In Deep Page 5

  • • •

  On my way to the locker room with Grier, I see Gavin watching me, even while he’s talking to Linus and Troy. Not Grier, but me. He’s trying to pretend like he isn’t, but he is. I catch him at it just the once. And then I know I don’t need to look at him again until later tonight.

  13

  IT TAKES THREE INTRODUCTIONS FOR me to understand that the girl hosting this party’s name is Fancy.

  Not a nickname. Not a middle name. But her honest-to-god, given-while-the-umbilical-is-being-cut name. It sends snorts of laughter out my nose that I can’t stop. Part of the problem is the pre-party party Grier and I had at her house after practice, getting ready. She was wild and psyched about Gavin, saying all this crazy shit about how he’s her future: garbage she would’ve died to hear herself say even six weeks ago. In part to get her to shut up, and in part to keep myself from caring, we did shots of this amazing cinnamon stuff called Fireball that makes your mouth feel like the inside of a dragon’s. After a while we danced around her giant bedroom then made each other up. Even in spite of the Gavin crap, it was fun like we haven’t had in maybe months.

  Since I won’t stop laughing about the Fancy thing, Grier pulls me into the kitchen. It’s full of people, and there are sticky pools of soda, liquor, and who knows what on the huge granite island already, though it’s not even nine o’clock. The cabinets are big enough to get inside of, and I whisper to Grier that we should play hide-and-seek. She only half-smiles, cool. I realize she’s looking for Gavin, and the silliness in me washes away. I predict she’ll stick with me until we find him, but that’s it.

  As the happy feeling dissolves, I straighten my face and move ahead of her to weave through the kitchen. If that’s how it is now, fine. We meet some girls. We meet some guys. I try to get into conversations with as many people as I can. Because of this I find out that the little sister of our lovely hostess Fancy is named Nimby, and I nearly spit my drink out. Which is fine, because I know I’m more than a little drunk. For me it doesn’t take very much, and it’s already been a lot. After a while Grier’s arm loosens from mine. Gavin must be here. I’m not going to follow her—I’m not going to care—so I grab some water and go to dance around the sunken living room with a bunch of people I don’t know. Five songs? Six? I’m unsure of the time, only that Grier’s ditched me, so I have to wait around long enough to make it look like it was my idea.

  Finally, after I think I’ve danced at least a little of the booze off, I head outside for some air. I stumble down a series of stone steps that remind me of a garden in a book, and then I’m standing on this huge stone patio around a Jacuzzi with an actual waterfall going into it. Grier, Gavin, and that guy Linus and two other girls are there. They look up at me. Especially Gavin—glad but pretending not to be. Grier fake-squeals and asks me where I’ve been.

  “Dancing,” I say, like she cared at all.

  I sit down on the cement, a foot or two away from the edge of the Jacuzzi. Everyone seems to have their suits intact, though Linus’s clothes are piled behind him. There’s a pair of boxer briefs right on top, but he’s sitting there as if he’s in a living room recliner. I decide I like Linus. Not like him, like him, but like him. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve to be just Gavin’s sidekick. Maybe I’ll set him up with Siena. Or Kelly.

  Then Gavin says, “So you, sport,” to me, like no one else is there. The steam between us makes it seem like he’s sitting in a giant bowl of soup. His lips are also very red. “Pretty impressive, eh?”

  I sit up straighter, blink a few times. “What’s impressive?”

  “Your times, man.”

  I laugh. “Man.” Is he really going to talk about my times? Here? In front of Grier and everyone else?

  “Fly’s your thing, right?”

  I nod. “Fly’s my thing.”

  “What’s your two hundred?”

  I laugh again, low, trying to take in my breath. I did kick ass in practice today. And I know he noticed.

  “Right now? Two-eleven-six.”

  He whistles. I shrug. It isn’t a horrible time. But it is ten seconds behind the world record for long course. Still, I watch Grier see Gavin being impressed with me. I lean back farther on my hands and open my knees a little.

  “So, the scouts are on you already, huh?” he asks, eyes glinting like they were the other night when we went to get burritos.

