I always wanted a brother,” Tim says to me. He wraps his fingers around a flat stone and tosses it into the lake. He’s trying to skip it, but it lands with a heavy plunk.
“Here, try it this way,” I say, curling his fingers around the edges of another stone. “Throw kind of sideways if you can.”
He tries again, flinging his arm outward with the same result. “Like in your story,” he says, plunking two more stones into the water. “The ones who played Aqua-Ball. Ophelia was lucky.”
“Well, it’s nice to have someone to look up to, but it doesn’t have to be a big brother. It could be your . . .” My mind flashes to the man with the iPad, fair-skinned and green-eyed. In thirty years, Tim would look just like him. “It could be anyone.”
“How about you?” he asks. “Who do you look up to?”
“You,” I say.
He cuts off a throw midway through his arc. “Me?”
“The boys do, too. You’re like a big brother to them.”
Tim looks back at the lean-to, where Liam and Aayu are “helping” Colin sort the dried clothes. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and goes quiet.
We manage to toss a dozen more stones before clouds eclipse the setting sun, casting the valley in shadow. Tim shivers but otherwise seems not to notice. He’s still plunking pebbles in the water when snow starts to fall. Tiny flakes settle on his shoulders.
“Okay, Tim. Throw your last stone.”
He doesn’t protest, but he takes his time finding the perfect stone. When he finally settles on one, he hands it to me.
“I’ll count the skips,” he says.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try again?”
“Yes.” He curls my fingers around the stone. “I want to see you skip it all the way across.”
I laugh, but his expression is achingly serious. The stone is, indeed, perfect for skipping: smooth, rounded edges, with two small grooves for my fingers. It fits snugly in my palm.
“Ready?” he asks.
I back up a few steps and angle my body sideways. Power comes from the hips. Edward’s words come back to me in a rush, the memory so sharp it burns.
It’s a good throw, maybe the best I’ve ever had, but the stone disappears at a decidedly human distance. I start to apologize to Tim, but his eyes gawk with wonder.
“Wow,” he says. “You almost hit that cabin!”
“Cabin?” The word sounds almost foreign. “What cabin?”
“Over there.”
He points at the tree line on the opposite shore of the lake, a haze of shadow and pine in the twilight. There are no obvious gaps in the woods, no prominent structures that my eye can see. Tim keeps pointing.
“Right there,” he says.
“Where?”
“See that big tree?”
“They all look pretty big—”
“The biggest one.”
I find it, but it takes me a second. Tim waits until I’ve identified it, then he shifts his finger two inches to the left. “See it? It’s close to the big tree but back a little bit.”
“Back where?”
“In the woods.” He sighs, his impatience mounting.
Then I see it. A square, diminutive structure, with the haunted look of an abandoned outhouse. It blends in with the surrounding trees, as if consumed by them. In another hour, darkness will swallow it whole.
The what-ifs start next. What if someone lives there, or at least knows about it? What if the Park Service keeps a radio in there? What if it has heat?
The questions become more fantastical as they tumble over in my mind. A cabin—a tiny, deserted cabin. If someone lived there, he or she would have seen and heard the plane go down. We would have been rescued by now.
But food, or supplies, or a radio? Those things are still possible.
Those things could save us.
“How far is it?” Tim asks.
“Too far to make it there now,” I say, but I’ve already done the calculations: a mile and a half across the lake, at least six to hike there. The swim would kill me, but the hike will take all day. We don’t have any gear for a backcountry trek, especially with three little kids . . .
Forget about it.
“Maybe tomorrow?” he asks.
“Maybe.” I know what Colin will say: Don’t even think about swimming there. This time, I won’t argue with him.
When daylight breathes its last, we make our way back to the lean-to. Tim drags his feet, reluctant to let the cabin out of his sight. We both seem to sense that going inside means conceding hope for rescue, at least until tomorrow. I glance forlornly at the meager pile of ash on the shore. With snow on its way, we will have to go without a fire.
While Colin fortifies the walls for the final time, I gather up the clothes that have been drying onshore all day. Some of the heavier articles are still wet, but they will have to do. I round up the boys and tuck them into as many layers as they can stand: pants, shirts, hoodies, coats. As long as it’s dry, it’s fair game.
