Page 4 of No Capes
“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.”
Every person within two miles of the pool stiffens because we all believe her. Me, more than anyone. Once, when I was seven and she was fifteen, Arielle called the police after I stole a piece of gum from her overly organized backpack, just like she’d said she would. She has one hundred percent follow-through. I would exaggerate that statistic and say one hundred and one percent, but math doesn’t work like that.
“She got all the scary genes, huh?” whispers Kristen. I scowl, though she’s right. Anyone who sees Arielle and me together immediately knows we’re sisters: same rusty hair, sharp elbows, and freckled skin that burns after two seconds in the sun. But our looks and love for swimming are all we have in common.
Arielle gestures to the new kid. “This is Aaron Ryans, who’s just moved here from across the country. Please welcome him to the team and make him want to stay. This young man is our ticket to beating Hall this year, finally.”
Half-hearted applause smatters from the crowd, where Kristen claps the hardest.
Aaron quietly draws all the attention in the room. “Hey, I’m Aaron. Nice to meet everyone.”
“I can’t believe her,” I mutter.
“For real,” says Kristen. “Fox was supposed to be our ticket to beating Hall.”
“Pretending you didn’t just say that.”
“Okay, okay. Madeline Roberts is the world’s true freestyle savior.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I appreciate you.”
Arielle smacks her clipboard so forcefully that her ponytail bounces. “Quit dilly dallying. Go warm up.”
I grab my goggles and towel. While the building breeds mildew, the pool itself is an aquatic pearl. Gutters line the perimeter to keep waves from adding resistance after a flip turn, and the temperature is a perfect 80 degrees. Capital City High School spent its entire athletics budget to remodel it three years ago, after Arielle’s second year of coaching. Interesting timing, given that’s when she married Phil Bridges, Capital City’s mayor.
Aaron gets to the starting block at the same time I do. Lane one, my home for the last four years. The farthest left, a lane at practice for the fastest swimmers to share. Given Arielle’s enthusiasm for him joining us, I have no question that Aaron is spectacular. He’ll also push me to swim faster. Win-win for Coach Bridges.
