If you’ve never spent the earliest parts of your morning thrashing around a cold pool and getting your lungs filled to bursting with chlorine for forty minutes and walking around the rest of the day with soggy hair smelling like the inside of a janitor’s closet, you don’t know what you’re missing.
It’s the first year swimming is required for all seventh graders (still definitely not calling myself a Sapling, thanks for asking). If you want to pass the class and not repeat it in eighth grade, you need to complete the exam: two lengths of the pool—one length freestyle, half-length backstroke, half-length breaststroke. We had to do this on the first day of class, after Coach Streit had explained things like locker room etiquette (“If I ever hear the sound of one towel snapping, it is going to be a very long year for you”) and poolside behavior (“If I ever catch you running along the perimeter of this pool, it is going to be a very long year for you”). When it came time for my turn to swim the test, I stayed in the stands.
“Cole?” Coach Streit asked. “Alan Cole?”
“Hi,” I said.
“You’re up,” Coach Streit said.
“Uh, there’s a problem,” I said, trying not to notice everyone else staring at me.
Coach Streit crossed her arms. Then her voice changed. “Can’t swim?”
I nodded.
Someone laughed, and Coach Streit pivoted on her foot and barked, “There’s no shame in not being able to swim. That’s what we’re all here to do: learn. If you don’t want to learn, it is going to be a very long year for you. Fortunately for you, Cole, I’ve got a Shrub volunteer who’s going to be spending his gym period training to be a lifeguard. He’ll be working with you and helping anyone else who needs some extra practice. He’s an honors student and a great worker, so you’ll be in good hands.”
Three guesses who that volunteer is.
If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking: remember Nathan can’t swim?
Today, Marcellus Mitchell raises his head in greeting as I climb into the shallow end of the pool. My brother’s best (and only) friend is apparently a pretty good swimmer, even though so far he hasn’t shown me much of anything except for how to get my face wet, which I already knew from my trips to Swirlieburg, Pennsylvania. Marcellus doesn’t always join Nathan in games of CvC, but he’s certainly never tried to stop Nathan from—
Oh crap.
He knows about CvC.
“Hold on to the edge of the pool,” Marcellus says. He grips my hands and looks around for Coach Streit. “I want you to focus on one leg at a time. Spin one leg in a circle until you get tired, then do the other one, then keep going back and forth.”
“That doesn’t seem very helpful,” I say.
“I’m like your coach,” Marcellus says. “Don’t you think you ought to listen to me?”
Now, I don’t know much about swimming, but I know you won’t get anywhere if you’re trying to learn to swim by working one leg at a time. “Coach Streit’s not an idiot, you know,” I say.
“Neither am I,” Marcellus says, his voice even. “When she comes over, work both legs. Do a lot of thrashing around. Show her how hard you’re working.”
“I could go to her and—”
“And what?”
He watches me, the calm to Nathan’s excitable. Never takes his eyes off me. Knows what I’m going to do next.
“Yeah,” I say, staring into the green pool water, “I’ll listen to you.”
Marcellus nods. “Good job, kid. Show everyone how hard you’re working.”
I lift one leg, and it hits me: he didn’t mention my crush. He definitely would’ve made fun of me (or probably worse) if Nathan told him.
I won’t tell yours as long as you cooperate, so you need to do the same. You keep me in line, I keep you in line. No loopholes. Understand?
Whatever Marcellus does or doesn’t do to me, at least he’s got no idea about “Vic Valentino.” At least Nathan’s keeping the really important end of the bargain. At least that part doesn’t have any loopholes. At least the world hasn’t ended yet.
The noises of the pool echo all around me: other kids doing exercises, Coach Streit blowing her whistle, splash after splash after splash. I slowly rotate one leg in the water, and Marcellus watches me work hard.
In the lunch line, I’m thinking about the colors on the cafeteria wall, ugly tans and greens that don’t go together at all, and I make a mental note to never combine that particular combination of forest pastels in anything I paint, ever. I’d thought being able to see over most of the other kids would be a good thing, but if the only new thing I get to look at is vomit-colored paint, I could’ve done without the growth spurt. Then I hear a weird cawing noise, like a pterodactyl with bronchitis, in my ear. I jerk forward and smash into a girl who looks at me like I’m oozing toxic waste onto her expensive sneakers.