What’s left goes to me and Colin. He’s still pounding away at slabs of metal when the snow really starts coming down. “Colin,” Liam sobs, pressing on the roof with his small but sturdy hands. “Colin’s outside.”
Colin must hear him because he comes in moments later, drenched in sweat. While he was gone, I found an array of trinkets to keep us hydrated: three mugs, four sippy cups, and a few punctured water bottles. I hand him a cup of lake water, which he downs in three swift gulps. I refill it twice before he stops to take a breath. He’s working too hard. With his injuries, he should be lying down, keeping warm. Resting. Instead, he’s out there moving metal and carrying debris, determined to provide for four other people. He doesn’t seem to understand that he may need all that energy to fight an infection.
“You’re overdoing it,” I say.
“Nah.” His eyes glisten in the waning light. “You’ll know when I’ve overdone it.”
“You mean when you collapse?”
He sips on his lake water. The contrast of the dainty little curlicues on the cup and his hulking frame makes him look awkwardly domesticated. “That won’t happen.”
“Colin, look at you. Your leg’s a mess. You haven’t slept. You’ve barely eaten.” I try to keep my voice down for the sake of the boys, but Tim keeps tugging on his hat like he’s trying to free his ears. “I’m worried about you,” I admit, and it sounds strangely tender.
Colin stares into his cup, as if searching for the answer in its shallow depths. I exchange his cup for one of the mugs. He drinks it slowly this time, holding my gaze over the brim.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome.” I sigh.
He studies the new mug, this one proclaiming WORLD’S NUMBER 1 DAD in plump red letters. The irony isn’t lost on either of us.
“So,” he says, depositing the mug somewhere behind him as he sits down, “I thought you were going to Hawaii for Thanksgiving.”
“Who told you that?”
He shrugs. “Lee.”
“Lee told you? When?”
“About a month ago.”
“You talk to Lee?”
He gives me a look that makes me regret asking the question. “We spend four hours a day together, Avery. Sometimes we exchange a few words.”
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“Didn’t think I talked to anyone?”
“That’s not what I said.” I shake my head, warding off some troublesome emotion. “Anyway, yes, I was supposed to go to Hawaii for break. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
I regret the comment as soon as it’s out there, but Colin lets it go. He rubs the stubble on his jaw, a sandy blond that complements his olive skin. It makes him look rugged, a little wild. Nothing like the clean-shaven junior who keeps to himself at meets.
“Why don’t you shave when everyone else does?” I ask. “You’ve been bald since summer.”
“That’s a weird question,” he says, forcing a smile.
“Not for a swimmer.”
Secrets. They share the space between us, louder than the wind hammering the trees.
“Lee’s a good guy,” he says. “I like him.”
“Who’s Lee?” Tim interrupts.
“A friend,” I say, the half-truth just kind of slipping out. “We share a lot of the same interests.”
“Swimming . . .” Colin lets the word dangle.
“Isn’t that enough? Swimming takes up most of my time.”
“True.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Damn. ’Cause I’ve got a bus to catch in, like, two minutes . . .”
Tim looks confused. “He’s being sarcastic, Tim.” Still confused. “He’s teasing.”
“Oh.” Tim ponders this for a moment. “So why aren’t you laughing?”
Because I’m trying not to. Because it feels wrong. Because Colin isn’t supposed to be funny; he’s supposed to be the enemy. “My lips are frozen, I guess.”
Tim smiles, but Colin seems . . . I don’t know. Hurt? He reaches for his mug, even though the water is long gone.
“So,” Colin says to me. “Ophelia has three older brothers in Mermaidia. That true for you, too?”
“Mmm-hmm. You?”
“Three little sisters.”
“Wow. What was that like?”
“Brutal,” he says, laughing. “Still is. Their favorite decorative item is a glittery sign that says, NO BOYS ALLOWED. Which means me, seeing as I’m their only brother.”
