We’re in the locker room getting changed for PE and Melissa’s making a show of chatting to me, and I’m happy enough to be a pawn in her power struggle with Carol and Stephanie and their bitch friends.
“So, where did you go to school before?” she asks.
Rich kids always wanted to know where you went to school. Tell me your school so I can know who you are. She couldn’t begin to imagine.
“Santa Maria.”
“Oh, which one?” says a girl with large welts of acne across her chin and forehead. “My cousin goes to Donnybrook.”
“I’m guessing it’s not Donnybrook,” says Melissa, “seeing as you live in Ballybrack.” She hoists her blouse over her head to reveal the sort of lace bra you’d see on a model.
“Where’s Ballybrack?” asks the girl.
“God, Aisling, it’s near Killiney,” says Melissa, rolling her eyes at me. “Don’t you know anything about Dublin?”
“Sor-ry,” says Aisling, rubbing a flake of dried skin from her chin.
“It’s the Sallynoggin one,” I say, yanking my unbranded polo shirt down over a gray-white bra.
At the end of the lockers, Shauna changes discreetly, face to the wall. As she bends over to tie her laces, I stare a moment too long at a narrow scar on her inner thigh, turning away as she catches my eye.
“There was a girl from your school in the swimming club here,” says Aisling. “Tina Forrester, did you know her?”
“Is that the girl who…?” Melissa stops as Aisling glares at her.
“I … I didn’t know her well,” I say, as dismissively as I can.
“So sad,” says Aisling. “She had a real chance at the nationals.”
“She had everything to live for,” I say. I just can’t help myself.
IT’S STILL RAINING WHEN WE get outside, angry droplets that spit against bare arms and legs. A sullen mist hangs low over the hockey pitches and I’m shivering when I see him. Mr. McQueen, with his feathered fringe and that thick bristle of a mustache, scooting across the pitch as he lays out the marker cones for class. You’d expect him to be taller, larger than life, the legend he’s built for himself. But he’s just a man, like one of the dads from the estate, with his electric-blue Adidas tracksuit and casual swagger. Maybe you’d find him attractive if you were the sort of person who fancied Magnum P.I., but that’s a no from me.
You can’t spend five minutes here without knowing who Maurice McQueen is. He teaches PE at the school and also runs the prestigious Highfield swimming club, and his photo is center stage in the vast echo chamber of the school’s entrance hall. He sent two Highfield swimmers to the LA Olympics two years ago and there’s already an expectation for Seoul in ’88. If you believed the hype, you might think he pissed rivers of gold.
Mr. McQueen’s ordered two laps of the pitches and you’d almost be winded by the batting of eyelids and pleas for clemency. Only Shauna is not amused, starting her run while the laggards are still trying to charm their way out of it. I follow behind, keeping pace with her when Mr. McQueen catches up with me.
“You must be Louise Manson,” he says. “Welcome to Highfield.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s your hockey?”
“I dunno. I’ve never played it.”
“Really? Well, we’ll soon find out,” he says, and he’s off, sprinting ahead to catch Shauna.
Mr. McQueen puts me on the wing, and I spend most of the match minding my own business on the sideline. It’s coming up to the end of class and I’m unmarked when the ball comes shooting toward me. I stop it dead and take off with no particular plan in mind, hurtling down the pitch toward the circle. Melissa’s in goal, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else, so I hammer the ball at her, and she kindly makes no effort to stop it. As the ball glides past her into the net, an unexpected rush of joy lifts my hand above my head and when I turn around I see a chorus of fists in the air behind me.
Afterward, we’re walking back to the sports center, sodden and muck-splattered, when Mr. McQueen calls me back. Shauna gives me the up-down as she passes.
“Is this really your first time playing hockey?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I played camogie when I was younger so…”
“It’s a shame we didn’t get our hands on you earlier,” he says, packing the bibs and balls into a large sports bag. “Do you swim?”
I’ve been asked this question at every step of the enrollment process. The answer is no, I don’t even float.
“Well, if you make half the progress you’ve made in one hockey lesson, we’ll have you on a team in no time.”
“I can’t swim,” I say. “I have a perforated eardrum, I’m not allowed in the water.”
He fixes his brown eyes on mine, and I can’t look away.
“Let’s see if we can get that looked at for you.”
WHEN I GET HOME, I can hear the Countdown clock galloping to a climax from the hall.
“Lou?” says Mam from the living room.
She’s lying on the sofa, lights off, curtains closed, the glow from the telly just enough to catch the flush in her cheeks. With her bleached hair and lace top, she looks more like a brittle Debbie Harry than a thirty-six-year-old council-estate single mother.
“Well?” she says, pushing herself upright.
“Well what?” I’m too tired to play along.
“Ah come on, Lou. How was it?”
“Barter,” I say, looking at the letters on the screen.
“What?”
“No, Rebater. Yes, seven!”
“Very good,” says Mam.
The quiz obsession is her way of holding on to her past self. Even with a few drinks, she can blitz the mental-agility round on The Krypton Factor.
“But tell me, how was school?”
She pats the cushion beside her, but I stay where I am.
“It was fine, I suppose.”
“Is that it?” she says. Her shoulders slump and the guilt slices through me.
“OK, it was great,” I say, sitting beside her. Her breath has a sharp, chemical tang and I know to tread gently. “I played hockey, made some friends and the work was a piece of piss. And I finally met the famous Mr. McQueen.”
“Oh yeah, he called,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. McQueen, he phoned.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to talk about your ear, to see if you’d be able to start swimming. A very nice man. You seem to have made some sort of impression on him.”
“I told him I didn’t want to join his stupid club.”
Even if it was just the ear and not the crippling fear of water that came with it, I’d still be surprised at the audacity of him.
“For god’s sake, Lou. After everything you’ve been through…”
“Here we go.”
“You’ve got a fresh start now and opportunities most people don’t even dream of. Mr. McQueen is a very influential man. If anyone can help you get back in the water, it’s him. Will you not think about it?”
I say nothing and Mam pushes on, mistaking my angry silence for consideration.
“You know, Tina would be so proud of you.”
But she’s wrong. Even if she wasn’t dead, pride is the very last thing Tina would feel for me.