I POSTED notes for Nissa on her Facebook page. She deleted them. I sent her private messages. She ignored them. All my calls went into voice mail, all my text messages to wherever unread texts go to die. I constructed a dozen scenarios for what Jodi could’ve told Nissa (and Sierra). Then I realized something.
This wasn’t my fault. I had told Landon no. By Friday, I decided that acting like nothing had changed was the best strategy since nothing actually had. It was all rumors and gossip and none of it was true. I used this fact to navigate the cafeteria. It propelled me forward; it was my shield, my armor.
It was a really stupid reason to sit at the synchro table.
The mood at the table was glacial. I sat, pulled out my lunch, and tried to ignore the overly-loud crackle of aluminum foil. I leaned across Jodi like she wasn’t there.
“Hey, I brought your favorite.” I pushed the bundle filled with Grandma Adele’s molasses spice cookies toward Nissa.
“I’m not eating sugar until swim season is over,” she said, shoving the foil back at me.
A few cookies scattered. One skittered past my outstretched hand and plunged to the floor.
“I guess those Skittles are sugar-free then.” I eyed the industrial size bag centered between them. Jodi froze mid-chew, shrugged, and popped another handful into her mouth.
I felt slightly ill at the thought of Grandma Adele’s spice cookies crushed beneath the foot of some football player, but I didn’t feel foolish. I just felt sad. I collected the cookies worth saving, tucked the rest of the food into my lunch bag, and stood. “I think I sat at the wrong table.”
I was almost through the cafeteria door when I heard my name. Once, twice. Really loud. I turned to see Constance waving me over. Only when I reached her table did I hesitate. Outside of swimming, I never talked to her. One, she was a senior and I never saw her in class. Two ... well, she was Constance Radley. I’d be lying if I said she still didn’t scare me a little.
“It’s more comfortable if you sit,” she said, pushing a chair out with a foot.
So I did.
Sam Avery and a couple of senior swim boys filled the rest of the spaces. Two had a pocket-sized Bible between them. Constance had a copy of The Grapes of Wrath open to the last page.
“Sam’s trying to explain the symbolism to me,” she said, “but he’s having a hard time saying the word breast.”
A flush traveled up Sam’s face. Since he was still shaved bald from swimming at the state tournament, even his scalp turned pink.
For the rest of lunch, I pretended the glares from the synchro table didn’t bother me. I pretended the synchro table didn’t exist, or the techie table, for that matter, where Landon now sat. He’d elevated the status of the tech crew to a new kind of cool. So many people made a deliberate detour to that out-of-the-way space, I was surprised they hadn’t worn a path into the linoleum.
“You know there’s a name on that chair you’re sitting on,” Constance said a minute before the bell rang.
Okay, I admit it. I actually swiveled and craned my neck to peer at the back. Constance burst out laughing and gave me a gotcha look.
“It’s yours,” she said.
The bell rang.
“See you tomorrow at practice. Remember, we’re swimming the duet early.”
I nodded, but sat a second longer, letting the crowd thin. My chair. For the first time in days, something felt right. And I had to wonder: Did my mom feel like this when Master Sergeant Collier handed her that cup of coffee.
Class number Saturday was the single worst Saturday of the entire synchronized swim season. It was always in April; it always meant the show was right around the corner; it always reminded us how we were so not ready. It was also the day we lugged all the extra equipment—lane markers, starting blocks—into the storage bay.
There was an unwritten rule that only underclassmen did the grunt work. Even so, I worked with a group of freshmen to heave the lane markers through the double doors. I was already damp, already winded from practicing the duet. But, I was one of the few upperclassmen around. There’d been another party last night, but apparently Nissa no longer needed my Jeep to get to those.
I heaved a section of lane marker to the girl next to me. We laughed at the sweat running down our faces and watched as the lane markers snaked into coils and out of the way.
“Glad to see you could make it, girls.” Patti’s voice was cold enough to freeze the deep end all the way down to the concrete bottom.
I peered over my shoulder in time to see Nissa, Jodi, and Sierra slink into the pool area. They’d drenched themselves in the shower, but they weren’t fooling anyone.
Landon chose this moment of ice to barge into the stands.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he cried out. “I stopped for the posters and the programs. Take a look.”
Josh manned the spotlight and was sweeping the beam in an experimental path across the water. He caught sight of Landon and trained the light on him just as the poster unfurled.
“What do you think?” Landon asked. “Personally, I think it’s one of the better examples to come out of Scott Industries.”
