Even upside down it wasn’t that hard to hold my breath. I was in the pool, working on my support scull, elbows locked at my waist, face submerged and warm, calves and feet goose bumping in the air. I sculled harder until the water hit below my knees. Or rather, above. I think. Either way, I was getting some serious height. I kept my form tight, legs steady, and toes pointed.
Like everyone else, I complained about the long Saturday practices. Secretly? I loved them. Early in the season, when groups were still choreographing routines and doing land drills, the pool sometimes went empty. And that was too tempting to resist.
Through my goggles, I saw fractured light and shadows floating along the pool deck. The distorted images of legs, wide and wavy, broke through the shadows. A moment later, a muffled shriek penetrated the water, so I did a tuck and broke the surface.
Half the synchronized swimming team crowded the stands, with the other half headed in that direction. One girl, in her damp suit, slithered up and over the divider that separated the pool from the bleachers. The divider was tile, about five feet tall, without a break for steps down to the pool. You had two choices: go through the locker room and take the long way around (and past the boys’ locker room—no thank you) or up and over. But if you hit the edge the wrong way? Ouch.
I kicked to the far side of the pool where Nissa sat, her legs dangling in the water. My arms were braced on the edge when she whispered, “Oh, my God. It’s Landon.”
I fell backward into the pool.
“What?” I shoved the goggles to my forehead, but stayed in the water.
“Shit.” She crossed one leg over the other, then stuck her hands in her armpits. “I haven’t shaved in a week. I look like a gorilla.”
Winter in Minnesota could do that to a girl. Although in Nissa’s case—with her hair more platinum than gold—she could give up shaving for Lent and no one would notice.
I blinked water from my eyes. Even with the goggles, I’d been in the pool long enough that things looked blurry. I caught little rainbows at the edge of my vision, which wasn’t a bad way to see the world, except for the slightly fuzzy Landon standing near the pool entrance. His hands gripped the handles of large paper bags, the logo of the local bagel place emblazoned across the sides.
“What’s going on?” Nissa scowled, then ran a finger across her lips, a futile attempt at a lip gloss check.
Chlorine stung my eyes and Landon was as fuzzy as his intentions. Most of the team crowded around him now and the chatter died as they gorged on bagels. Honestly, I was starving. If it had been anyone but Landon, I would’ve vaulted the tile wall and grabbed one for myself, with lots of honey and walnut cream cheese.
The team co-captains Kayla and Kylie led Coach Patti into the throng where Landon stood. He held out a bagel like an offering. Who did he think he was? And what was he trying to pull? Patti, in addition to coaching the synchro team, taught English 11, including my class and Landon’s, Honors English 11. Landon constantly interrupted her with questions, asides, strange trivia. We were always behind schedule and it was always Landon’s fault. Whatever was going on, Patti would see right through it—and him.
I glanced at Nissa, prepared to share an eye roll. But her gaze never left Landon, her expression both wistful and repulsed. I wondered if it mirrored my own.
Patti took the bagel. She smiled through bites while Landon spoke and gestured wildly. Then, she and Landon shook hands.
Oh, that looked ominous. I couldn’t take it anymore—both not knowing and not getting a bagel to eat. I pulled myself from the water and landed with a splat on the pool deck.
“I think we should go over there,” I said.
Nissa ran a hand over her shin. She studied the nearly-invisible stubble, then Landon. After a few back and forths, I knew: Gorilla Girl was staying put.
Landon was the only one not eating. His voice echoed through the pool area its tenor all but rippling the water. I froze by the diving board. Maybe Nissa had the right idea. Did I want to face Landon now, in nothing but a practice suit faded a puke brown from the pool?
Then someone behind me snorted. I hadn’t heard anyone walk over—no bare feet slapping the pool deck—but that was Constance Radley for you. You only heard her if she wanted you to.
“I can’t wait,” she said, “to find out which one of the mental midgets came up with this idea.”
I eyed Constance warily. A little known fact: Constance and Landon were cousins. Once upon a time, she used to torment the three of us: me, Nissa, and Landon. Even in elementary school Constance was ... intense. After all these years, she still scared the hell out of me.
“Landon Scott.” Constance spoke his name the way someone might say global and warming. Then she waved a hand as if that could erase him from her sight—or life.
“Forget him,” she said, sounding like she already had. “I want to talk to you. Anyone grab you for a duet?”
Constance was, hands down, the absolute best swimmer on the synchro team. And yet, last year, no one voted her into an elected position. She had to try out, like the rest of us, which she did—all without smearing the immaculate kohl around her eyes. And now? Constance couldn’t be asking me that. Just like Landon couldn’t be standing in the bleachers, spreading around cream cheese and charm.
“It’s the bone Patti tossed me,” she said. “Actually, she made Kayla do it—and it practically killed her. Like I care either way.”
