I wake up on the morning of tryouts with the world's worst headache. I call it my swimming headache because it always rears its head on the day of a meet, but I'm determined not to let it get to me.
After downing a few painkillers, I start with breakfast and land drills before sitting on the edge of my bed, Ipad in hand, and pulling up my notes.
You'd think I was interviewing for the C.I.A., given the amount of research I've put into this. I'd filled out all the registration forms, paid the seventy dollars to become a member of USMS, and now each section of my notes is divided into sub-divisions, from who the coaches at Shore Aquatics are to a detailed, annotated pool map.
I scan it twice over, feeling the familiar uptick in my heart. There's a brief chat with the coach before tryouts, so a page of notes is dedicated to the club's founder, Ariana Jackson.
According to their website, Coach Jackson has done everything from swimming in nationals to coaching college swim teams, all of which went on to beat national records, so clearly, I'll be in good hands. If I make it, that is.
I'm still analyzing my notes when my phone vibrates. I look at the screen, spotting the first line of the Instagram message, and my heart skips.
Big day, Blue.
I re-read the message at least three times before writing back: I hadn't noticed, Atterwood.
He starts typing, then stops, then types again. I have practice tonight, and I'm a dead man if I miss it, but can I drop you to tryouts?
I'm about to type no way before realizing it comes off as abrupt. It's not that I have anything against Noah riding with me to tryouts – in fact, it's kind of sweet – but I know it will only make things worse in the end.
For as long as I can remember, the drive to swim meets has always involved me, my headphones, and some form of a window to stare aimlessly out of, because it was the only way I coped with the nerves. It's how I plan to survive today, too.
Thank you, but I need to do this alone.
He doesn't respond for a few minutes, and I wonder if maybe I've hurt his feelings when a message comes through: Want to meet me after to celebrate?
I can't help it; I smile. You don't even know if I'll make it.
You will, so...Want to celebrate?
For a minute, I forget how insanely nervous I am and fight another smile. You've exceeded your message quota.
I'll make it up to you later.
My heart skips for the second time, but instead of wanting to run a mile, I find myself typing back: You better.
I rush to click send, knowing his eyes will be bulging right now, and then I tuck my phone away. Unfortunately, I have several classes before tryouts tonight, so after another glance at my schedule, I leave a snoring Addy behind and head to the coffee shop.
I've barely sat down and opened my Ipad when Natalia slinks into the seat opposite. "Hey," she says, clutching her to-go cup. "Mind if I sit with you?"
Despite the knots in my stomach, I smile and say, "Sure."
Sipping our coffee, we spend a few awkward minutes catching up about classes before Natalia says, "So, Addy tells me we're officially sharing a room for Cabo." She leans forward a little, dropping her voice as if ready to tell me a secret. "Although I'll tell you now, I am so not looking forward to sharing a room with Addy. That girl snores like a foghorn."
I push aside my nerves and laugh. "I have a spare packet of earplugs if you want. We're going to need them."
Natalia laughs too, and we spend the next few minutes talking about the perfect outfits to take. "I bought this forest green bikini last week," she says coyly. "I'm hoping Noah will see it and realize what he's missing." She misses how my face grows slack and pulls out her phone, showing me a picture of her in the changing rooms, the thin green material conforming to every curve. "What do you think?"
I pick up my coffee cup, knowing I'm in a minefield – one wrong move and whatever I say will explode in my face. "It looks nice," I say, which is true, but it's also about the only thing I can say. With the three of us sharing a room in Cabo, it's not a good idea to rock the boat.
The clock tower chimes and I'm saved. "I'll see you later," Natalia says, pulling me into a hug, "and tell Addy to try responding to my texts every once in a while."
"I'll try," I say, dashing to my first class.
The rest of the day feels like I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I spend my classes re-reading my notes, and before I know it, I'm back in my dorm and getting ready to leave for tryouts.
God, I feel sick.
Addy walks in a few minutes before I leave and dumps her bag on the bed. "The gym again?"
"Just for an hour or two," I say, and while I feel bad about lying, I plan to come clean if I make it on the team. "I'll see you tonight, okay? Natalia says to message her back."
"Hmff," she says and flops onto the bed for a nap.
It's a thirteen-minute drive to Fallon Street, Oakland, but it feels much longer. I play with my hands, running my thumb back and forth across my palm as I nod to my music, but it's not as calming as it used to be. In fact, this whole thing feels so foreign yet familiar that I'm all out of sorts.