Kylie had fashioned a Hollywood red carpet premier with The Dolphins Cinema Splash in the marquee. It was 1940s glamorous. Up close the lines softened and wavered. If you stared long enough, you discovered what the picture really was: A close-up of an aquarium, complete with tropical fish.
“Nice job.”
This was Constance. She stared not at the posters, but at me.
“He helped,” I said.
“Don’t sell yourself short.” She eyed me, then Landon. “He isn’t.”
“I have to tell you,” Landon was saying. “MacKenna’s the reason we have posters and programs. She convinced my dad to revamp the school discount program, and she did such a good job, we got our print run for free.”
“Free?” Patti choked out. She gave me an appreciative glance—the first look in ages that acknowledged my existence.
“In fact, the new discount program launches next Monday. My dad would like to include the poster.” Landon gave the sheet a light shake. “In the portfolio of examples. With Kylie’s permission, of course.”
Kylie could’ve doubled for the spotlight, she glowed so much.
“But thank MacKenna,” Landon added, “not me.”
Okay, sure. We were the synchronized swimming team, but how everyone else coordinated the simultaneous head swivel was beyond me. My cheeks heated under the scrutiny and for a crazed second, I wished I hadn’t done anything at all.
“Publicity chair next year,” Landon was saying, mostly to the air. “She’s a natural.” Like this particular cake needed the extra frosting.
Kylie inched closer, took the poster from Landon, and gazed at it. Then she glanced up and locked eyes with me.
“Thank you,” she said.
“If there’s any left over, will you autograph one for me?” I asked.
Her expression was guarded, like she was bracing for a cruel joke. “You’re kidding.”
I gave my head a shake so hard, my pigtails slapped my cheek. “When you’re a famous artist, I’m going to sell it on eBay.”
Kylie laughed, but she continued beaming. It seemed like such a small thing: Nice posters for the show. Normally, we’d print something up on colored poster board and call it done. But having a vision for the show—our show—Cinema Splash, was special. It was like the football team wearing their jerseys on game days, or the cheerleaders and their uniforms.
When Patti announced it was time to start the class numbers, Kylie invited me to sit with her, Kayla, and the other seniors. I hesitated, feeling oddly on edge. Nissa, Sierra, and Jodi threaded their way to the far end of the stands, once again positioning themselves by the spotlight and engaging in what was clearly the game of the week: breaking freshman boys’ hearts. I wanted to say I belonged there, but couldn’t get myself to even consider it. But defecting to the seniors? Alone?
“I’m not going if you’re not,” I whispered to Constance.
“Do I have to like it?”
“No,” I said. “But you could try it.”
She sat with the group—at the very, very edge. This togetherness thing? Maybe we could both get used to it.
We endured the freshmen’s Surrey with the Fringe on Top. Patti stopped and started the number so many times, the rest of us in the stands had a week’s worth of earworm. The sophomores struggled through Stars and Stripes Forever with a bit more finesse.
During their last run through, I pulled off my Dolphins hoodie and slipped over the tile wall. The juniors were doing Greased Lightnin’. The number was energetic, and fortunately, short. We planned to strut out in fake leather jackets and the deck work included plenty of hip thrusts. It was bound to be a jock pleaser.
I was on the pool deck, in a straddle stretch, when I heard someone say, “What’s this deal with Landon?”
I craned my neck upward. Nissa hovered over me, hands on hips.
“What?” I said.
“What’s going on with you and Landon?”
Now she wanted to talk about it? Five minutes before we were supposed to swim? This was crazy. She was crazy. And I was crazy for wanting to hear her out, despite everything.
“Because I know you,” she continued, “and I don’t think you did what he said you did.”
My mouth went dry and what felt like a rock formed in my stomach. I pulled my legs to my chest and hugged my knees. So maybe Nissa was right. Normally, I didn’t put myself out there. But now that I had, I saw that—sometimes—it was worth it. Even if it did have consequences.
“Landon helped me get the posters,” I said. “I told you that. We worked together. End of story.”
“So making him think you wanted to go to prom was just part of the plan?”
I blinked a couple of times. Was that the rumor going around? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The rest of the school does. It’s all over the place.”
Obviously. “Funny, but I don’t know what the rest of the school knows.”
“That you used him, that you—” Nissa’s voice cracked and she broke off.