But she did care. Never mind those kohl-rimmed eyes and fright-night hair—glossy, black, currently tucked into a swim cap. She’d placed fifth in freestyle at the state tournament, made a decent showing in the one hundred yard butterfly, but her passion was synchronized swimming. Goth meets girly. It was just a little bit weird. And, in a way, unfair she wasn’t team captain with a solo of her own. She had the skill, the strength, and oddly, the elegance to totally rock it.
“So. Duet. It’s mine,” she said. “Don’t even have to audition it. You up for it?”
I touched my chest, just below where the hem of my suit was giving me a rash. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. Who else am I going to ask?”
Someone in the stands squealed. Constance spared them a glance, then rolled her eyes. “Besides,” she added, “your form has really improved since last year.”
“I’ve been swimming at the Y.” Dad and I went there during the fall and winter. He lifted weights and pounded out miles on the indoor track while I did laps and, during open swim, worked on technique.
Constance nodded like she knew all this. “I’ll let Patti know you’re in.”
Only after she left, presumably to tell Patti, did I realize I hadn’t actually said yes. But then, who wouldn’t? Another squeal came from the bleachers, and I had my answer. A lot of someones, that was who. Constance wasn’t popular with the other girls on the team. In fact, she wasn’t popular with girls at all. But guys went nuts for her. The swim boys followed her around school and threw rose petals across her path—well, metaphorically speaking.
I think that was why girls didn’t like her.
Still. Me? A duet? The thought of it tightened the back of my throat. I could taste the anticipation there—and it tasted a lot like chlorine. I took a deep breath, expecting a whiff of the pool’s chemical cocktail. Instead, the scent of fresh bagels slipped past my nose. It was so incredible, I nearly followed the smell right into the water. And, I’m embarrassed to admit, I drooled.
Landon was staring at me, a bagel in his outstretched hand. I rounded the diving board and approached the tile divider, all without thinking. An expression about biting, hands, and feeding crossed my mind. So did a story about a girl named Eve and an apple. I ignored both. Denying that I wanted that bagel—possibly more than any one before or since—seemed stupid, especially once my stomach growled.
Landon placed the bagel in my palm. The crust was smooth, still warm, and he made sure to give me thick swirls of honey. I took a huge bite.
“So that’s how it is.”
Constance was back. With her words, a walnut lodged in my throat. Not that it mattered. My mouth was too full of honey and cream cheese to choke out a single word.
“Constance, my little sea anemone,” Landon said. “You look radiant.”
“Shove it up your ass.”
He pulled back, neither startled nor perturbed, but perplexed, like it was impossible that someone, somewhere, could resist his charm. Then he skewered her with a look. “Sweet, as always,” he said. “Bagel?”
Constance sideswiped his wrist, deflecting the bagel from its collision course with her mouth. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here instead?”
Landon touched the hem of his T-shirt. He was wearing a vintage tee for a concert he could’ve only attended in utero. “Don’t you girls put on a show each year?” he asked.
Constance crossed her arms over her chest.
“Well,” he continued, “don’t you need a host for that show?”
Generally, we were desperate for one. It was practically a synchro team tradition for a senior girl to con her boyfriend into hosting. Last year, Kayla got Brad Stanley to do it.
Bagel still in one hand, Landon held his arms wide. “Meet your new host.”
I swallowed hard, pushing the lump of carbs and cream cheese down my throat, my appetite suddenly gone. On reflex, my free hand went to my stomach.
“Just don’t hurl into the pool,” Constance said to me. “It’s a bitch to clean.”
“Please.” An edge had crept into Landon’s voice, like he couldn’t believe both of us weren’t completely thrilled with the arrangement. “The show needs a host. Am I right?”
Constance sighed. “You’re right.”
“And from what I heard, last year’s show ...” Landon let the sentence trail.
Last year? We swam great. No one had a wardrobe malfunction, at least not one that ended up on the Internet. But the narrator?
Brad was a great guy, especially if you like them hot and completely sincere, which, apparently, Kayla did. He was one of those Nordic blonds, blue-eyed, sturdy, and as bland as Minnesota wild rice soup. He was too serious about everything to be funny about anything. For a show like ours—where you had to make people forget they willingly sat on hard bleachers in nearly one hundred percent humidity—humor went a long way. Kayla offered up Brad for this year (I sometimes wondered if she arranged all his extracurricular activities), to which Patti responded with:
“Oh, thank you, honey, but we wouldn’t want anyone to think we were playing favorites.”
Now that was funny.
But it left us without a host. Until now. Landon? In my inner sanctum of swimming? The one place where I could forget everything—forget about Dad, forget about my mom, forget about me. I could lose myself in the water. When we all swam together, it didn’t matter who we were.
But with Landon around, I wouldn’t be able to forget. My gaze drifted to the far side of the pool. Nissa still sat, all hunched over, whispering with a few other junior girls. Landon wasn’t good for either of us.
