The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER SIX; part two

     Dres doesn't come back out of the kitchen, not that I particularly want him to. Part of me wonders what he wanted to say, but I'm glad I stood my ground with him. At two, Halston comes in, relieving me of my shift.

     I've only got an hour to kill before I have to be at school for my meet. I'm too nervous to eat so I go home, deciding I'll try to get a power nap in. My mom's home when I get there, watching a cooking show in the living room. I forego the nap to sit with her.

     "How was work?" she asks.

     "It was fine."

     She raises an eyebrow questioningly, but doesn't press. "I thought you were going to go straight to your meet?" I shrug my shoulders as a response. "So, do you want me to drive us?" she asks.

     "Yeah, that's fine. Grace is on her way over. She's coming, too."

     My mom nods and says nothing else. She's always been able to read me the best, knows when not to press a situation. When Grace shows up, we pack into my mom's Nissan and drive to school. Grace regales my mom with tales about classes and cheerleading. I rest my head against the window, trying to ready myself for my meet, but all I can think about is Dres.

     By the time I get there and change in the locker room, some of my teammates are already warming up. I slide into the water to the do the same. As I work my way through all four swimming styles I forget about everything that isn't swimming.

     My first event is the 100 Butterfly. The butterfly is what I'm best at so I'm not really nervous for it. 100 is nothing. When I'm up, I get onto the starter block, adjust my goggles, and stare down the water like it's an enemy on the front lines. I let the sounds fade out into a distant fuzziness. The horn blears and I'm in motion, diving into the water like I was born there and am returning home.

     I work my arms through the water, synchronized motion with my legs. I'm unthinking, I'm unbreathing. I am water. It's all I know. As I double back to the starter block, my muscles churn and ache. I love the feeling. Can't get enough of it.

     I place first.

     Coach slaps me on the back and says encouragingly, "You swim like that all day and you'll be the next Phelps." Coach always says things like this. I think, sometimes, that I don't want to be the next anybody. I want to be me. I want people to want to be me. I grin, nonetheless, nodding my head to let him know I intend to keep it up.

     I'm about to sit down when I see him. Dres. He's standing near the end of the bleachers, by the doors, arms folded across his chest. Stoic. Unmoved. The very same Dres I'd given attitude to today, the very same Dres I dream about at night, the very same Dres that drives me crazy.

     I look away quickly, hoping he doesn't notice that I've noticed him. My stomach bubbles with nerves. The meet always mattered but now there's more weight to it. This is the first time Dres is seeing me like this, in my element, doing the thing that I love. I want to show him that I, too, am skilled at something.

     I sit down, dizzy, and lean my elbows on my knees, hoping to calm my nerves.

     It feels like seconds later I'm back up on the starting block for my 200 IM.

     The IM is easily my least favorite event. I have to do all four swim styles and the backstroke is my worst. It's what I always lose my time on. I don't like it. I've never liked it. For as much as coach and I work on it, I can't pick up my time.

     The key is to be twice as fast in my butterfly and breaststrokes that way I've got room in my backstroke. I'm distracted knowing that Dres is there and Dres is watching. I'm both water and land, in the pool but outside it, staring at Dres. I am unable to detach from the concrete version of myself and so I sink.