So Colin has three younger siblings—maybe that explains why he’s so good with kids. I look at the boys leaning all over him, and the picture starts to come together.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say, realizing too late my lips have thawed and I’m actually smiling. “So who taught you to swim?”
“Bug.”
Tim giggles. “Bug?”
Colin nods, smiling at the memory. “Bug is a friend of mine from Southie. Huge guy, built like a linebacker. If you put me on a boat with a hundred people, I’d peg him as the first to drown.” He laughs, remembering. “But Bug could swim. Man, could he swim. He’d put on a bit of weight and years by the time we met at the Dorchester pool, but he still had a beautiful stroke. My mom asked him to teach me, and he did.”
“Wow,” I say, trying to picture such a thing. Colin has never been one to say much about his upbringing, but the rumor mill still finds him. After blowing off the biggest meet of the season, gossip swirled, and grew, and curdled into something ugly. Colin has legal problems. Colin’s dad murdered someone. Colin’s mom’s in a psych ward. It wasn’t nice, or even fair, but by choosing himself over the team, Colin had turned everyone against him.
“Bug came to one of my meets last year,” he says. “Big guy, Sox hat, sat in the top row?”
I shake my head. The only spectators worthy of my attention were my friends, whose presence I used to gauge my own popularity. Three or four of them would always come to home meets. Over time, they came to be known as “Avery Delacorte’s entourage.” To humor them, I would actually sign autographs as a joke. Colin must have watched this display and gagged.
“Well, he’s coming again this year. To Nationals—if I qualify, that is.”
“You’ll qualify.” Colin is as close to a sure thing as you can get; his freshman year, he qualified in six events. Seven his sophomore year. Earlier this fall, after missing two straight weeks of practice, he beat Beau Jennings, one of our co-captains and an Olympic medalist. Not a good moment for Beau—but even worse for Colin, as it turned out. The next week, Colin missed the meet, and his declining popularity bottomed out.
“I want you guys to teach me,” Tim says.
“Anytime,” Colin says, which makes Tim grin.
“All right,” I say, pulling Tim’s hat over his ears. “Time for bed.”
“But I’m not tired.”
“Colin will tell you a story, then.”
“Well,” Colin says, laughing as the boys clamor for space in his lap, “don’t expect much after Mermaidia.”
“Please!” they beg.
“Okay, okay,” he teases.
As the boys settle in, he describes a Thanksgiving feast that sounds more like memory than fiction: an overcooked Turkey doused in gravy, enough stuffing to feed a herd of horses, cranberry sauce from the can and pies from the local grocery. He clearly doesn’t come from a line of culinary geniuses, but the descriptions are vivid enough to make my mouth water. By the end, I can almost taste the lush sweetness of home-cooked apple pie. Or, rather, store-bought apple pie with Dixie Cup ice cream.
“. . . And then everyone has a beer and dozes off in front of the TV. The end.”
I’m the only one awake to enjoy the abrupt but fitting ending, and I show my approval with a polite golf clap. “A lovely complement to the mer-people,” I say.
“I’m just glad he didn’t ask me to sing him a lullaby.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Hopefully not. Trust me.”
“Well, good,” I say teasingly. “It’s nice to know you’re bad at something.”
He looks at me like I’m speaking in tongues. “Avery, I’m bad at most things.”
“Name a few.”
“Gladly. Well, let’s see. There’s spelling—never quite got my mind around that one. Technically I’m dyslexic.”
“Really?” It just slips out; I didn’t expect this from a guy who maintains a 3.9 GPA. Not that he advertises this fact, but everyone in those brutal engineering classes knows who sets the curve. Another strike against Colin’s popularity.
“My mom got me through it,” he says. “Bought me all the classics and had me read to her growing up. I’m still an embarrassingly slow reader, but I actually enjoy it now.”
“I didn’t know that about you.”
“Engineering majors don’t have to read much. Anyway,” he says with a smirk, “can I continue with the list?”
“Please do,” I say, relieved that the easygoing mood has returned.
“Well, singing, as mentioned. Small talk. Hosting parties. Meeting new people in large group settings. Knowing when to shake hands or hug. I’m a hand shaker, but whenever I meet someone, it’s a free-for-all. I hold out a hand, and then suddenly we’re wrestling.”