I'm stupid to think I could do this. Swimming in Noah's pool every week is different from being on the swim team, and what if I panic? What if something happens, and everyone sees? What if I can't do this?
As soon as the Uber arrives, I can't breathe. A message comes through from Noah, who has long sailed past our four-message agreement, which reads, Good luck, Blue.
I take a deep breath and make my way through the entrance. A few girls are gathered by the reception, some around my age and some a little older, but all possess the same quiet confidence. I pull back my shoulders and make my way over, determined to channel the old me – even if it means faking it.
As luck would have it, the check-in process is relatively simple, and after a brief discussion outlining the evening, we're told to sit and enjoy the cafe while Coach Jackson calls each of us in for a mini-interview.
When it's my turn, I get to my feet and follow the assistant through a door to our left, which leads into the Coach's office. It's small and narrow, with each strip of wall covered in awards and photos. In the middle of it is Coach's desk, surrounded by paperwork and colorful cacti pots, one of which looks on the verge of death.
"My dad gets me Cacti for every birthday," Coach Jackson says with a smile. She looks older than in her pictures, with streaky gray hair pulled tight into a ponytail and a forehead lined with wrinkles. But her eyes are warm and honey-like, softening her angled face and instantly making me feel at ease. "Apparently, I can't keep a normal plant alive."
I want to tell her that she hasn't kept this one alive either, but instead, I give her my best Every smile and shake her hand, telling her how pleased I am to meet her. We sit down again, and I try to ignore the thump of my chest as the interview starts.
The first few questions are easy enough: background, age, what led me here – all stuff I'd written on my application form, but I answer each question enthusiastically, surprised by how easy it is to slip back into the old me. And then, when I think I'm through the worst, she puts down her clipboard and leans across the table.
"I have to ask," she says, sounding serious. "Why did someone with your achievements and qual times take a year off? From the looks of things, you were well on your way to a sports scholarship, and then you just stopped swimming."
I don't answer right away. I flatten my palms to the top of my thighs, wiping away some sweat. "Well, I drowned," I say slowly, my mind going black, "and it kind of sucked."
For a second, as she stares at me, I think I've made a mistake by joking about it, but then softly, she smiles. "I'll bet. How do you feel about it now?"
I straighten my shoulders, feeling the knot in my stomach loosen. "Honestly, Coach Jackson, I've never felt more determined to put what happened behind me and swim again."
This time when she smiles, it takes up the whole of her face. She writes something down on her chart before looking back up again. "It was nice to meet you, Ever. Good luck tonight."
I smile and get to my feet. "You too, Coach Jackson. Thank you."
For the next thirty minutes, as she finishes up her interviews, I stand in the locker rooms and change into my swimsuit. It feels like forever since I've done this: forever since I've slipped on a cap or a tight set of goggles, and each piece of equipment I slide on feels like another step in the right direction.
Finally, my group is called. After a warm-up and some land drills, I follow the line of girls along the poolside, each step bringing me closer to the starting block.
The familiar sound of distant chatter takes me back to the old days, and for the tiniest moment, it's as if the accident never happened. I didn't get into the pool that night or have to quit swimming. I didn't turn down a full-swimming scholarship.
I thrived instead.
As I approach the starting block, I glance at the girls beside me. Each one exudes confidence, their toned physiques hinting at hours of training, and I start to grow nervous that I haven't trained enough or worked enough or improved enough – I'm not good enough.
Pushing it back, I take my place on the block and feel a rush of adrenaline course through me. Everything feels familiar, from the smooth surface of the block beneath my palms to the anticipation of the upcoming race, and I've missed every bit of it.
The pool stretches before me, a vast expanse of water beckoning me to dive in. With a quick adjustment of my goggles and a final cap check, I take a moment to soak in the surroundings.
The towering bleachers filled with supportive spectators, the eager faces of the coaches observing from the sideline—it's been a long time since I've been in this position, and I'm suddenly aware I'm being watched from all angles; there's no escape if I screw up.
As my gaze shifts from the bleachers to the pool, my chest tightens. Sweat slicks my neck as I stare into the water, a bottomless pit stretching fifty meters long and three meters deep.
Just like that, I can't breathe.
A/N
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P.S. Don't forget to check out Noah's chapter '25.5: The Calbear Rebellion' to find out why the Calbears are out to get Noah. 👀