I knew I wouldn’t tell Erika, or anyone. Not because Alexis was a girl, or because I was — Alexis had a boyfriend, and had had other boyfriends before. I hadn’t, so what, I would. I wouldn’t tell anyone because no one who wasn’t me could know what it had felt like to be standing in Alexis’s room and have her step close, then closer. No one could understand that what it had been about was something so specific, the light blue of her sweater, the heat of her breast in my hand.
I lay on my bed, hands off myself, feeling, more than feeling.
COACH SAID, JULIE-JULIE! Thanks for coming down. He was sitting at his desk, eating a sandwich and looking at the newspaper. A brass instrument in the practice room next door struggled up a scale. Coach said, This sandwich! Between us, the bread’s a little dry.
Coach’s clippings were up on the wall. His Beavers medal hung from his desk lamp. Coach may have wanted to check in that I was okay after what had happened at the meet. I was okay. I hadn’t been thinking about it. Like Alexis said, no one cared about relays. Coach’s desk was empty except for the paper and his clipboard and a half-empty frame of hanging folders. It wasn’t clear why he needed an office, or how being a swim coach was a full-time job. I sat down.
Coach said, I thought you and I could use a check-in. Is there anything you’d like to talk to me about?
The thick green paint on the walls looked like the kind that had lead in it. The air in the office was probably unsafe to breathe. I said, I don’t think so.
Coach said, It seemed like you were a little p.o.’ed about that swimming pamphlet.
I said, I wasn’t. I said, It doesn’t matter.
Coach leaned forward and put his chin on his tented fists. He said, Because if you’ve got some beef with me, we can talk it out. He gave a little shrug. He said, But what I hate is to see you taking it out on the team.
I didn’t know what he was talking about.
Coach said, I mean, I get it. No one’s that excited about swimming the third leg in a relay.
Maybe Coach took my silence as agreement, or as a blank space he could keep flinging words at.
He said, But when you’ve got your team counting on you, you can’t just stop in the middle of a race. That’s moving into some moral territory, Julie. He took a bite of his sandwich.
From the hallway a cymbal crashed, or fell.
I said, I’m quitting.
Coach put his sandwich down. He said, Really? He said, Damn.
I said, I don’t think swimming’s for me. I picked up my backpack and put it on my lap. I waited for the feeling of a chain unclipping from a longer chain.
Coach said, Shoot, Julie. That’s not what I was trying to say.
I said, I was going to come down here and tell you anyway. I unzipped and zipped the pocket on my backpack. I waited for the feeling of a free spooling out. Coach wasn’t saying anything. I said, It doesn’t matter.
Coach said, It matters to me. He tossed his sandwich wrapper and crumbs scattered on the desk. He said, Listen. You’re not interested in that pamphlet? Toss it.
I said, I already did.
Coach said, Why don’t you tell me your side of what happened in the relay?
I should have had my backpack on my back and been out the door. I should have been looking forward to three o’clock that afternoon when I’d stand by the school doors watching the bus pull away, seeing if I could see Alexis through the windows, wondering if she’d miss me.
I took a deep breath in. I said, What would you think about me swimming the 500 Free?
Coach said, Excuse me?
I said, I might not quit. I said, Maybe I just need a race to make my own.
Coach nodded. He said, I hear you. Relays are key, but I get that. You want a little ownership.
I said, I know, sprinters get all the attention. But I think distance can be kind of magical.
Coach said, That’s a nice way of putting it, Julie. I hear you. He pulled his ear. He said, I’m just not quite sure I’ve seen you loving distance.
I said, You mean the stopping?
A few days before the meet, I had come to the end of a length to find Donna standing in the shallow end, arms folded. She’d said, I’m just resting. She’d said, Ask Coach. I hadn’t said anything. I’d turned around and kept going, though I had been planning to take a minute or two to savor the wall.
I sat up straighter. I said, I think it might have something to do with the people in my lane. Coach hmmed. I said, So what about Lane Six?
Coach said, What about it?
I said, You could let me swim in Lane Six, and I could train for the 500 Free.
It was an amazing idea. Coach chewed his lower lip. He tapped a pen against the desk. He said, It’s a bit unusual. What about all your teammates who don’t get their own lane?
I said, No one wants Lane Six.
He said, That’s true. It’s not great for morale. He squinted. I knew it was an act. He’d known how perfect the plan was the moment I mentioned it. He said, Okay. Okay, why not? Let’s try it. Maybe distance is where you’ll hit your stride.
AT THE BEGINNING of practice, Coach called me over and huddled me up with the top distance swimmers. He asked them to give me some pointers. They all said, Pacing. They said, Long strokes. The gangly pro who’d asked me about my brother at Grapestuff’s party had won the 500 at the Madison meet. He said, Don’t kick. He said, I kick, like, five times when I do the 500. It’s a waste of energy.
Coach said, He’s exaggerating.
The pro looked at me. His eyes were pinkish, from pot or chlorine. He said, Don’t kick. Unless you’re really a kicker. It’s not worth it.
The distance swimmers went off to their lanes and Coach walked me over to Lane Six. I could feel the swimmers in my old lane watching me. I felt as if Coach were my handler, or bodyguard. I felt famous. Coach had me jump in and swim a few laps while he watched.
I pushed off. Nothing but a lane line separated me from the poolful of swimmers, but Lane Six was quiet. I couldn’t feel any difference between my body and the water. I swam a smooth line. I was in my own pool. I was swimming the blue parts on a map of the world. I didn’t try to swim fast, I listened to the water, I didn’t kick, and it was true, Coach was wrong, in Lane Six I could swim 500 yards. I touched the wall and turned and kept swimming. My mind went to Alexis, not to her, but to the feeling of her, the change that had arced the air when she leaned against me and said, Come here. Lane Six put that feeling on my skin.
I pulled up to the wall to find out what Coach had noticed. He said, Okay, looks pretty good.
I waited for him to say something else. I thought he would say something about how well-suited he now saw I was for the 500, or he’d give me the one final key I needed to make the 500 work. I said, Do you think I should be kicking more?
Coach said, It looked pretty good to me, Julie. He blew his whistle and called out the drill to the rest of the team. He said, You’ve got the basic form down. It’s just going to be a matter of getting over that psychological hump. The 500 can feel long.
It was true, I’d blown off his advice before. Now I was ready for it and he wasn’t giving me anything. I said, Do you think I’m holding up my head too high? I said, Sometimes it feels hard to know how high I should be holding it.
Coach said, Sure, that’s normal. He said, I’ll check back with you in a bit. Why don’t you do 200 pull and 200 kick, and we’ll go from there.
Donna and the striver were standing on the other side of the lane line, listening. When Coach walked away, Donna said, Why are you in Lane Six?
I said, I’m in training.