I laugh, having been in that exact situation many times before. In Boston, it’s handshakes and Mr.-and-Mrs. In California, it’s hugs and first names. I never thought I’d miss the stodginess of the old ways, but I do.
“Handshakes,” I say. “Always the safer bet.”
“Glad you agree.”
“So . . . is that why you keep to yourself at parties?”
“I’m not as much of a loner as you’d like to believe. You just go to heroic lengths to avoid me.” He doesn’t say this with any spite, but it stings just the same.
“I don’t avoid you.”
He lets this go, but I deserve worse.
“Well, if you wanted to fit in more, you could do a few things differently,” I say.
“Such as?”
“Like, I dunno, blowing off the Fall Qualifiers. You know you really screwed the team when you did that, right? Especially your relays. They were counting on you.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
“Do you have an explanation?”
“No.” He looks at me as he says this, facing the challenge head-on. I don’t dare ask him again, though it pains me to hear him lie. It hurts more than it probably should.
The wind screams at the paneled walls, and that’s when it starts: the storm. Flakes of snow topsy-turvying above us, the tempo increasing with each gust of wind.
Frustrated, I move to the opposite side of the lean-to, a feeble attempt to create some distance between us. The younger boys stay nestled in Colin’s lap, while Tim takes the space between me and Colin, providing a small but welcome barrier. His slight frame does little to diminish the tension brewing between us.
“You sleep first,” I say, before Colin can utter a word.
He doesn’t argue, but I know he won’t sleep, either. As he pretends to doze, the snow sneaks through cracks in the roof, settling on our heads and shoulders. It reminds me of a finely tuned performance: nature’s silent display of beauty, wonder, and merciless power.
“Avery,” Colin says, his eyes closed as he whispers my name.
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Think of something nice.”
I hate that he can read my mind, especially when I’m angry. “Like what?”
“I dunno.” He shifts his weight, trying to get comfortable. “A good memory, maybe.”
Nice encompasses so many good memories. Campus. Naudler Natatorium. Lee. Our first date. The night we danced under the fireworks. Our first polite kiss, our first real one. Seeing Hawaii for the first time in the company of a local. Sleeping on the beach under a moonlit sky.
My mind touches on these things but doesn’t stay there. Instead, for reasons only my subconscious could possibly understand, it drifts to the first week of my freshman year.
Early September but it feels like fall, because in Northern California, every day feels like fall. Crystalline skies, a blazing orange sun. The outdoor pool glistens like polished aquamarine, beckoning me to dive in.
There must be a dozen—no, fifteen—lanes, and ten of them churn with the easy, practiced strokes of elite swimmers. Their mechanics are flawless: High elbows in freestyle, with a steady kick that propels the engine. The backstrokers keep their heads perfectly still, their shoulders subtly rotating as the arms follow. The breaststrokers cut through the water, a rhythmic, pristine glide that feels almost musical.
There is one swimmer, though, who stands out from the rest. A butterflyer. His dolphin kick is a powerful, undulating beat that starts in his quads and whips out in one fluid motion. He finally surfaces when it’s just legal to do so, right at the fifteen-meter mark. His kick is that powerful, that efficient. Once he takes a stroke, he has to battle surface tension and resistance.
But for this swimmer, these forces hardly seem at play. He doesn’t cut through the water so much as ride it, his tremendous arms powered by a brutal kick. His body works in tandem, the kind of rhythm that eludes 99.9 percent of swimmers. It’s the rhythm of someone who was born to swim.
“That’s Colin Shea,” says the girl next to me. Mandy, I think her name is. Or Marjorie. She’s one of two other freshmen who didn’t compete in Olympic trials last year. I like to think of the three of us as the clique of mediocrity.
“Oh. Who is he?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Who is he?”
Another girl chimes in. “He’s the next Michael Phelps.” Then, in a hushed tone, as if this is some kind of sacrilege: “He’s better than Michael Phelps.”