  Everybody else is bored though, talking about something else. I’m bored too—that dirty flirt talk game’s already been done.

  “I’ve heard not till summer.”

  He shakes his head. “This is when they should start looking at you. Olympic trials will be here before you know it.”

  “Not for me.” I shake my head, enjoying the floppy feel of it.

  “You serious?”

  “Sure I’m serious. You’re not serious about them, are you?”

  He laughs. From what I’ve been able to tell, Gavin’s a decent swimmer. Good enough to get into Auburn and stay there, anyway. But I know he’s not serious because of the internship. You don’t take summer jobs if you’re gunning for the gold. You don’t have time to. Sometimes you don’t even go to college.

  “Well,” he finally says, in that dismissive-dad-sounding way. “I just mean—”

  “You ever swim against Kenyon, Wake, or Brown?”

  This part I want to know. I want to know how far I could maybe reach. Those schools are probably still too academic to be of much interest—it’s not like I want to study my ass off for a degree that’ll get me basically nothing, either—but they’re far away, and I’m curious.

  Grier’s had enough though, apparently. She gets up, reaching for Gavin’s wrist.

  “There’s karaoke in there somewhere,” she says. “This is supposed to be fun.”

  Everyone else stands, finds their towels and shirts. Linus shows up beside me all of a sudden, somehow clothed. I hook my arm with his, grabbing one of the girls with my other elbow, making buddy-buddy.

  “So who’s got a favorite song?” I lilt, trying to make myself sound happy and carefree, instead of—again—as though I’m being poked hard in the ass by the reject stick.

  In response Linus quotes some rap I’ve never heard before, and I laugh loud. Before I turn up the stone steps, I see Grier pouting by the edge of the Jacuzzi. Gavin puts his arms loosely around her waist and murmurs something near her mouth. She swings away from him wildly, but he swoops her down in a stupid dip. He bites his lower lip. She’s laughing now and bumps her pelvis against his. They’re probably not coming up for karaoke. Which is fine—I will. I’ll party. I’ll mingle. I’ll have a good time. But first I make sure Gavin sees me looking back at him before I disappear with everyone else up the stairs.

  14

  ELEVEN O’CLOCK? TWELVE? GAVIN AND Grier have been gone a long time. I’ve had some kind of melon stuff, and I’m sure fourteen people have sung Adele at least twice. My butt’s numb. I need to pee. And maybe get some water and find somewhere to lie down, since it’s obvious we’re not heading home anytime soon.

  I climb the stairs and head down the hall, sliding my hand along the creamy wallpaper, moving toward what I think is a bathroom. It’s late. I need to wash my face, get to sleep. There’s practice tomorrow, and I still need to work hard. I’m halfway down the hall when someone comes up behind me and grabs my waist.

  “You’re so hot.” He breathes in my ear, scratching me with his dark stubble.

  Without thinking, I reach up, grab the back of his head, and press my butt against him. When his hand goes up inside my shirt, sliding steadily up over my ribs, I finally realize what I’m doing and turn around.

  “You leave my friend passed out by the Jacuzzi?”

  His hands move down, hot on my hips, moving in small circles. I’m shocked, but I don’t try to pull away.

  “She’s fine. Talking to some guy about Bali.”

  “Yeah, she likes doing that.”

  He leans even closer. �
��She likes talking about you, is what.”

  We’re both drunk. This is crazy and stupid, and—

  “Oh, yeah? And what do you like talking about?”

  “I think you have an idea.”

  There’s a flare of heat in my crotch. “What, yourself? How awesome it is at Auburn?”

  His hand presses harder. “Why do you have to be such a bitch to me?”

  I smile. I can’t help it. It’s something I do at an intimidating meet, too.

  “You’re going to have to do more than maul me in the hallway at some party while I’m on the way to take a piss if you want me to be nicer. Maybe also stop flirting with me while you’re screwing my friend. And oohing and aahing over my times, too. Like nobody else ever does that.”