Sierra and Jodi stood off to the side, not part of our conversation, but clearly within earshot of it. I still sat, knees curled into my chest, that imaginary rock still weighing me down. Slowly, I slipped my legs beneath me and stood, the damp tile unusually hard beneath my knees. Nissa didn’t offer her hand to help me up.
“I’m thinking that a month ago, you would’ve believed me over the school.” I nodded toward Sierra and Jodi. “You would’ve believed me over them.”
The sophomore number ended, the music and lights cutting off at once. In the hushed dark, someone muttered, “Bitch.”
And, of course, the word went everywhere. The lights went up and Patti gave us all a hard look, then said, “Juniors, places please. You’re next.”
We streamed along the pool deck and scrunched into the small opening just inside the doorway to the girls’ locker room. We lined up by height, which put Nissa in front of me, Sierra behind, guaranteeing that the rest of swim season was going to be hell.
Nissa jerked backward and I stumbled into Sierra who struck my shoulder with the palm of one hand. Not hard, just bitchy. But I was already off balance. On the damp tile floor, my feet slid. I fell.
The first strains of Greased Lightin’—complete with revving engine—filtered through the locker room door. All the other girls filed out. No one bent down. No one helped me up. I staggered to my feet, pushed open the door, and hurried to catch up with all the strutting and hip thrusting going on. I needed to be in line before we dived into the water. We cascaded, one after the other, like they did in those old Esther Williams movies.
I slipped again, but caught up in time to dive in. We swam through a few formations and did some synchronized leg work, then went into the layout for the wagon wheel.
A wagon wheel wasn’t something you’d see in competition, but was practically a team requirement if you had enough girls in a routine to pull it off. Each girl hooked her feet beneath the chin of the one in front of her, then the first girl in line dived backward, swam beneath and hooked up with the last girl in line. Then, it was circle time. The audience loved the stunt and it never failed to get applause.
It also never failed that sometime—during rehearsals or the actual show—someone got kicked in the face.
Sierra’s feet gripped my chin. She squeezed hard enough I felt her toenails against my throat. We went around once, twice. At first, revolutions in a wagon wheel were a little scary. If you didn’t break the surface, you snorted in water or waited for the next time around to breathe. And when the girl gripping your neck was trying to choke you with her feet? I stole what breath I could.
At last we broke the wheel and transitioned to the next stunt, more snappy arms and legs before we did a lift. Sierra frog kicked away, her foot crashing into my face.
A blur of bubbles blocked my vision. I lost my nose clip. Water burned the back of my throat, my lungs. I surfaced, blinked chlorine and tears from my eyes, and gulped air. Then, I smiled. Because that was what you did when someone nailed you in the face during a routine.
We pushed Jodi—the smallest—up and out of the water. The lift was our big finale. At the edge of the pool, the freshmen girls (who Patti had instructed to “watch carefully”) clapped. So did Constance and a few seniors lounging in the stands.
I barely heard them. The lights went up and I dog paddled to the edge of the pool, under the shadow of the diving board. All I wanted was a space to choke out the water I’d inhaled. At the pool’s edge, someone grabbed me and pulled me from the water. That someone plopped down on the deck and tugged me all the way into his lap.
Landon.
He smoothed the hair from my face. His fingers were like fire, my cheeks ice. I choked, coughed, possibly drooled. Water burned my lungs. Landon’s fingertips burned my skin.
“Jesus,” he said. “I can’t believe you kept swimming.”
“It’s just.” I coughed some more. Pleasant. Ladylike. Sexy. Not. “It’s what you do.”
“You kick each other in the face, too, I suppose.”
“It was an accident.”
“No,” he said, slowly, “it wasn’t.”
No one purposely screwed up a routine. Not at the end of the day. No one would sabotage their own class number, make practice last that much longer. Not even Sierra Linden.
“I was sitting on the wall.” He gestured toward the stands. “She looked back and made sure to kick you in the face.”
I tried to push away, but he held on tight. “I’m soaking you,” I said.
“I don’t care.”
“I—” The next words lodged in my sore throat. Bright red drops splattered on Landon’s shirt sleeve. He wore a frayed oxford over the almost-but-not-quite-vintage Green Day concert Tee, his favorite, I guessed. Mine, too, and I didn’t want to get it bloody. I swiped my nose, bringing away a handful of water and blood.
“You’re bleeding.” Landon shrugged off his shirt, wadded it up, and held the cloth beneath my nose, gently. He shifted slightly, his lips grazing my hair. Only then did I realize that everyone—the tech crew, the team—was staring at us.
