The swimming pool is massive, ‘Olympic-sized’ according to Dad. My eyes attempt to seek Audrey out amongst the dozens of swimmers standing about in their different-coloured tracksuits, huddled around their individual coaches. I spot Steph first. Six feet tall with ice-white hair, she’s pretty easy to pick out in a crowd. She’s doing her usual super-intense thing, talking to each of the kids in turn with her hands on their shoulders. The whole time, Audrey stares up at her, her eyes wide and focused, her left hand tapping her thigh the way it always does when she’s gearing up to race.
I rub my eyes, dislodging crispy bits of sleep from them. We had to leave the house at 5.30 a.m. to make it to Newcastle in time for Audrey’s slot at the British Junior Championships. I totally forgot we were going until Mum rang last night and summoned me home from Stella’s in the middle of an episode of The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.
‘It’s been in the family calendar for months,’ she scolded.
‘But how are we all going to fit in the car?’ I asked.
‘Not to worry,’ Mum replied. ‘Sam’s bringing his car.’
Grace and Sam have been in Cambridge staying with Sam’s mum most of the week. They returned on Thursday in Sam’s shiny red car, looking all grown-up and smug.
They’re next to me now, unfurling the banner Sam had made up at the print shop on the high street. It has ‘AUDREY FOR GOLD!’ printed on it in bright blue lettering. It must have cost him a fortune. I can’t help thinking he might as well just tattoo ‘Please like meeeeeeee!’ across his forehead instead; it’d probably be cheaper in the long run.
Audrey isn’t in the first few races and it’s hard to get very excited with no one in particular to cheer for so I go to the loo and re-do my eyeliner, then to the vending machine, where I dither for ages deciding which chocolate bar I want. By the time I return to my seat with my Double Decker, it’s finally time for Audrey’s first event – the 500-metres butterfly. Out of her tracksuit, she’s easy to spot. One of only two non-white swimmers in the pool, her smooth brown legs gleam as she strides purposefully towards her starting block. She looks different in her swimsuit – strong and confident, a million miles away from the awkward girl trying on bridesmaid dresses last weekend.
She puts on her goggles, climbs onto her starting block and gets into position, knees bent, head tucked down low, eyes already fixed on the black line on the surface of the pool.
There’s a moment of stillness before the gun fires and she chucks herself into the water.
As I leap to my feet to cheer her on, it dawns on me just how long it’s been since I last saw Audrey swim. In the gap, everything has gone up a notch. She’s not only noticeably faster as she slices through the water, but stronger too, powering down the lane and taking the lead quickly. By her ninth length, she’s almost a full stroke ahead of the swimmer in second place. The whole time we’re on our feet, Grace and Sam waving their banner madly over their heads and chanting Audrey’s name. As I join in, I wonder if she can hear us, or if it’s all just one big wall of noise. The racket builds to a crescendo as her fingers graze the wall, safely winning the race. She looks up at the scoreboard, pushing her goggles up onto her forehead, blinking, as if genuinely surprised by the result.
She goes on to win six of her seven events. In the seventh – backstroke, her weakest – she takes third place but still gets a personal best. As she’s presented with her medals, shyly bowing her head so the adjudicator can hang them around her neck, my heart practically bursts with pride.
Afterwards we gather in the foyer to wait for her. When she finally appears, an angry red stripe across her forehead from where she’s been wearing her swimming cap, I break free from the group, picking her up and twirling her round.
‘Put me down, Mia,’ she begs.
She’s laughing, though.
I spin her once more, then set her down on the ground and give her a hug, as always bowled over at the realization the powerhouse in the water was actually my little sister.
‘You were insane out there,’ I croak in her ear, my voice hoarse from all the yelling.
‘Thanks, Mia,’ she replies, her Lucozade breath sweet and warm on my neck.