Someone blows a whistle, and minutes later, the whole team is on deck. The giddy chatter of my fellow freshmen dies down. Coach Toll delivers a stilted speech in which the core message seems to be, These are our new freshmen. Be nice to them. Then he drones on about practices, expectations, and teamwork. Oh, and have fun.
Fun?
The blitz of introductions is even worse. Names, faces, a roster of hometowns in states and countries I’ve never been. As the upperclassmen weave through the crowd, their small talk makes my head spin. They look intimidating, too. Pretty girls with copper complexions and perfect bodies. Guys who belong in Sports Illustrated or GQ or a hybrid of the two. A billion insecurities that had all but disappeared over the summer come rushing back.
“So, Avery,” one of the seniors says to me. I can’t remember her name. “What’s your event?”
“Uh, distance.”
“Distance?” She frowns. “I thought Coach said you were middle distance.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, middle distance. The 200. I love the 200.”
Her bronze face brightens again. I actually hate middle distance, but when Coach recruited me, he sold it as the perfect event for me. What he didn’t say was that he already had a legion of talented distance swimmers, and that they were bigger and stronger than me, and that at five foot five and 125 pounds, I just wasn’t built for the 1500. He also needed a middle-distance swimmer because his star 200 freestyler had graduated last year. His backup quit the team because of “academic difficulties.”
The truth is, I would have swum the sidestroke if he’d asked me to. I wanted to be a part of this team. At the time, I wanted it more than anything.
“Anyway, I, uh . . . I need to use the restroom.”
She laughs. “You asking for my permission?”
“Uh, no.” I smile in such a way that hurts my face. “Sorry.”
I make a mad dash to the locker room—to throw up? Cry? Flush myself down the toilet?—as the onus of what I’ve just done comes crashing down on me. A move across the country? To swim? With these people? I’m too small, for one thing. Those other girls could eat me for breakfast. In a Speedo, my modest chest looks flatter than an ironing board. My arms and legs are toned but thin. Too thin. And even though it’s just after Labor Day, I don’t have a tan. My dad enforces sunscreen use like martial law.
It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with being an outsider; high school was not exactly a glowing chapter in my personal history. But college was supposed to be different. A chance to start over, maybe even be someone who mattered. Someone cool.
I retreat to one of the stalls near the showers. It’s quiet here, at least. Hidden. I look down at my collarbone, at the purple suit straps sloping over my shoulders. A subdued purple but purple nonetheless, which is devastating because everyone else is wearing black. Of course they are. Everyone here is a professional athlete, and I show up all decked out in something from sophomore year of high school. The swimsuit’s design is a loud, childish network of yellow stripes and green circles on a purple background. I used to think the flashes of green brought out the green in my eyes, but now I realize how stupid that sounds. No one at practice cares about my eyes. I should have worn black. Black is for blending in.
To make matters a hundred times worse, I start to cry. Big, fat, baby-doll tears, an emotional flood that won’t stop until I’m somewhere safe, somewhere familiar. I want to go home, back to Brookline. Back to the swim club that nurtured me, back to the high school that made me feel safely invisible.
“Hello?”
It’s a guy’s voice: deep, husky, a little rough around the edges. As my mom would say, it has a “city flavor.”
Oh God, I’m in the men’s room.
“Um, yeah? I’ll be right out. I’m so sorry—”
“Take your time. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
He’s not coming in. Whew. Maybe I’m in the right locker room after all. I open the door and perform a quick scan of my surroundings: no urinals. Just an endless row of private stalls, the shower drains clogged with hair. Yes, this is definitely the ladies’ room.
I throw some cold water on my face and pat down my hair to make it look like I ran off to fix some fly-aways. Not that this matters because we’ll all be wearing silicone caps in ten minutes, but maybe he won’t notice.
The mirror isn’t friendly; my eyes are bloodshot, my cheeks puffy from all the crying. If I don’t talk to anyone, I might be able to pass this off as an allergy to the sun. But the slightest provocation—a word, a memory, the sound of my name—will set me off again. And then everyone will see me for what I am: the mediocre swimmer from Brookline who thought she could change. Not just change but contribute. One glance at those forty faces, and I already know this team doesn’t need me.
“You okay?” he calls out again.