Patti clambered over the tile divider and hurried across the pool deck, first aid kit clutched in one hand. Her voice was low and sweet. At first, I didn’t understand her. At first, Landon wouldn’t let me go.
“It’s okay,” Patti said more to him than me. “I need to make sure she isn’t hurt, check for a concussion.” She extracted me from Landon, although how—exactly—wasn’t clear, and led me over to the stands.
“Go help Josh,” she told Landon.
He refused to move, my playground—or poolside—savior, until I gave him a quick nod.
For the rest of practice, I sat next to Patti. My nose eventually stopped dripping blood. I winced with each check of my pupils from a tiny flashlight Patti had in the kit, and suffered a probing inspection of my nose.
This was the Patti I remembered. Team mom and best friend rolled into a strict—but usually cool—teacher. Part of me wanted to stay safe and secure in the stands and part of me wanted to run like crazy, away from all of this.
Patti gave me a cold pack for my nose and ordered me to stay in the stands for the rest of practice. I tried to catch Nissa’s eye, but she never looked my way, not once, not even when Constance, and Kylie, and Kayla hopped the wall to check on me.
While the rest of the team swam, I thought about the Nissa everyone else didn’t know, the one who was a whiz at chemistry because she created homemade makeup. The one who could take bargains from Target and Goodwill and turn them into something that looked like it came from the pages of Vogue. I missed the girl who always picked me over Sierra and Jodi. I missed the girl who’d seen Dad at his worst—and still liked us both.
We were nine the year of the Daring Daughters campout. Even the name was beyond stupid. Just thinking the words heated my cheeks with shame. These days, I simply referred to it as the campout from hell, and Nissa would know what I was talking about.
Here’s the thing: Dad had saved the campout. If not for him, we would have been soaked, starved, and stranded. He helped set up all the tents, pounded in stakes, then started the campfire. Plus he made a mean hot dog and awesome s’mores.
He marched us around—me, Nissa, Jodi, and Sierra—and called cadence, put us “at ease,” and said, “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em,” which made us giggle. Everyone wanted to be in our group, and Nissa called him “her dad for the weekend.”
He was like a camping rock star.
We ate, because of Dad, and it was actually cooked through, too. At night, he’d crawl out of a warm sleeping bag to check on scary noises. When the ladle Sierra’s mom was using snapped in half, Dad repaired it with duct tape, then made everyone laugh by tossing the roll in the air and saying, “It fixes everything.”
Although later, when just the two of us gathered wood, he sighed heavily, thick branches in his arms, his gaze on the other adults around the campfire.
“Promise me something, princess.”
“Sure, Daddy.”
“Never be fucking useless.”
In the morning, he made coffee in a press pot for all the other adults. They drank like he’d provided them with the elixir of life.
I don’t know what changed, or rather, what Dad did. Did he let a swear word fly, or call another adult on some bullshit? Since this was Dad, both scenarios were possible. Or did someone overhear us in the woods? I remember he’d set us up with plastic laces to make lanyards. Sierra and Jodi scrambled for the pink, purple, and sky blue, but Dad pulled out a stash of silver just for Nissa. I wove black and yellow together, because it matched the Army Ranger T-shirt Dad wore with old BDU cutoffs.
When I finished, I couldn’t wait to give it to him. I ran around the campsite until I found him at the fire pit, feeding the coals more wood. I skidded to a halt just as Sierra’s father stepped into the circle.
“Hey,” Sierra’s father said, “war hero.”
The words sounded right, but the tone was all wrong. This was a man I’d seen gulp down three cups of Dad’s coffee just that morning, slap him on the back, and tell him he was a life saver.
Dad glanced up, took in both me and the man. I held out my lanyard.
“Thanks, princess.” He took it and tucked it into his pocket. “Why don’t you go make one for Grandma Adele?”
I nodded, still not understanding. Arms crossed over his chest, Sierra’s father stared at Dad. I think it must’ve been some sort of ultimatum, but about what, I never knew.
That night, rain beat against our tent, the noise quick and fierce, like frying bacon. Lightning brightened the dark canvas, then thunder rumbled the earth. Somehow, Dad slept through all this. Only when the storm had passed, only when soft drops plunked against the tent sides, did he sit up.
He sat up and shouted, his voice filling our little tent. At first, one word reached me: Fire. I jerked around, not smelling smoke, not seeing flames. Only damp air, wet ground, and the freshness after rain.
