My writing is dull and unrealistic. Someone please give me some feedback:
The night sky is blacker than usual as the rain drowns out the incoherent shouts of coaches and parents. Individual drops band together as they fall softly on branches, concrete, and pool water to create a dull roar; it blocks out all screams and splashes while leaving me fully aware of how cold I am.
My body tingles, inside and out. My stomach is currently churning in response to a combination of nerves and a greasy, overdone swim meet burger, and my skin has that pins-and-needles feeling your foot gets when it falls asleep. I abandoned my dripping wet towel long ago, about twenty minutes into the torrential downpour that’s been plaguing the meet for a couple hours now.
I wipe my eyes and squint through the haze – a veil of water, obstructing my view of the lifeguard stand. I can see just enough to make out some soaked sweatshirts draped heavily over three forms, an umbrella, and a rescue tube that has been haphazardly tossed to the side. It’s no secret that the lifeguards rarely do what they’re paid for at the swim meets, and the rain seems to have only made them more apathetic.
I don’t mind – I’m pretty ready for this thing to be over anyway. The novelty of swim meets wore off in sixth grade so, as a rising senior in high school, this particular meet is doing a very poor job of keeping my interest.
I’m sitting on a cheap, plastic chair with the number “six” slapped carelessly on the back. I’ve examined the soft, fragile note card I clutch in my hand several times now, but I want to read it again. Maybe if my mind stays busy, it’ll take a break from noticing all the shivering and goose bumps.
GILLSON, CARRIE. EVENT 40. 100 BUTTERFLY. SEED TIME: 1:31.91.
HEAT: 3. LANE: 6.
The goose bumps are still here and now the greasy lump in my stomach feels like it’s coming to a boil. HEAT: 3. LANE: 6. I get stuck in the last lane of the last heat for most events and I’m always the slowest girl. Nerves are my biggest weakness, with humiliation being a close second. I guess you can figure out that always being the last to finish doesn’t do much for my morale.
I’m not a bad swimmer. Truth be told, I’m actually pretty fast. It’s just that lanes one through five will be occupied by girls who are all going to beat me. I don’t know how else to put it; I just know they are. Being in the fastest heat is hell for a “decent” swimmer.
I look to my left at lane three where Stevie McKale sits with a blue towel wrapped tightly around her broad shoulders. She’s tall, slender, and muscular – just like a swimmer should be. I watch the corners of the towel drip rain water for a moment and notice that she’s shivering with the rest of us. It takes me by surprise – I guess because I’ve never really thought of Stevie as being a “normal” girl. I’m not sure why she wastes her time on summer swim team. Maybe she does it to remind people of how good she is; I doubt our feeble little summer practices help her anyway. I don’t know – I’ve never even talked to her. Either way, no one really thinks of her as legitimate competition because she’s just too fast.
This is my ninth year swimming for the Oakland Piranhas and Stevie was here before me. I guess she likes doing it. It’s a well-known fact that her mom does very little volunteer work at the meets, but a lot of complaining about the way things are run. I’ve always suspected Stevie to be sort of stuck up, but maybe that’s just because she’s never noticed me at all. I guess I have a lot of respect for her – she works hard, anyway. But it’s hard to like someone who destroys her competition without batting an eye. This event will be like every other: Stevie McKale will always win.
Lane four is occupied by the second fastest swimmer – some girl on the other team I don’t know. She’s stocky and I can tell that it’s mostly muscle. She doesn’t shiver but her teeth chatter as drops of rain roll sleekly off her nose and chin to splash against her big thighs. I notice that she keeps stealing glances at Stevie. ‘Don’t bother,’ I want to tell her. Stevie McKale is untouchable. Rumor has it she’s headed for the Olympics.
Anyone who’s seen Stevie swim could tell you she was born to be in the water. I skipped warm-ups before the meet today because the sky was overcast and there was a cool breeze. I decided to get some school work done. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen: your typical summer reading assignment, I guess. I had lost interest in the book, so I took a break and watched Stevie dive into the water.
She was the first of the night to tear through the pool’s placid surface: the only person who seemed worthy enough to disturb the water after its long day hosting screaming children and agitated lap-swimmers. She woke it gently, soft ripples emerging from the drops strewn by her powerful kicking feet. She didn’t breathe for the first lap and a half and her arms moved in large, slow strokes, making the most of every ounce of water.
She didn’t seem to take it for granted like the rest of us. That’s the thing about Stevie. I think she understands the water. It’s never a hindrance to her – it’s her friend. Now, looking at her shivering body wrapped in that towel, I’m not jealous; I’m awestruck.
“Heat three, over here!” a woman wearing a large yellow poncho yells at us. We all stand up and file behind the lanes as we watch the previous heat swim their third lap.
I look at my card again before handing it to the man timing in my lane. SEED TIME: 1:31.91. I only need to cut off a fraction of a second to get a Varsity time. My goal tonight is 1:31:34.
“Do you want to be an amateur swimmer for the rest of your life, young lady?” To my left, Stevie’s mom yells. “You’re going to get your ass in that pool and swim!”
“Mom, I don’t want to. I’m sick of this.” She’s crying. I notice I’m not the only person here who can’t look away. I’ve seen Stevie’s mom go crazy before, but Stevie doesn’t usually cry or make a big scene. This is strange, even for their family.