“Did you like my turtle call?” Zack asks from behind me. “I’m practicing for Oprah, my turtle. I’m trying to teach her to come on command. But you’re not a turtle, so it probably scared you, huh?” He laughs so hard spit flies out of his mouth and onto my shirt.
“I was terrified,” I say in a flat voice.
“Hey,” Zack says as we move up in line, “I wanted you to have something. Well, I still do, so I guess I should say ‘I want you to have something,’ not ‘I wanted you to have something.’ Or maybe it’s ‘I am wanting you to have something.’ I don’t know. Verbs are confusing. I wish we didn’t have verbs in English, and we could be like, ‘I you to something.’ I think that’d get the point across.” He takes a breath. “So, I you to something, Alan.” He giggles. Again.
We move up farther in line. “What is it?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know.
“You me something, I you something too. That’s No-Verb for ‘you gave me something, I’ll give you something too.’” He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a big clump of tiny, rubber-banded—
“Are those fortunes from fortune cookies?” I ask.
Zack nods. “I collect them and bring them to school sometimes. Me and my mom get Chinese food from this takeout place up the road a lot, and they always have the best fortunes. Go on. Pick one.”
“Pick a fortune?”
“You need some luck, right? Go ahead. Close your eyes and pick one.”
Sighing, I close my eyes and grab the first one. It says, in text clearly written on a typewriter older than me:
Where do babies come from?
I turn the paper over. “Where’s the fortune?”
Zack looks at what I picked and starts cracking up with loud snorts. “Oh, you got the best one! That’s actually a fortune I got last week. Can you believe it?”
“This isn’t a fortune,” I say. “It’s a question.”
“Questions can be fortunes.”
Whether he’s right or not—he’s not—something tells me “Where do babies come from?” should only go on a fortune cookie in very specific situations, and I don’t think I fit any of them.
Zack keeps going on about some of the other fortunes he’s gotten at this place, like, “Buy off-brand tissues,” “It was very loud in here, wasn’t it?” and one that was just the number nineteen, which I’m pretty sure is potassium on the periodic table. Who knew fortune cookies could help you learn science?
When we get to the Unstable Table, Madison is sipping his bottled water with a straw and picking at a Tupperware container of leafy greens. “Salad,” he says with his face scrunched up. “Mom isn’t being very subtle.”
“Maybe she wants you to have a balanced meal,” Zack says, burying his face in his meatball sandwich.
Madison continues, “She also wants me to go to the private health club she and Dad belong to, so I can get in shape. It’s ridiculous.”
“You don’t think you’ll lose weight?” Zack spits bits of meat as he talks.
Madison shakes his head. “Of course I will. I’m Madison Wilson Truman. I’m going to lose so much weight, I’ll be a stick. The happiest stick boy in Petal Fields.” He pokes a bit of kale with his fork.
I swallow a big bite of last night’s leftover pasta and try not to look at Connor slugging the guy beside him on the arm at the next table, try not to wonder what he’d think if he found out how I really feel. All this worrying can’t be good for me. If Nathan’s goal was to make me turn gray and wrinkled by the end of the week, so far he’s doing a pretty good job of it.
Of course, right now is when Connor notices me staring. He nods at me and smiles. I hold my lunch tray over my eyes in a panic. Then I realize, oh my God, I’m holding a lunch tray over my face, but by that point he’s stopped looking. Another potentially embarrassing encounter upgraded to definitely embarrassing, courtesy of Alan Cole.
“Hmph,” Madison huffs, swallowing a soggy piece of kale like it’s trying to claw its way out of his throat. “I need someone to tutor. Nobody wants to learn physics from a twelve-year-old. That’s their loss.”
“Do you know a lot about physics?” Zack asks.
Madison clears his throat. “This and that. I know a good bit about the coefficient of fiction.”
Zack nods. “Wow. That’s really zen.”
(My eye twitches so rapidly the friction would be enough to start a fire. But I keep my mouth shut.)