I practice a few smiles in the mirror, take a deep breath, and head toward the exit. I’m barely out the door when someone—a very massive someone, wow—steps in front of me. He’s at least six four, with broad, powerful shoulders. He has a warm, almost shy smile, though. It softens the electric blue of his eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw.
“Hey,” he says.
“Uh, hey.”
Colin Shea.
Of all people . . .
I recognize him from the roster, but his photo doesn’t capture the athleticism of his frame, nor the grace with which he carries it. His face, too, looks different. He’s the kind of person whose personality dictates how the world judges him: If he’s an asshole, I might describe him as severe-looking, with the hardened eyes of a criminal. If he’s nice, he’s just ruggedly good-looking.
His voice already gave him away; the smile just confirmed it:
He’s nice.
“Practice doesn’t start for another twenty minutes,” he says. “Wanna take a walk?”
He doesn’t fully pronounce the r in start—a dead giveaway for a Boston native. My nerves meter goes from a ten to a seven, but I’m still worried about crying in public. That dam hasn’t yet sealed itself off from disaster.
We head down a path that leads toward the university’s golf course. Some older men are digging through the bushes, searching for wayward balls. A fake pond glistens under the morning sun.
He doesn’t say anything until we’ve navigated the thick branches of a weeping willow, which protects us from flying balls and curious onlookers. He gestures to a wooden bench next to the trunk, and we both sit down.
“Sorry for the kind of isolated spot,” he says. “I’ve been hit by too many golf balls to sit anywhere else.”
“It’s fine,” I manage.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Colin.”
“Avery,” I say, giving it a firm shake. His strength seems to transfer through his fingers. It courses right through me, steeling my resolve.
“Great to meet you, Avery.”
I smile—reluctant, shaky, but it’s a start. The tears don’t come. Something inside me seems to find its footing again, the ground steadying beneath my feet.
“You, too.” I lean back a bit, watching the willow leaves as the wind takes them. “You’re Colin Shea, right? You qualified for Nationals in six events last year.”
“Should’ve been seven.”
“Oh.”
“Kidding.”
I force one of those please-don’t-think-I’m-a-loser smiles.
“I hope you didn’t go memorizing the roster,” he says. “Just do your own thing. Don’t worry about anybody else.”
“I didn’t memorize everyone.” Just him, because he’s incredible—a future Olympian for sure. Doesn’t he know this?
“Well, good. And forget all that stuff you read about me. It’s hooey.”
“Hooey?”
“My sisters tell me not to cuss.”
“I see.”
He extends his long legs as he puts his hands behind his head. His hair is a wild, sun-kissed blond, though it probably gets a shade darker in the winter. He runs a hand through it, mussing the ends as it curls around his ears.
“Anyway,” he says. “I want to apologize for eavesdropping, but I heard you talking to Kara.”
“Kara?”
“Scary tan. Red cap. Asked you about your event?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Right. Sorry, I forgot her name.”
“It’s okay. I just call her Scary Tan.”
I see him smiling, and for the first time all afternoon, my heart finds its rhythm.
“Anyway, I know you hate middle distance.”
“What?” The defensiveness in my tone surprises even me. “I never said that.”
“Yeah, but you do. I can see it.”
“How? You just met me.”
“Well, you swam all the distance events in high school. Open water, too.” He studies his hands to avoid looking directly at me. “Sorry. I admit I did a little research. In any case, you’re a distance swimmer.”
I can’t decide if I should be peeved or flattered that Colin Shea researched me. “I’m done with distance. Coach is right—I’m not built for it.”
“You’re built just fine for it. Don’t let Coach talk you out of what drew you to swimming in the first place.”
“But it’s better for the team.”
“It’s better for the team if you love what you do.”
“Not always.”
He shrugs. I can’t believe I’m arguing with Colin Shea. What a disaster.
“What do you like about the longer distances?” he asks.
“As I said—”
“I’m just asking.”
“It’s stupid,” I mumble.
“Try me.”