Constance stalked to the tile wall. She reached up, grabbed the neck of Landon’s T-shirt, and pulled him down to eye level.
“I’m going to say this once. You will do nothing to ef up this show.”
Landon eased backward, but Constance knotted her fingers deeper in his shirt. “In fact,” she continued, “I’m holding you responsible for the sound quality, any piss poor lighting, and every time some asshat decides to deface one of our posters. Got that?”
“Or else what?” Landon said, his voice full of mirth. He glanced at me and winked.
Constance tugged a little harder on his shirt and then gave the pool a significant look. “You better hope you can hold your breath for a really long time.”
Her fingers uncurled and he stumbled back. Amazingly, through all this, he hadn’t let the bagel plop into a watery, sticky mess on the pool deck. Without another word, he brushed himself off and retreated to the chattering group of girls behind him.
I shut my eyes. My head ached. I rubbed my left temple with my free hand before confronting the world again. I discovered Constance studying me, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“I should’ve known those airheads weren’t the main attraction.”
I touched the hem of my swimsuit again, then dropped my hand, not wanting to look like I was imitating Landon.
“Yeah, you,” she said. “Who else?”
I glanced toward Nissa. The other girls were half leading, half pulling her toward the bleachers and certain bagels.
“Be serious.” Constance appraised me, looked on the verge of saying something, then turned her attention toward Landon. “Still,” she mused, “it could be worse. I mean, he can work a crowd.”
True, he could. When he started at Black Earth in January, he joined the Yell Club, then was quickly adopted by the varsity cheerleading squad. All during basketball season, he wound up the crowd at pep rallies. I thought about what Landon’s presence could do for the swim show. Just slapping Hosted by Landon Scott on the posters would guarantee a full house—and funding for next year.
“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” I said, mostly to convince myself.
“Oh, it is that bad.” Her eyes weren’t on me, or Landon, but the other seniors on the synchro team. “Just not in the way you think. You better eat that bagel. It’s going to be a long practice.”
When Patti’s whistle cut through all the chatter and splashing, I nearly collapsed on the pool deck in relief. Landon had stayed for the entire practice. In fact, he still sat in the bleachers, bent over a notebook, working on what may or may not have been the show’s script. His constant presence was enough to send me over the edge. As it was, it was sending me to the locker room quicker than normal.
I couldn’t wait to get home. I’d stir up some creamy tomato soup and make grilled cheese sandwiches. Dad and I would toast the duet with root beer and not notice it was March at all. I was at the locker room door when my name echoed across the pool.
“MacKenna?”
Coach Patti’s voice halted me. My feet skidded on the pool deck, and I turned to see the seniors and the juniors clambering over the tile wall. It was only the freshmen and sophomores—and of course, me—heading for the locker room.
I had so missed the memo on this. Had I been zoning? Thinking about Dad? Trying not to think about Landon? One thing was clear: I. Had. Screwed. Up.
And how.
Patti crooked a finger at me and I trotted across the deck. She wasn’t the sort of coach who’d chew your ass in front of everyone. But she’d give you a “talking to.”
“Constance told me about the duet,” Patti said. “Congratulations.”
I nodded, didn’t say a word, tried to listen. Dad might call that reconnaissance. With everyone in the bleachers staring at me, I called it humiliation.
“Honey, you’re such a good swimmer,” Patti was saying—and I had zoned again, totally missed everything between Congratulations and these words. “I think you could take it up a level, really be competitive, but.” She pushed a strand of hair from my forehead; she was in her team-mom mode. “You did this last year, too, and you’re much too talented to be so shy. The team needs your contribution, and it’s like you didn’t really join us until April.”
My chest constricted, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe. I prided myself on being stealth, flying under everyone’s radar. I didn’t realize that made me so … transparent.
Her eyes narrowed. She did that sometimes, studied me. I thought of the old Black Earth High School yearbooks at home, in my closet. Patti was legacy. Way back when, she’d swum on the Dolphins for all four years of high school, right here at Black Earth. At her side, in nearly all the photos? My mom.
If Patti had made the connection, I never knew.
“Join us?” she said. From most people, this would’ve been snarky. Patti made it sound like the team was incomplete without me.
In the stands, Nissa sat sandwiched between Jodi and Sierra, two junior girls who took snark to new levels, two girls I could do without, two girls who spent more and more time with Nissa these days.
I pulled myself up and over the tile divider and ... ouch. I tried not to wince, tried not to show that any of this bothered me, tried not to mind that Nissa was totally blowing me off. Landon peered at the proceedings—and me—over the top of his notebook, and my face went hot.
Constance patted an empty spot next to her. Actually, all the spots around Constance were empty. She had that effect on people. I sat, thought about what this meant for Dad, creamy tomato soup and grilled cheese.
Dad on staying late: Mission first, princess.
He wouldn’t even notice until I got home. That was just it. He wouldn’t even notice. God, I hated March. It really was the worst month.