Page 32 of No Capes
I’m left standing on the deck with Aaron. The bleachers hold a small audience, though they could seat six times as many people. Swim meets don’t normally draw large crowds. Today, none other than Damian Scott Jr. sits among the spectators. On a normal afternoon, this would startle me. For now, his presence is calming.
Damian fixes his stare on one person in particular. That person broods beside me. “You look sick,” Aaron says, in his quiet way. He flexes his otherworldly biceps, aware of an audience.
“I’ll be fine. It’s just jitters.” Not for swimming though. Never for swimming.
Chooo Chooo.
Aaron brushes my bare shoulder with his thumb. The gesture brings a little relief to my anxiety. The feeling lasts until anofficial blows his whistle to signal that the first race, the 200m medley relay, will begin soon. Kristen, who’s on the relay team with me, jumps out of the pool and drags me to the starting block.
“Let’s go, Mads. Arielle gave you fly.”
The hardest leg. Ofcourseshe did. The medley relay is a race with teams of four people. The first person swims a lap of backstroke, the next swims breaststroke, the third swims butterfly, and the anchor swims freestyle. I usually swim in this race, but almost always I’m assigned to the last leg of freestyle. I’m stewing when Kristen pushes me onto the diving block. Fly would be okay if I weren’t so exhausted. As it is…
Oh no.
Jackie, the breaststroke swimmer, has half a lap left. I have about fifteen seconds to pull myself together. I rush to snap on my goggles. Jackie bobs toward me and I swing my arms, poised to dive as soon as she touches the wall. I don’t know what place we’re in, and I don’t have time to check, but when Jackie shoots into her last glide, I launch off the block and start my rhythm ofkick swoop,kick kick swoop. Shoot—Aaron gave me tips for this.I have no clue if I’m pulling them off. My guilt over being distracted carries me to the finish. Kristen dives in for her leg and I push out of the pool, knowing that I’ve swum neither my best nor my worst race. I wouldn’t normally accept that performance, but given the chaos of today, I’ll take it. It is what it is.
My next race is the 100m freestyle, one of the most competitive races in the meet, and my favorite, because it requires two laps of raw speed. A whistle blows, and I climb onto the starting block. I’m ready for this one. My goggles are in place long before they have to be, and I position my legs on the block. Coarse plastic keeps me from sliding in and as I curl my hands over the edge, my thoughts clear. I’m more than ready.
Ready to fly,Fox’s words cut through my preparations.
Focus, Mads,I tell myself.
“Set,” calls the official, his voice bouncing off the water. I grip the starting block and pull back, ready to burst into my dive.
Splash.A commotion ensues near lane six, where a girl from the other team has false-started.
Great,now I have to recheck everything. Goggles still good, arms still good. Check and check. Then I look up. Ahead, Arielle stares at me, a frown creasing her elastic skin. When we make eye contact, she straightens, putting her poker face back on. Why is she anxious? That expression on her face unleashes my nerves.
Immediately, I’m back in my nightmare. But this time, Phil—not Raincoat Guy—conducts the train. “Set,” the Official faintly commands. Phil’s train steamrolls closer. And closer. And closer. Until the locomotive screams, directly above me.
Then I’m moving. The starting gun blasts, and I dive before I’ve fully reentered reality.
You’re moving.He can’t get you if you’re moving. The water pushes me along its surface, like tumbling down a rapid. On frantic autopilot, I complete my first flip turn.SPLASH.
The train’s whistle blasts with deadly determination.SPLASH.The second flip turn.
Phil’s face leers from the train.Have I taken a breath yet this race?I must have.SPLASH.The third and final flip turn. I kick frantically. The wall grows so close, so fast, and I don’t even feel the water. My hand slams against the tile. The rest of the lanes finish the race, and I finally inhale to my full lung capacity. I won.
I climb onto the deck and Kristen pounces. “That was crazy fast, Madeline. You broke your personal record by six seconds.”
“Holy Aces.” My breath catches. “Really?” Six seconds is alotof time in the 100m. Especially when I’m already past qualifying for nationals by four seconds.
“I wish I could swim like you.” Kristen hugs me. I let her squeeze for a moment longer, using her to convince me that I’m safe.
A sing-song voice saunters up to us. “Nice race, Maddragon,” says Fox. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Swam like it too.” Is that concern on his face? Concern isn’t in Fox’s vocabulary, so the answer would be no.
Fox is only a head taller than I am, but it still feels like he towers over me. He folds his arms, highlighting their tone.
“I’m fine, Fox. Go back to being happy for me.”
“Yeah, right. Where’s your towel?” he asks, already striding to where I’d left it on the bleachers, which are empty. No more Damian.How long had he stayed?
“I can get it.” But he drapes it over my shoulders an instant later.
“Take better care of yourself. Sheesh! We can’t have our star swimmer getting too frazzled.”
“Aren’t you our star swimmer?” I ask. This is the first time he’s admitted that I’m as good as him. Fox usually compareshimselfto Olympic gold medalists.