  “Oh, I’ll ooh and ah,” he growls, guiding me against the wall and lowering his mouth toward mine, completely ignoring my comment about Grier or the idea of Grier altogether. All I see is the redness of his lips again. The glinting ivory of his teeth. All I feel is the racing of my heart. I both want him to kiss me and don’t.

  There’s a noise on the stairs. “Whoa, dude, sorry.”

  A guy in a hoodie with the sleeves cut off stumbles toward us. “This the bathroom?” He points, boozy, down the hall.

  The warmth of embarrassment, and maybe relief, rushes over me. I wiggle away from Gavin.

  “Do you mind if I use it first?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I hurry down the hall and yank open the door at the end, which is, fortunately, a cavernous bathroom. Full of orchids. I lock the door behind me without looking back and turn on the water, hard. I lean over the sink, arms locked and straight to keep them from shaking. I take in deep breaths—one . . . two . . . three . . . four—blowing them out equally slow. Finally I pull my head up straight to look in the mirror. My eyes are bleary, and my face is flushed.

  But after a few seconds of blinking back fear, my mouth starts to twist, and soon I’m grinning.

  15

  MORNING.

  Early—maybe six o’clock by the light coming through the window?

  I’m curled in a fetal position in the middle of a bathtub that might be as big as my bed. I’m not sure how I ended up here—though I do remember a vague need to get to the bathroom. I climb out, head raging. But my body knows what to do: pee first. I prop myself up with my forearms on my knees, head hanging down. It is so heavy. Fireball, I guess, and then that green melon shit and then I don’t even know what. I don’t remember details, though I do remember screaming “Me and Bobby McGee” into the karaoke mic. Did I get up there and do a duet with someone? Ugh. I think I did. And then there was Gavin in the hall.

  A clock on the elaborate sink across from me says 6:18. I pat myself on the shoulder. Even hung over I know when to wake myself up. On Saturdays practice isn’t until eight, so I could conceivably find an actual bed or couch and get a little more sleep right now. But I don’t know exactly what or who I’d stumble on if I did that, and it’s better to stay upright and keep moving.

  Mainly I need aspirin. And some water. I’ve also got to get out of here. I peel myself up off the john and lean into the mirror over the sink. My eyes are bloodshot with puffy little bags underneath them. I pull down the lower lids with my fingertips and then give myself a couple of wake-up pats on both cheeks. I look like ass. I feel like ass. Van is totally going to know that I was partying. He’ll give me some kind of annoying talk. Whatever. I’ll still do fine. And if not, I’ll make the team all feel a little better about themselves, not douching them for once. Either way, I win.

  I straighten up, pull my shoulders back, and take a deep breath. Hold it. Hold it some more. My lung capacity is twice as much as most people’s. I could hold my breath for twenty minutes if my stupid brain didn’t need the oxygen. If there weren’t the whole involuntary passing-out element, I could probably hold my breath my whole life.

  I let the breath out. Wash my face with the expensive exfoliating wonder cream I find in the shower. I press my face into the deep plush towel and leave a ghost impression in it. I consider getting into that Jacuzzi outside, but I know I’m also probably dehydrated, and the heat might not be such a good thing. I bounce up and down on my toes, pat my cheeks again, this time a little harder. I open the medicine cabinet, but there’s nothing in there besides a snap-on head for a Sonicare and two tampons in their pearly pink paper. I take one more look at myself in the mirror, at all those freckles, those tired eyes.

  “You will master this,” I say to the girl in the mirror.

  • • •

  Downstairs in the sticky, muddy kitchen, I gulp down so much water, my stomach hurts until I make myself burp. I find some aspirin and take three of them just to be sure. My head’s still heavy, but moving around feels better. I twirl my arms in their sockets—one, two, one, two—and shrug a few times, loosening. I fight the desire to lie back down. It would be better to get to the pool early, swim out part of this hangover. Though I should try to find something to eat.

