THE AIR ON the pool deck was colder than in the locker room. Towels would have been nice but it was a thing, for some reason, to leave our towels in our lockers. Coach read out the lane assignments, last name first. Erika, next to me, bounced her knees, vibrating the bleachers. On the bus ride to practice she’d been all nervous chatter — how of course Coach should place her in whatever lane he thought she should be in, but that she really, really thought Lane Four was a great fit.
Coach read, Berry, Lane Four.
I said, See? I meant it nicely. I meant it to get Erika to still her bouncing. It got tiring to keep reassuring her when the outcome had always been obvious.
Coach read, Deitch, Lane Two. Alexis, most likely, had expected Lane One. I wanted to turn and look up the bleachers to her, to see if she had a face that masked or expressed what she felt. I wanted to know, when or if she called me later, whether to console or congratulate her.
Coach read out a Lane One and somebody hooted. Coach said, No verbal feedback. No matter what lane he read out he maintained the same flat, encouraging tone. That may have been why it wasn’t until the R’s that I noticed Coach hadn’t called out a Lane Six. I asked Erika, to make sure I hadn’t missed it. She said, Weird, I don’t think he has. Coach was on the S’s. He read, Lane Five. Every lane he read had Lane Six beating behind it. He read, Lane Four, Lane Two. The feeling came up in me, sure as blood. Coach was going to put me in Lane Six alone.
Coach said, Winter.
He said, Lane Five.
He said it like an apology. He said it like a sheepish shrug, like palms upturned.
Erika said, Ah! She flashed Coach the finger behind her hand. She said, I can’t believe he separated us.
The bleacher dug into the backs of my thighs. I looked out at the pool. Lane Five, as I looked, grew narrow and murkier.
Erika said, It’s not fair. I can totally ask him to move me.
I wanted my towel. I said, No. I said, Stay where he put you. You deserve it.
Coach had gotten to the end of the alphabet and he tapped his clipboard against his palm. He said, Some of you, if you were paying attention, may have noticed that I didn’t put anyone in Lane Six. The truth? I don’t think we have any Lane Six material on this team. There are plenty of Lane Six swimmers out there on other teams, and they’re good people, they’ve got some skills. But I’m going to be proud to say to my fellow coaches, You know what? I’ve got so much talent on my team that I couldn’t even fill a Lane Six.
Coach said, Can I hear it?
I was a quivering line on the vibrating bleachers.
THE REDHEAD WITH the big boobs, Donna, said, You’re a sophomore, right? A tiny boy with big eyes and short hair growing long around his ears giggled and said, You’re a sophomore! Besides the two of them, Lane Five was four scrawny freshmen girls in Day-Glo swimsuits, including the one I’d caught staring at me, eyeing me from behind their too-tight goggles.
Erika reached across the line from Lane Four and patted my arm. She said, Don’t worry, I bet it’s only for a little while. I bet if you just, you know, show Coach that you mean it, he’ll move you up.
I said, What do you mean?
Erika said, You know. With the stopping.
My hand made a fist underwater. I dug my fist hard into my hip bone. I said, I don’t think the stopping had anything to do with it. Coach blew the whistle to start the warm-up. I said, It’s not a big deal. You don’t need to make a big deal about it.
All up the lanes, swimmers pushed off and stroked. No one in Lane Five moved. The boy waif with his soft-looking baby nipples jumped around like a bird, and the loud-suited freshmen stood bug-eyed and tense. Donna, who’d gotten a swimsuit that covered her cleavage, said, Jesus, someone has to go first.
Everyone was waiting for me.
My arms stroked and stroked and stroked and stroked and my head turned to breathe and my feet kicked. My arms and my feet and my lungs swam me down Lane Five, as far away as they could get me. My legs couldn’t do as much as my arms. I let my arms be legs. I could have cut off my legs and been faster. The worst part was thinking of Alexis hearing my name and my lane assignment, seeing me tossed in with this lane of teeming strivers, of tangible misfits. I tried not to think. I stroked and breathed and touched the wall and turned without looking to see if there were swimmers at my heels and pushed off and breathed and stroked. Fuck Erika for acting as if I’d gotten myself stuck here on purpose. And fuck Coach for seeing me founder in Lane Four and not doing what he was supposed to do, which was what, coach me? The worst part was thinking of something in Alexis opening up when she heard Coach say my name and closing off when she heard where he’d put me.
Halfway through the fifth length, my right foot slapped the water. I thought, My foot. My left foot slapped and pulled me rightward. I thought, I’m losing it. My arms went arhythmic. I thought, I’ve lost it. Down the other side of the lane went a floater, a splasher. I thought, Fucking Lane Five. I thought, Fucking Coach. A striver was inches behind me. I chopped. My hip stitched. I thought. I thought, Fucking Erika, and I knew when I got to the wall at the end of the sixth length — I knew first that I would and then I did — I knew I’d stop at the wall and stay there.
I pulled up my goggles and watched. Donna was the splasher. The boy waif was a feather on the water. He was helpless against the current, and everyone passed him. The other girls in the lane took tentative, practiced strokes as if they’d learned to swim by watching a video about swimming. Swimmers in the other lanes were finishing their laps, which meant that soon Coach would blow the whistle, whether or not Lane Five was done. I’d stopped breathing hard. The boy waif was halfway down the lane in front of me. Before anyone else could join me at the wall, I pressed on my goggles and took off for one more lap, stroking hard toward the little boy. I caught up to him, swiped his heel, and waited for him to shrink to the side.
We had just finished the cooldown and I was about to hoist myself out of the pool. Someone behind me said, Excuse me? Julie?
It was the starer in pink Day-Glo. She was the worst of the videotape swimmers: the most practiced, the strivingest. She said, Sorry, hi, I’m in your lane.
We were standing in our lane. I said, I know.
She said, I just had a question for you, because you’re a sophomore, right? I was just wondering, do you know if we’re ever going to get to do butterfly?
I eyed the girl. She was scrawny and soft-shouldered. Her hot-pink suit clearly came from the girls’ department.
I said, Do you know how to do the butterfly?
She said, I’ve been practicing. There’s a pool at the gym my mom goes to. She said, I thought it would be good to specialize.
Swimmers around us crawled out of the pool. I should have felt sorry for this girl, for wanting something it was clear that no amount of practice laps at her mom’s gym would help her achieve. The girl’s striving buzzed off of her and roiled Lane Five, where we stood alone, pruning. I felt hungry or nauseated. Beyond the striver was Lane Six.