As if reading my thoughts, Madison turns to me and says, “Alan, give me a list of all the classes you take and rank them in order from ‘most likely to need Madison’s help with’ to ‘I’m fine, thank you much.’”
“I’m fine, thank you much,” I say.
“I could use some help with science,” Zack says. “I don’t get the time travel stuff.”
Madison narrows his eyes. “There is no time travel in science class.”
Zack exhales. “Well, that explains that then.”
“Honestly,” Madison says, shaking his head. Then he sighs. “Sometimes I wish I had a brother or sister. Someone to take the pressure off. It must be nice.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Zack says. “Alan’s got an older brother though, right?”
I look up. How did he—
“I saw him hide in an empty room waiting for you the other day,” Zack says with a shrug. “It doesn’t look like you like him very much.”
Now I look back down at my food, even though my appetite’s starting to fade. “I’d rather not talk about him.”
“I’ve certainly never heard of him,” Madison says. “He must be quiet. Runs in the family, I suppose.” He chuckles.
“He’s not quiet to me,” I grumble before I can stop myself.
“He seems like a fun enough guy,” Zack says.
I open my mouth, but then I can’t close the stupid thing. “He’s fun, sure. He has plenty of fun making my life miserable any way he can, like those stupid CvC games, where he had me doing all kinds of humiliating things, and now he’s making me play a new game with even worse things to do and there’s stakes and I had to give you my lucky underwear and if I don’t play along—”
I take a deep breath and slide back on my seat. I actually put my hand over my mouth to keep it shut.
“Wow,” Madison says, eyes wide.
“S-Sorry,” I stammer, looking for a black hole to crawl into.
“Games?” Zack asks. “What kind of games?”
“Forget I said anything.” I duck my head.
Zack moves in closer. “I want to play a game. Can I play?”
“No,” I say, as loud as I think I’ve ever said anything. “No way. If Nathan knew I had help, he’d go after you. I’m not letting that happen—” I almost say “again,” but I stop myself.
“Does your brother have help?” Zack asks.
Spin one leg in a circle until you get tired, then do the other one, then keep going back and forth. “Maybe.”
“Alan, come on,” Zack says. “You gave me your lucky underwear and I gave you a fortune. That makes us best friends now.”
“You took his underwear?” Madison asks. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“What sort of stuff do you have to do?” Zack asks. “I want to help you win the game. Come on, Alan.”
I sigh. “No. Forget I said anything.”
“Hang on.” Madison dramatically pushes away his salad. “I could help you with this. Do any of these challenges involve the coefficient of fiction?”
“Yeah!” Zack says. “We can do it together. We’ll team up, combine our powers, and be unstoppable! Like hurricanes, or angry moms!”
The tide is turning. The waves are crashing down, whirlpools swirling, storms beating against the rocks. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“I already told you,” Zack says. “We’re best friends.”
“We’re not—”
“All right,” Madison says. “I’ll help.”
Zack starts hollering and spinning in his seat.
I know I’ve lost this fight. When you lose as often as I do, you know when it’s coming, and you know when you have to accept a big, fat L in your record books.
Zack reaches out a hand to stop his spinning, but he overcompensates and almost falls off the seat. Madison whispers to me, “Don’t worry. I’ll lead you to victory. I’ll show the world what I can do. You’ll be in good hands.” He rubs his hands together and chuckles under his breath.
Once Zack recovers, he leans into the table, a big grin plastered on his face. “Okay, Game Master Alan. Deputy Zack and Officer Orville reporting for duty. What’s the first thing we need to do?”
I look at Zack Kimble, hedgehog hair zigzagging from his eager, bright-eyed face, and I look at Madison Truman, closely cropped buzz cut highlighting his determined, ready gaze, and I imagine myself, Alan Cole, parted black hair swooshing down over my forehead. Three faces, dying to be captured in a cretpoj, a cretpoj that won’t be put on hold by any brothers or their games. The Unstable Table lurches a little as I rest my elbows on the edge.
I blow a bit of hair out of my eyes, and I say, “Help me become the most well-known kid in school.”