Practice. I swim far behind the rest of them, even though I try to go faster and faster, but my faster isn't good enough. I can tell Coach is pissed with her new SHE, and she pulls me aside. You're slowing down. I need you to go faster. I go faster, but the harder I try the more I lag, the farther I fall behind. Coach is disappointed. She can't keep the frown off her face.
Another fun day. We seem to be having those a lot lately. Another relay, not boys against girls, not newcomers against veterans, but chosen teams. With my generation, SHE was always chosen last. As the new SHE, now it is my turn to feel the sting of rejection.
The fast boy, the brown haired blue eyed boy, is forced to choose me, a dark scowl on the faces of him and the rest of my teammates. I know I will only slow them down. I know I will probably cost them the race. I know I have to at least try, or else Coach will take me off the team.
I try.
I fail.
The fast boy picks up the slack, but our team still loses. Coach marches angrily over to me, and I know this is the end, she's going to make me leave--but she passes right by me. The fast boy does not. You better not screw this meet up for us, he says. Faster faster faster.
YOU ARE READING
Faster.
Short StoryShe's the best on her swim team. The fastest. The strongest. The coolest. The sleekest. But then they come. And everything changes.