I realize that I’m staring and force myself to watch the girls who are swimming now; I notice they’re slowing down on their last lap. Some of them can barely bring their arms out of the water. God, I don’t want to swim this event.
Stevie’s mom is talking again and I’m trying not to eavesdrop – it doesn’t work. Her voice is a little softer now, but she certainly isn’t whispering. “You’ll thank me when you’re not some meek little housewife like the rest of these girls. I’ll be damned if my daughter is going to be a failure. Now wipe your nose and get up on that block – you’re a mess.”
Stevie glares at her mother through bloodshot eyes. I half expect her to start screaming. Instead, she just nods and says, “Thanks, Mom. You’re right. I’m sorry.” She wipes her nose.
Her mom’s demeanor suddenly changes. “That’s my girl. Good luck, Sweetie. Try to cut a couple seconds off – you were a little sluggish last week.”
Stevie seems to ignore her mom as she hands her note card to the timer without even glancing at her seed time.
The second heat has finished now. I’m not feeling so great, plus I’m a little pissed off. It makes me sick to think that both Stevie and her mom think of us as failures, when we’re all just doing swim team for fun. I wish I had the guts to yell at them – to stick up for the other girls who heard every word of that conversation. But right now, I’ve got a hundred yards to swim and I’m a freezing cold, nervous wreck.
“Swimmers, step up.” An all-too-familiar voice comes from the speakers on either side of the pool. As I step up on the diving block, three feet above the surface of the water, I suddenly feel calm. The rain beats against my skin, trying to bring me back down to reality, but it’s no use; the abrasive surface of the block is like sandpaper and, somehow, it always gives me stability.
“Swimmers, take your mark.”
I move my feet and my hands slightly over the edge of the block, doing my best to grab on with both my toes and fingers. The surface is cold, even compared to the rain. The lights shining from the sides of the pool light it up and make me look forward to its warmth.
I stare down at the water below me. I don’t see the other end of the pool. I don’t hear the people behind me talking. All I do is wait.
It feels like they’re never going to push that button –
BEEP.
My knees bend. My feet and hands push off the block with as much force as they can muster. I keep my head down, my arms come up, and I am a human torpedo.
Silence fills my ears when I hit the water, and I feel alone. The pool is like a hot tub and I want nothing more than to sink to the bottom and go to sleep. Instead, I kick. Hard. I’ll be exhausted by the time this race is over, so this is my time to enjoy the feel of the water against my frozen limbs and to save my energy for when I really need it.
I’m a third of the way down the pool when I surface, but I don’t breathe. My shoulders rotate and my arms fly from the water, reminding me of how cold the air is. I’m doing everything to push the water behind me as muscle memory forces my body onward.
I’m halfway down the length of the pool and I can already see everyone pulling ahead of me, except for Stevie, who’s now swimming back toward me. I’m not surprised – she’ll be done with her second lap by the time I’m finishing my first. I take a single breath before reaching the wall and immediately turn to do it again.
I swim my second lap with less conviction and one more breath than the last.
The third lap burdens me with discouraging tiredness, but the end is near.
I turn to start my last lap and everyone else is at least a third of the way down the pool. I’m so tired. This lap is all adrenaline. If I’m going to get that Varsity time, I can’t breathe at all this last lap. I’m sure of that. The question is whether or not my lungs will hold out.
I’m halfway down the pool now and I already need to breathe. I catch a glimpse of a girl off to my right, but I ignore her. My chest hurts too much to humor my curiosity right now.
Every inch of me screams to breathe, but I can’t do it. I have to make it the last ten feet. Seven feet. Five feet. Two feet…
My hands hit the brick at the same time and, half a second later, I raise my head and take a breath of air – chilling, biting, magnificent air. I hoist myself from the water using arms that barely work and stand up, trembling in the rain.
“What’s my time?” I pant at the man with the stopwatch.
He’s writing on the note card. Doesn’t he understand what this means to me?
“Excuse me, sir, what’s my time?” I’m still breathless and can barely get the words out.
“Hang on, hang on.” He continues writing and then casually looks at the card and says, “1:29:31.”
That’s a Varsity time! “Thank you!” I can’t stop myself from grinning as I start to walk away, my legs feeling feeble and unsteady. Then I remember the girl in the water.
I turn back around to see Stevie in lane three, floating on her back in the middle of the pool; her hands are making soft circles and her feet twitch occasionally to keep her body from sinking.
I look for her mom, surely livid. I’m right. She’s yelling at Stevie to get out but I can tell that Stevie doesn’t care what her mom thinks right now. My guess is that she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. It’s not the fact that she still hasn’t even finished the race, or the fact that everyone is staring at her. It’s the fact that, if you look closely, you can see her smiling.
I can see her lips have turned a little purple from the cold air, but her eyes are closed and she’s grinning. The rain rolls down her cheeks and pools next to her eyes.
I don’t think she cared that much what her mom said about the other swimmers, or even what her mom said about her. I think she just couldn’t stand the idea of the swimming being separated from the water and identified with the competition. There was never any sport for her – there was only water. I guess she had to stick up for it and show everyone that there’s more to swimming than just swimming; there’s a bond between the stuff in our blood and the stuff in the pool and the stuff in the clouds.
Maybe it won’t matter to her, but I think I’m going to thank her. It’s the first time in a long time I haven’t come in last.
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