We go for a meal at Pizza Express to celebrate. All the sitting down has made Grace’s feet swell up. As she plonks her foot on Sam’s knee, I realize what her pregnancy toes remind me of – cocktail sausages. Fat porky cocktail sausages. I get the weird urge to impale each of them on sticks.
‘Look!’ she wails as we wait for the bill. ‘I’ve got the feet of a seventy-year-old woman!’
As usual though, there’s pleasure in her predicament.
‘You should keep them raised,’ Mum says. ‘Why don’t you swap with Mia for the return journey and come in our car? Then you can spread out on the back seat.’
I make a face. Four hours stuck in a car with chatty man? No thank you. But it’s too late to protest; the decision has already been made – Grace will travel with Mum and Dad, and Audrey and I will go with Sam.
Sam’s car is boiling and the metal clip of my seatbelt burns my thigh as I pull it on. Grace’s pregnancy book is sitting in the footwell. I had another nose at it the other day. It’s literally obsessed with fruit and vegetables. This week the baby is the size of a butternut squash, next week a cabbage. I’m struggling to remind myself that Grace is going to give birth to an actual baby in a couple of months’ time and not a giant marrow.
‘Sure,’ Sam replies. ‘Stick it in the back.’
‘I don’t know why Grace brought it with her, to be honest,’ he adds, grinning. ‘She knows every word by heart.’
I chuck it onto the back seat along with a jumbo box of Grace’s pregnancy vitamins and a stack of well-thumbed Mother and Baby magazines.
Audrey is asleep before we even leave the car park, her head resting against the window.
‘She was incredible today,’ Sam says.
‘Yeah,’ I agree softly.
Because he’s right, she was. Cue the sting of jealousy at the reminder no one will ever be able to talk about me in the same way.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t given up swimming lessons when I was eight. Would I be a champion by now too? Deep down though, I know I never had what it took.
I stare out of the window. Up ahead, a little kid has let go of a Pokémon balloon, wailing as it floats away.
‘You know, fifty-two per cent of American presidents were middle children,’ Sam says.
‘Huh?’ I say, turning to look at him.
‘Yep. Also Bill Gates, Madonna, J-Lo. Um, let’s see, who else? Er, Britney Spears, Anne Hathaway, Kim Kardashian …’
‘And you’re telling me this why?’
‘I don’t know, just making conversation. Interesting though, isn’t it?’
‘Not really.’
Unless any of them grew up with a do-gooding genius and a swimming champion. Which I somehow doubt. That’s the thing; there’s usually only space for one remarkable child in any family. Trust me to get sandwiched between two.
‘They reckon they have special powers,’ Sam continues.
‘Who?’
‘Middle children.’
‘No. Who reckons they have special powers?’
‘I read an article about it online, from Psychology Today.’
‘Oh.’
There’s a pause.
‘What kind of powers?’ I can’t resist asking.
‘Lots of things. They tend to be really independent, creative, good negotiators, justice seekers, flexible thinkers …’
I switch off. It’s just stupid psychobabble. Everyone knows all that stuff is crap. What matters is achievement you can measure – medals and exam results and mentions in the newspaper.
I look back out the window. The little kid is still crying, pointing up at the sky at the balloon, now a tiny speck. I can feel water building up behind my eyelids, threatening to spill. What is wrong with me?
‘You OK, Mia?’ Sam asks.
‘Fine,’ I mutter, keeping my head where it is so he can’t see.
‘Want to put some music on? I’ve got loads of stuff on my phone.’
‘I might just sleep actually.’
‘Aw, not you too,’ he says. ‘I was hoping you’d entertain me.’
‘What ever gave you that idea?’ I ask, balling my hoodie into a pillow.
I’m know I’m being rude, but after the brief excitement of Audrey winning all those medals, my mood has swung in the opposite direction and the last thing I want to do is chat.
‘Night,’ I say.
Before Sam can respond, I turn my head away from him and squeeze my eyes shut, worried that if I keep them open I won’t be able to stop the tears from falling.