“Well,” I say, finding my voice again, “people always ask how I can stare at a black line for hours on end. But for me, swimming those kinds of distances was never about staring at a black line on the bottom of the pool. It’s about shutting everything else out and existing in your own head, your own thoughts, until the world is ready to have you again.”
He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. I know he gets it. He understands me.
“Is that dumb?” I finally ask.
“No,” he says. The intensity with which he looks at me makes my nerves hum. “It means you’re a distance swimmer. It’s in your blood, your heart, your soul. Don’t ever lose that.”
“What are you suggesting I do?”
“Talk to Coach.”
“On the first day? I can’t.”
“You have to.”
I set my sights on the next golfer, a pudgy retiree. “You don’t understand.”
“I do understand.” He pauses, like he’s building up to something. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I saw the list of incoming freshmen, I kind of picked you out of a crowd. No one here’s from Boston.” He stares at the dirt for a beat before continuing. “Anyway, I struggled in my first few weeks here. Practices were tough. The culture was kind of a shock. I grew up swimming in a community pool in a working-class neighborhood. We didn’t have ‘equipment.’ I barely had a suit. Sorry to say I borrowed my cousin’s, which is nasty, but money was tight in my house. Here, cash flows like a goddamn river.” He shakes his head. “Gosh-darn river, I mean.”
I’ve never seen someone so angry with himself for unleashing a goddamn. “‘Goddamn’ isn’t that bad a word,” I say.
He looks up, fighting a smile. “Yes, it is. It counts in my sisters’ book, in any case.”
“The Book of Cusses?”
“That’s right.” He takes a breath, and for the first time, he looks a little uncertain. “The truth is, I just wanted you to feel welcome here. And part of that is swimming your event.”
“Well, I appreciate that. But I’m on a team now.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s holding something back.
“Look, you’re the best swimmer on the team,” I say. “It’s different for you.”
“How’s that?”
“Because everything you do contributes to the team. You win all your events; you swim on multiple relays. I just want to be a part of things here.”
“On whose terms, though? Coach’s?” He doesn’t balk at the question. “Or yours?”
I don’t know how this happened, this uneasy tension that makes me feel as though I’ve disappointed him. Everyone else has set expectations for me in terms of times and splits and races. His expectations are personal. It doesn’t make sense. In a span of five minutes, Colin Shea has somehow identified himself as the enemy.
“We should get back,” I say.
“Sure.” He hangs his head. “Look, if I said anything that made you uncomfortable—”
“You didn’t.”
The tension breaks with the approach of footsteps and a hearty “Yo!”
I whirl around, expecting to see the whole team staring at us, but it’s only one person: Kahale Cooper, one of the freshman recruits. He flashes a wide, easy grin, so unlike Colin’s brooding seriousness.
“Hey,” he says to me. “You’re a frosh, right?”
“Yeah.” I glance over at Colin, but he’s already on his feet. He shakes Kahale’s hand and heads toward the golf course without another word.
“That Colin Shea?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah. I think so,” I say, watching him go. “Why?”
“Great swimmer. Serious as all get-out, though.”
“Yeah, but he’s . . .”
He raises an eyebrow, hanging on the words I haven’t said.
“Never mind.” Nice. I was going to say nice, and I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t.
“I’m Kahale, by the way. Lee to mainlanders.”
“Mainlanders?”
“I’m from Hawaii.”
“Oh.”
He grins, as effortless as before. I’ve never met someone so comfortable with total strangers. “Has anyone ever told you your hair looks like fairy dust? I’m serious.” His tone is teasing, but he also seems genuinely captivated by my hair. “Does it have magical powers?”
“I think it’s the chlorine.”
He laughs. “Nah. It’s not that sparkly green color yet.”
I resist the urge to glance up the hill, to see if Colin has changed his mind. About what? He didn’t seem the type to waffle on things. He wanted me to talk to Coach; essentially, he wanted me to be myself. Well, that would be easy if I had the natural abilities of Colin Shea. Instead, I’m Avery Delacorte, borderline in all respects.
“So,” Lee asks, “what’s your event?”
This time, I don’t hesitate. I want to be on the team. I want to contribute.
I want it more than anything.
“Middle distance,” I say, and so the fiction begins.