistake,” I say, too loud.
“God! Shhh.”
“Please, listen. Please.”
She steps out onto the porch and closes the door behind her. That soft orange streetlamp lights up her face, and I see she’s been crying.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
“I was just going to the pool because I thought I’d meet you after practice. We talked about Fridays.” She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “I … I know it’s not like we said we wouldn’t see anyone else or anything. I thought … maybe you were interested in Dave. But …” She shakes her head. “Bart, this just hurts.” She shakes her head again, and her voice comes out angry now. “I mean, what was that? A revenge make-out session? Were you hate-kissing her?”
“No! It was just an accident. It was just something that happened, and I don’t know why, but I’m so sorry that it did.”
I reach out for her hand, but she pulls it away.
“No.”
“Please?”
She starts crying again. “Chelsea gets everything she wants. She’ll get you. She’ll get you for the duet too. Just wait.”
“No, Erika. It was just a stupid mistake. She doesn’t really want me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well … it’s irrelevant. Erika, I just want you. Do you want me?”
“Yes.”
“Then have me. Please.” I step toward her, but she crosses her arms and takes a step away.
“I’m too mad, Bart. You think it’s that easy?
“No. Of course not.”
“You’re going to have to give me some time.”
I nod, because I will, I’ll give her anything.
• • •
When I get home, the lights are all off except one in the kitchen. Mom’s not in the living room. I look at my watch—nine fifteen. Did she go to bed already? I walk into the kitchen, go straight to the fridge, and pour myself a glass of milk. The table’s set. Two place settings, in silver. The nice napkins. And a note on my plate.
Hello Bart,
I guess you ate elsewhere, but if you’re still hungry, your lasagna’s
in the fridge. Three minutes on high should do it.
Maybe see you tomorrow, then.
xo Mom
I put my empty glass on the table, sit down, and put my head in my hands. It’s been a long time since Mom’s made lasagna. But I can’t eat anything. I didn’t think I could feel any worse than I already do.
I start to cry before I hear Mom’s footsteps coming down the stairs. She pulls a chair over right beside me.
“I’m so sorry,” I wail, and lean into her as she gathers me into a hug.
“Hey, hey.”
“You’re gonna be so mad at me, Mom.” I sink into her hug, and breathe in the rose-scented face cream she always puts on at night. She squeezes me tight.
“It’s just dinner. Your teenage brain is supposed to forget stuff like this, you know.”
“No! I suck. I’m so mad at myself.”
She rubs my back. “What’s going on?”
I look up at her face. She’s not mad at all.
“Mom … how can you kiss someone you don’t even really care for, deep down?” As soon as I say that, though, I know it’s not fair. I care for Chelsea now. “Or … how can you just make out with a friend?”
“Oh, honey. It’s okay. Did you … did you kiss Riley?”
“God! No. Mom, no.”
“Well, I don’t know! You said a friend. You’ve always been a one-close-friend kind of guy. I don’t know who …” I can tell she’s just as confused as I am.
“Would you be surprised if I told you it was a girl?”
“Oh.” Mom’s hand goes still on my back. “No, actually. Now that you say it.” She puts her hand up to my head and kisses my temple. “So this is about Erika?”
“Yeah. Uh, and Chelsea.” I pull out of her hug. “Chelsea and Erika. They’re both gonna hate me now. And with Chelsea, well … I’m fine with that. She can go ahead and hate me. It won’t feel any different than before, right?”
Mom laughs. “Oh, I don’t think she hated you.”
“She will now.”
“So what happened?”
I think for a minute about telling her an abridged version. I can’t face telling her. Saying it out loud.
“Erika saw me kissing Chelsea.”
“Ah. And you love Erika.”
“Yeah …”
“It doesn’t surprise me. I don’t think it would surprise anyone who’s watched you practise together.”
Oh.
“And Erika loves you?”
“Maybe she did. I don’t know. But now she’s so hurt, and she’s so mad. Mom, what do I do?”
She sighs. “I wish I knew.” She gets up and fills the kettle for tea. “Hey, speaking of Riley, how’s he doing? Maybe you want to talk to a friend about this?”
TWENTY-NINE
Ur probably busy making out with Casey but can you stop for 2 secs and meet me at Mickey Dee’s?
And why should I do that?
I need advice. Just screwed things up with E
Pls?
Half an hour later, Riley meets me at the McDonald’s that’s open until 2 a.m.
“I’m so glad I don’t have practice tomorrow, because there’s no way I could sleep tonight.”
“Yeah, me too.” Riley yawns, and takes a pull from his straw. “Looks like you can still eat, though.”
I shrug. Yes, I may have ordered my usual two cheeseburgers no onions, vanilla shake, and side of nuggets, but it’s purely for comfort.
“So you’re saying you actually kissed Chelsea Gates.” He sounds like he’s impressed, just like I thought he would be. I don’t feel any of that rush of pride I did on the deck. I just feel sick.
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
“What?”
“I didn’t kiss her on purpose. And I’m not telling you to, like, brag or something.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“What should I do, Riley?”
“How should I know? Not exactly an expert over here on how to stay together with a girl.”
“Well, you and Casey are …”
“Not anymore.”
“You broke up? You didn’t tell me!”
“Why should I?” Riley leans back in his chair, looks at me with his arms crossed.
“Uh, because I’m your friend?”
He looks toward the door, like he’s more interested in people coming and going than what I have to say.
“Seriously, Riley. Why aren’t you telling me stuff? You even asked her out back in September without saying a word to me.”