“On the roof!” Dad thrashed, fought his sleeping bag, kicking, punching. “He’s on the roof!”
While Dad fought the war in his sleep, I peered through the tent flaps, certain another adult would come. They knew we needed help. Any moment, I thought. Any moment.
No one came.
Except Nissa. She huddled in a red rain slicker with big yellow smiley faces on it, stood right outside the tent door. I gave her hand a quick squeeze then went back to Dad.
“Daddy!” I cried, over and over again, trying to wake him. “Daddy, you’re dreaming. Wake up.”
When I think back on it, how loud he was, how loud I was, my face soaked with tears, I still can’t believe no one but Nissa heard us. I eased close to Dad, low to the ground, cautious.
“Daddy? It’s me. MacKenna.”
Dad threw an arm out. I know he didn’t hear me. I know he didn’t see me. His knuckles caught my cheekbone. The impact stung, launched me toward the ground. I sat there, smearing my face with tears and mud. All I could do was watch him. I knew wherever he was, I didn’t exist, wasn’t a part of that reality. Strange thing was, no matter how much my cheek ached, that was what hurt most of all.
I crawled to the tent flap and peered through. Nissa was still there. She took my hand, squeezed it, and stayed until Dad settled into uneasy mutterings. I climbed back into my sleeping bag, but if I slept I don’t remember. In the morning, when Dad saw my face, he blanched.
“Princess? What happened?”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head, then shrugged, to prove I really didn’t. “A tree branch?”
He knelt in front of me, probed the bruise with his thumb. I winced, but didn’t pull away. “You’d tell me if something happened,” he said. “Right?”
I nodded.
Later that night, we headed over to Grandma Adele’s for a welcome home dinner. We were finishing up dessert when the group leader called. The ice cream was melting in my dish, but I couldn’t take another bite. No one had to tell me that the troop leader calling during dinner, and calling Grandma Adele, was weird.
She stood next to the stove, phone pressed to her ear, her eyes flitting from Dad to me and back again. The high pitch of quick, panicked sentences filtered through the receiver, but I caught no meaning behind the noise.
“Of course. Yes, I see.” She pursed her lips; her expression hardened. “Well, can I say that you’re not only making a mistake, but your … understanding, not to mention compassion, is severely lacking.” With that, Grandma Adele hung up.
Dad and I both stared at her.
She sighed. “It seems the group appreciated your help on the campout,” she said to Dad, “but no longer wants you on the roster of parent leaders.”
“What the fuck?”
“Paul—”
Dad held up a hand, warding off the lecture. “Sorry, princess,” he said to me.
Yeah. Like I hadn’t heard Dad swear before.
“Did they say why? I mean—” He looked lost. This was territory he couldn’t navigate, not even with a compass. “—I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I.” As truthful as Grandma Adele was, this sounded like a lie.
“Well, if they don’t want Dad,” I declared, “I don’t want them.” Who cared about Daring Daughters anyway?
Dad rubbed the stubble on his jaw. He hadn’t touched his ice cream either, and we now had two bowls of sweet chocolate soup. “Princess, you sure?”
I thought about Sierra’s father, the sneer when he said war hero, how it sounded worse than the swear words Dad used. How no one came to help us in the middle of the night. I thought about how they swilled Dad’s coffee, let him put up tents and build fires, and how they didn’t even bother to thank him.
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Well, we could still go camping. Would you like that?”
I nodded.
“Nissa can come along, plus, this way.” The spark returned to Dad’s eye. “We can take Grandma Adele.”
“Oh, no.” She marched toward the table, a woman on a mission. She grabbed both bowls of melted ice cream and headed for the sink. “Grandma Adele goes nowhere without indoor plumbing—or air conditioning.”
But she did. She cooked on a camp stove, made our popup camper cozy, and played endless rounds of crazy eights with me and Nissa when it rained. Dad did all the heavy lifting and slept too soundly at night to dream.
I thought by the start of school in September, no one would even remember the campout, never mind mention it. Then I saw Sierra Linden on the playground, her gestures contorted, spastic, shouting, “He’s on the roof!”
I rushed forward and broke through the crowd, Landon right behind me. I’d told him about Dad and the campout, of course, and we swore to keep the secret to ourselves.
I cocked my arm back, all set to knock Sierra to the ground. Maybe I’d hit her twice, once for me, and once for Dad. Nissa grabbed my wrist. Landon threw his arms around my waist. I strained against them, then a thought made me go boneless. I sagged against Landon’s arms, barely able to hold myself upright.
