About six weeks ago, on the first morning back at practice after New Year’s Eve, we were stretching on the pool deck before getting in the water. Mila groaned in protest every time she had to move her body, and the team laughed it off like she was merely doing it to entertain us.
I knew better.
I recognized a Mila hangover when I saw it.
But we’d had a best-friend breakup a few days before, right? And she hadn’t made any contact with me since then. Not a single text, or Snap, or heart on Instagram. Still, I was worried she could get in trouble showing up to practice the way she was. On top of everything, she was our star goalie with an all-league status and we needed her. We didn’t have a shot at the championship without her.
I tried angling my body in front of Mila when Coach walked over to give us our usual two-minute warning that it was time to get in the water.
My position was awkward. Uncomfortable. Too obvious.
Coach looked at me funny, tilting his head to the side and squinting his eyes. “You okay there, Babcock?”
“Yep.” I stretched my arms behind my back and looked the other way.
Just then, Mila lost her balance, stumbled into me, and took us both down to the ground. It was New Year’s Eve on the beach all over again. I pictured Robert hovering above us. Leering. Creepy. I scrambled to untangle myself from Mila and she kicked me in the stomach. Hard.
“Oh my god!” I shouted. “Stop!”
“Get off me,” she said, flailing her arms. “I’m gonna barf.”
How many times in my life had I watched Mila get sick from drinking? Too many to count.
She jumped to her feet and ran to the nearest trash can in time to hurl up her breakfast. Her liquid breakfast. I could smell the alcohol from ten feet away. Coach must’ve smelled it, too.
“What the . . . Have you been drinking?!” he yelled.
Mila shook her head, but the effort of it must’ve hurt because she pressed her thumbs to her temples.
Juliette piped in. “She’s sick, Coach. It’s going around. My mom had it over break.”
Lie. Not true. But I wasn’t the only one on the team who’d spent the last year covering for Mila. It was in our blood. Teamwork.
Coach turned to Juliette. “Nice try, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Mila leaned over the trash can and threw up again. We all turned our backs, trying to tame our gag reflexes.
“Mila,” Coach said, “go sleep it off. I don’t want to see you on my pool deck like this again.” He grabbed her duffel bag to hand it to her, but one of the handles slipped from his grip. The unzipped mouth of the bag opened wide and out rolled a half-empty glass bottle of tequila. We all froze as it tumbled across the concrete, coming to a stop against the bleachers.
Coach bent down. Picked it up. Spun it in his hand.
“It’s not mine,” Mila whimpered, still clutching the edges of the trash can to steady herself.
Coach didn’t tear his eyes away from Mila. “You. Come with me.” And then, “The rest of you. Get in the water.”
“Oh, god,” Mila mumbled. “It’s not mine.”
We all stood there, mouths agape, watching Coach Sanchez march Mila off the pool deck and to the principal’s office.
Before they passed through the gate, Coach turned to us again. “I said get in the water!”
We scrambled, tucking our hair into swim caps and securing our goggles across our faces. I was the first one in, moving up and down the lane for warm-up laps, staring at that black line along the bottom of the pool as a million thoughts ran through my head.
She’d said the bottle wasn’t hers.
But it was in her duffel bag with her name embroidered on it.
She could be in a lot of trouble.
But it’s her first offense.
She’ll likely only be suspended.
Coach returned alone about halfway through practice and didn’t say a word. Didn’t give us any hint of what had happened in the principal’s office. We finished our workout, showered, and headed to class. I lingered at my locker, waiting to see if Mila would show up in the hallway.
She didn’t.
By lunchtime, it was clear she was gone.
And by the end of the school day, right before afternoon practice, her one-word text came through to Iris:
Expelled.