Tuesday afternoon, Emily hovered in Coach Lauren's office doorway. "Can I talk to you?"
"Well, I only have a couple minutes until I have to give this to the officials." Lauren said, holding up her meet roster. Today was the Rosewood Tank, the first swim meet of the season. It was supposed to be a friendly exhibition meet—all the area prep schools were invited and there was no scoring—but Emily usually shaved down and got pre-meet jitters all the same. Except not this time. "What's up, Fieldsy?" Lauren asked.
Lauren Kinkaid was in her early thirties, had perma-chlorine-damaged blondish hair, and lived in T-shirts with motivational swimming slogans like Eat Our Bubbles and I Put The STYLE In Freestyle. She had been Emily's swim coach for six years. First Tadpole League, then at long-course, and now Rosewood Day. Not very many people knew Emily so well—not well enough to call her "Fieldsy," to know that her favorite pre-swim meet dinner was pepper steak from China Rose, or to know that when Emily's butterfly times were three-tenths of a second faster, it meant she had her period. Which made what Emily was about to say that much harder.
"I want to quit," Emily blurted out.
Lauren blinked. She looked stunned, like someone had just told her the pool was filled with electric eels. "W-Why?"
Emily stared at the checkerboard linoleum floor. "It's not fun anymore."
Lauren blew air out of her cheeks. "Well, it isn't always fun. Sometimes it's work."
"I know. But...I just don't want to do it anymore."
"Are you sure?"
Emily sighed. She thought she was sure. Last week she was sure. She'd been swimming for years, not asking herself whether she liked it or not. With Maya's help, Emily had mustered up the courage to admit to herself—and to her parents—that she wanted to quit.
Of course, that was before...everything. Now, she felt more like a yo-yo than ever. One minute, she wanted to quit. The next, she wanted her normal, good-girl life back, the life where she went to swimming, hung out with her sister Carolyn on the weekends, and spent hours goofing off on the bus with her teammates and reading from the birthday horoscope book. And then she wanted the freedom to pursue her own interests all over again. Except...what were her interest, aside from swimming?
"I feel really burnt out," Emily finally offered, attempting to explain.
Lauren propped her head up with her hand. "I was going to make you captain."
Emily gaped. "Captain?"
"Well, yeah." Lauren clicked and unclicked her pen. "I thought you deserved it. You're a real team player, you know? But if you don't want to swim, then..."
Not even her older siblings Jake and Beth, who had swum all four years of high school and gotten college scholarships, had been captains.
Lauren wound her whistle around her finger. "How about I go easy on you for a bit?" She took Emily's hand. "I know it's been hard. With your friend..."
"Yeah." Emily stared at Lauren's Michael Phelps poster, hoping she wouldn't start crying again. Every time someone mentioned Ali—which was about once every ten minutes—her nose and eyes got twitchy.
"What do you say?" Lauren coaxed.
Emily ran her tongue over the back of her teeth. Captain. Sure, she was state champion in the 100-meter butterfly, but Rosewood Day had a freakishly good swim team—Lanie Iler got fifth in the 5 freestyle at Junior Nationals, and Stanford had already promised Jenny Kestler a full ride next year. That Lauren chose Emily over Lanie or Jenny meant something. Maybe it was a sign that her yo-yoing life was supposed to go back to normal.
"All right," she heard herself saying.
"Awesome." Lauren patted her hand. She reached into one of her many cardboard boxes of T-shirts and handed one to Emily. "For you. A start-of-the-season present."
Emily opened it up. It said, Gay Girls: Slippery When Wet. She looked at Lauren, her throat cottony dry. Lauren knew?
Lauren cocked her head. "It's in reference to the stroke," she said slowly. "You know, butterfly?"
Emily looked at the shirt again. It didn't say gay girls. It said fly girls. "Oh," she croaked, folding the T-shirt. "Thanks."
She left Lauren's office and walked through the natatorium lobby on shaky legs. The room was crammed full of swimmers, all here for the Tank. Then she paused, suddenly aware that someone was looking at her. Across the room, she saw Ben, her ex-boyfriend, leaning up against the trophy case. His stare was intense, he didn't blink. Emily's skin prickled and heat rose to her cheeks. Ben smirked and turned to whisper something to his best friend, Seth Cardiff. Seth laughed, glanced again at Emily, and whispered something back to Ben. Then they both snickered.
Emily hid behind a crowd of kids from St. Anthony's.
This was another reason why she wanted to quit swimming—so she wouldn't have to spend every day after school with her ex-boyfriend, who did know. He'd caught Maya and Emily in a more-than-just-friends moment at Noel's party on Friday.
She pushed into the empty hallway that led to the girls' and boys' locker rooms, thinking again about A's latest note. It was weird, but when Emily read the text in Maya's hotel bathroom, it was almost like she could hear Ali's voice. Except that was impossible, right? Besides, Ben was the only person who knew about Maya. Maybe he'd somehow found out that Emily had tried to kiss Ali. Could...could Ben be A?
"Where are you going?"
Emily whirled around. Ben had followed her into the hall. "Hey." Emily tried to smile. "What's up?"
Ben was wearing his shredded Champion sweats—he thought they brought him good luck, so he wore them to every meet. He'd re-buzzed his hair over the weekend. It made his already angular face look severe. "Nothing's up," he answered nastily, his voice echoing off the tile walls. "I thought you were quitting."
Emily shrugged. "Yeah, well, I guess I changed my mind."
"Really? You were so into it Friday. Your girlfriend seemed so proud of you."
Emily looked away. "We were drunk."
"Right." He took a step toward her.
"Think what you want." She turned for her locker room. "And that text you sent didn't scare me."
Ben furrowed his eyebrows. "What text?"
She stopped. "The text that says you're going to tell everyone," she said, testing him.
"I didn't write you any texts." Ben tilted his chin. "But...I might tell everyone. You being a dyke is a juicy little story."
"I'm not gay," Emily said through her teeth.
"Oh yeah?" Ben took a step closer. His nostrils flared in and out. "Prove it."
Emily barked out a laugh. This was Ben. But then he lunged forward, wrapped his hand around Emily's wrist, and pushed her against the water fountain.
She breathed in sharply. Ben's breath was hot on her neck and smelled like grape Gatorade. "Stop it," she whispered, trying to squirm away.
Ben needed just one strong arm to hold her down. He pressed his body up against hers. "I said, prove it."
"Ben, stop." Frightened tears came to her eyes. She swatted at him tentatively, but his movements just became more forceful. He ran his hand up her chest. A small squeak escaped her throat.
"There a problem?"
Ben stepped back suddenly. Behind them on the far side of the hall stood a boy in a Tate Prep warm-up jacket. Emily squinted. Was that...?
"It's none of your business, man," Ben said loudly.
"What isn't any of my business?" The boy stepped closer. It was.
Toby Cavanaugh.
"Dude." Ben twisted around.
Toby's eyes moved down to Ben's hand on Emily's wrist. He nudged his chin up at Ben. "What's the deal?"
Ben glared at Emily, then let go of her. She shot away from him, and Ben used his shoulder to shove open the boys' locker room door. Then, silence.
"You all right?" Toby asked.
Emily nodded, her head down. "I think so."
"You sure?"
Emily sneaked a peek at Toby. He was really tall now, and his face was no longer rodentlike and guarded but, well, high-cheek-boned and dark-eyed gorgeous. It made her think of the other part of A's note. Although most of us have totally changed...
Her knees felt wobbly. It couldn't be...could it?
"I have to go," she mumbled, and ran, her arms outstretched, into the girls' locker room.