In a flash, I saw the consequences—the principal’s office, the phone call, explaining why I’d hit Sierra in the first place. But the worst of it? Explaining how, while dreaming, my own father had hit me. No one would understand he didn’t mean to and didn’t even know he had. So I walked away, let Sierra Linden call me names, call Dad names. Those were consequences I could live with.
As I sat and watched everyone swim, I wasn’t sure about the consequences anymore. I shivered, wondering if that was shock, because every time I trembled, Patti twisted around to check on me. Applause drowned out the final strains of Singing in the Rain. The senior number was usually one of the best in the show, and this one, choreographed by Constance, was exceptional.
I waited until everyone had filed into the locker room. Truthfully, I waited for Nissa. She vanished through the door without looking back.
I stood, my legs shaky, and was about to hoist myself over the tile wall when Patti said my name. Her voice was quiet, the tone like something I wanted to call motherly.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
I nodded and sat back down.
“It’s about your essay,” she said but closed her eyes. She clenched her hands together, not exactly like she was praying, but pretty close. “Actually, it’s about your mother.”
I didn’t dare move, breathe, or speak.
“We were friends in high school.”
“I know,” I said, “I have her yearbooks. My Grandma Adele gave them to me a few years ago.”
Patti’s expression went from somber to a mixture of amused and mortified. “Oh, good Lord, the yearbooks! I can’t even imagine what I wrote. Wait—” She held up a hand. “I can imagine and I don’t want to remember.”
I’d read every last inscription in my mom’s yearbooks and Patti’s confused me the most. All in-jokes and shorthand, like the emails and texts Nissa and I sent (or used to send) to each other. You’d have to be one of us to decipher it.
“It’s been a long time.” Patti’s smile was the best thing I’d seen in days. She looked less frazzled, more like her team-mom self. “As I was saying, your mom and I were friends. When I saw that you wanted to join the Army.” She broke off and in the quiet pool area, her sigh traveled across the water. “It upset me.”
I got it. I mean, after all, it upset Dad, right? That didn’t stop me from wanting it, and despite Patti’s refusal to help, I’d been chipping away at the essay, a word here, a sentence there.
“But it wasn’t fair to take it out on you.” She studied me as if through me, she could somehow reach my mom. “I’m thinking this isn’t a whim, that it means something to you.”
“It does,” I said.
“Now, I try to keep my personal politics and beliefs out of the classroom, but you know I’m a pacifist, right?”
“So’s my Grandma Adele.”
Patti actually laughed. “In which case, I might not be the expert help you’re looking for.”
I needed help finessing words, not with the content. “I think you can help me. I know what I want to write, just not the how.” A thought struck me then, fast and hard. My mom had paid for college with an ROTC scholarship, and Patti might know something about that. “You wouldn’t know what my mom wrote, would you?”
“No. Beth kept some things to herself.”
Like the poetry? I wondered if Patti knew about that.
“She did send me your birth announcement.”
My entire body went on high alert. I stared at Patti, willing her to say more.
“I brought it in ... I mean, would you like to see it?” She gave me a sheepish smile. “Consider it a peace offering.”
I nodded in what I hoped wasn’t a crazed manner and inched closer. Patti rummaged in her tote and pulled out a folder. From inside, she removed a card that had a border of green and white stripes. In the center was a photograph, a scrunched up baby face, a tiny fist, with my date of birth and full name in silver script.
“I remember Beth telling me that you were a fighter, someone who wasn’t going to take the crap that this world can dish out. Maybe that’s something a mother knows, because I think she was right.”
I didn’t feel like that girl. “Thank you,” I said, my voice clogged. “For everything.”
“My pleasure. Now why don’t you go get dressed and get a hot meal into you. Send me your essay any time. No promises I can help, but I’ll take a look. You have my email?”
“Swim team roster,” I reminded her.
I thanked her again. Whether she realized it or not, she’d given me so much more than I’d ever hoped for. A piece of my mom, a piece of her that only Patti knew.
I followed Patti from the pool, opting to take the long way around to the locker room. I padded down the hall, my toes cold against the linoleum. The locker room door thumped behind me, nearly silent.
At first, all I heard was Nissa’s voice, her words garbled, like she was speaking a foreign language. And like a foreign language that you’ve maybe studied for a semester, I started picking out words I understood: Landon, MacKenna, hate.
I stood and listened like my life depended on it.