No Capes

NO CAPES SAMPLE - Chapter Two

I get three hours of sleep before morning swim practice, then it's time to freeze in my swimsuit in the dimly lit pool building beside Capital City High.

"I still can't believe you almost died," exclaims Kristen Smithson, my best friend, as she snaps on a pink swim cap. We stand on the pool deck, where the smell of too much chlorine overpowers the smell of seventy teenagers' body odor. I told Kristen about my night as she drove me to practice this morning, and she's been talking about it since.

"Shh. The Super said people are hunting me." I check if anyone overheard, given our echoey surroundings, but our teammates just yawn around the plastic bin, painted like a treasure chest, that stores our kickboards. Foam noodles rest on hooks above it for when the pool is open to the public. We've all heard the rumor of a junior a few years ago who used a noodle instead of a kickboard at practice and blew water at everyone during drills. Apparently, our coach—slash my sister, if you can believe it—Arielle, kicked him off the team faster than you can say "butterfly." Mere mortals had rarely fooled around in front of Arielle before that, and no one ever does now. Especially not me.

"Do you believe him?" Kristen asks, continuing to discuss D.S. "That Madeline Roberts is in black books, or whatever?"

"My picture in that guy's wallet seemed pretty legit..." I start, interrupted by the BEEEEEEP of the pace clock blasting. We both jump, though this happens every morning. 5:00 A.M., time for practice.

Arielle Bridges—maiden name Roberts—likes to begin swim practice with a pep talk, but today she's by the diving board chatting with a kid I don't recognize. Tall and broad-shouldered, he's built like a competitor and has pale skin, harsh gray eyes, and charcoal hair plastered to his forehead. Unlike the other guys around me, he's wearing a shirt.

"Who's that?" Kristen asks, still not using her indoor voice.

"No idea," I whisper.

"Do you think he's joining the team?"

"Doubt it. Arielle doesn't let people join after the first practice." Every year, basketball and dance team rejects try, but Arielle refuses to be anyone's second choice.

"Too bad." Kristen sighs. "He'd make smelling like chlorine all day worth it."

She puffs out her chest to display the writing on her swimsuit, which she designed. The fabric is sunny yellow with the words "Suns Out, Guns Out" embroidered, but with a huge X over "Guns." For as long as I've known her, Kristen has been obsessed with fashion, using clothing to protest and sending the proceeds for her designs to advocacy groups. I haven't let her design a swimsuit for me yet—each of hers falls apart after two weeks. Progress: they used to fall apart after two days.

The new guy catches us staring and doesn't look away. He watches me as if he's searching for something, and a spring releases in my memory. I've seen him before. Somewhere.

"Quick, move." Kristen grabs my hand, pulling me sideways, and I stumble over her foot.

"Wow, thanks," I say. Yesterday's splashes still puddle on the floor and seeing them gives me a flashback: Boots sludge through a puddle, coming closer.

"Act cool," says Kristen. "Arielle's coming."

Arielle Bridges is tall, toned from her own swimming glory days, and she always accessorizes with a waterproof clipboard, cropped leggings, and an obnoxious whistle.

"Alright, Sharks, listen up." Her shrill command cuts through my teammates' moans and groans. "The next person who whines about this glorious hour gets to start even earlier tomorrow. Let's say 4:30 A.M."