  I end up leaving Grier a note in her purse—conveniently piled in the first bedroom downstairs with some jackets and one discarded umbrella—and take her keys. It occurs to me that she had no intention of going to practice this morning, which pisses me off. Sure, we’ve goofed around before, stayed up late, and even partied, but we always knew there was practice. Even if we stayed up all night, she’d be there with me at the pool the next morning. It’s part of why we made such a good pair.

  In her car I punch in the address of the pool and let Grier’s GPS take me there. At least I intuited enough to toss my gear bag in the back before we left her house. I’ll stop and get some grapefruit juice and an egg sandwich on the way, maybe even shower in the locker room. By the time everyone arrives, Van will never know. I’ll show them both.

  • • •

  As soon as he comes in, Van stands at the edge of the pool and just watches me in the water. I’m sluggish and unimpressive, but at least I’m swimming. He doesn’t say anything, even when practice starts.

  Dolphin for fifty, then backstroke for fifty, and then dolphin for fifty again.

  Breathing patterns.

  Out for talk and logic. Today I don’t try to get the problem right, even though one of those king-size PayDays would be pretty freaking good right now. Van doesn’t ask me where Grier is, but Megan does, making it clear she has a pretty solid idea where, since Gavin isn’t here either. Fucking stupid—both of them skipping practice on the same day. Why don’t you take out an advertisement, guys? Even Linus made it—he gave me a sympathetic little smile when he came in.

  At one point Van gives me a look. I feel myself wanting to pull my eyes away from him, but I don’t. I stick it out, hold his gaze. He’s the one who looks away.

  Three 500s, kickboard, speeding up each time.

  Four 100 IMs, descending time.

  Two 150s, each on 3:20. Then two more, each on 2:15. Fifty after that, easy.

  Two hundred fly, fast as I can go, which, unfortunately, isn’t that fast once I look at the clock. It’s not like I’m thinking—I’m not thinking—but I’m more aware of the water this morning. It keeps splashing up at me, getting in my face. I’m trying to scoop it up with my arms, but today it’s so heavy.

  16

  WHEN I GET BACK TO my bag and my phone, Grier’s texted me about twenty times, first wondering where I am and then getting mad and then finding my note and figuring it out and saying to come back and pick her up after practice because Gavin’s got something to do. I want to type back about how convenient it is, her worrying about me once she needs me, but whatever. This way we’ll go back to her place and eat something. I can hear what happened with them after the whole Hallway Hey There. If Gavin said anything about me.

  “What happened to you?” Grier wants to know when she gets in the car. There are mascara smears around her eyes. If she had any hair, it’d be sticking up on end.

  “Um, practice?”

  “No, I mean last nig
ht.”

  “I went and did karaoke like we said. A few people were actually good. This one dude did a dead-on Usher.” I’m making this up. Or I might kind of remember. I don’t know. I press my head against the headrest on the seat. Suddenly my arms feel like they might sink into the leather.

  “Oh. Gavin said he saw you and you weren’t feeling that great. I didn’t know where you went.”

  Well, that’s at least interesting.

  “I was okay. I was singing. What about you? I thought you were coming up.”

  “Oh, we hung out.”

  More of that stupid glimmer in her eyes.

  “Well, I hope you had fun.”

  “Good God. His mouth is so—”

  I don’t want to hear it. “I had fun too.”

  And it’s enough to stop her. At least get her to change direction. “I’m so glad. Because he wants us to go out again tonight.”

  I consider that. “I don’t know. I’m pretty tired.”

  Until this week, that’d be enough to let her know that what I really want is just a standard sleepover at her place: her and me and some videos, maybe a crazy stunt, a decadent pig-out. It’d be enough to tell her that I hate people, and I’ve had enough of them for now, including Gavin.

  Instead, out of the corners of my eyes, I see her clutch the steering wheel harder.

  “Why don’t you just come out and say you don’t like him?”

  Even though I’m expecting some kind of response, this one’s a surprise.

  “What?”

  “You think I can’t tell by that mocking look you get on your face whenever he’s around, the way you’re always making fun of him, pretending you think he’s cool?”

  She’s definitely been preparing this speech.

  “I don’t even know him. You don’t either, for that matter.”