Woodbury, Minnesota
Copyright Information
Underneath © 2013 by Sarah Jamila Stevenson.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.
Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.
First e-book edition ©2013
E-book ISBN: 9780738737027
Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Ellen Lawson
Cover photo compilation by John Blumen
Cover photo © Titled “Drop” by Alex Stoddard
Cover images: Woman © Glow Images/SuperStock
Space/cosmos image © DigitalStock
Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Flux does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.
Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.
Flux
Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
2143 Wooddale Drive
Woodbury, MN 55125
www.fluxnow.com
Manufactured in the United States of America
For my family
one
The whistle blasts three times and Coach Rydell yells, “Take your marks!” Fifteen seconds more. I step up onto the starting block. My feet are poised on the dark, sandpapery surface, toes hanging slightly over the edge, my body tense and ready to dive into the lane.
I take a deep, slow breath and expel it in a quick puff of air.
Looming in my peripheral vision are all of the other swimmers lined up on either side of me. I try not to look at them; instead I focus on the abstract pattern formed by everyone’s legs on the blocks, the different colors of swimsuits, the faint reflection of the cloudy sky in the surface of the water. I look at people’s toes. Cassie, as always, has a perfect, glossy pedicure. Not me. The light-purple nail polish I painted my toes with is starting to scrape off.
Glancing back up, I see my mother sitting on the lowest bench of the small bleachers on the south side of the pool. For some unknown reason she’s on her cell phone. Why now, when my race is starting? I frown.
Five seconds. Almost time. I push everything out of my mind—Mom, cell phones, even Cassie, who’s in the lane to my left, adjusting her goggles.
The whistle shrieks, and we’re off. It’s my best event, the 100-meter freestyle. My arms and legs cut into the cool water with hardly a splash, and then I surface, sucking in air. It’s only an off-season invitational, but I push my muscles that extra little bit because I know I’ve got this one covered. I barely notice that I’m gradually edging ahead of a girl from Lakewood in the lane to my right. I’m focused on my rhythmic breathing, my legs churning up the water, the exhilaration surging through me.
This time, I’m leaving Cassie behind, and for once that makes me glad. She can go ahead and look perfect all the time. But guess who’s going to win today’s race? Not Miss Fancy Feet. I file that one away for post-race teasing at Spike’s house.
After a perfect flip-turn, I try to add an extra burst of energy for the last length, even though it doesn’t matter because I know I’m going to be the first one in by a long shot. Soon the familiar calm comes over me. I’m in the zone, quiet, just me and the other end of the pool beckoning me, coming inexorably closer with every stroke. My happy place. One of the reasons I swim. Really, the only reason I—
ohgod, ohgod—
NO! no. no. no. no—
dead.
I pop my head up, my legs floundering in the pool. My heart pounds. Who’s dead? I hear screaming, and my hands go reflexively to my ears as I try to block out the sound threatening to drown me.
The wake of the person in the next lane washes over me, pushing chlorinated water into my nose and mouth. I cough and sputter, my sinuses burning, and take a quick glance around. But I’ve realized by now that nobody was screaming. It was all in my head. I’m in a race, at the school pool.
Was in a race. A race I am now losing as Cassie swims past me and tags the end of the pool, me belatedly pulling up a few seconds behind her, my head spinning.
Elisa is already there, her long dark hair tucked tightly into a swim cap, ready for the relay in a few minutes. She high-fives Cassie and shoots me a sympathetic smile.
I shake my head. This is not good. I heave myself out of the water and head over to the junior varsity bench, not wanting to meet my mother’s eyes. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, sitting like a statue with her cell phone in her lap. She looks shocked. I am, too. Everyone else is looking at me as if I’m mentally unstable. Did I scream?
Cassie squeezes my shoulder before sitting down on the bench next to me. “Wow,” she says, and pauses for a moment to catch her breath. “That should’ve been you, not that Lakewood chick.” I nod, then shake my head, still in a daze.
Coach Rydell is not happy. Not happy at all. She stalks right up to me, brandishing her whistle, as I’m drying off by the benches.
“Pryce-Shah,” she says, with a measuring glare. The dreaded last name. “What happened back there? That was your race. You had it.”
“I know,” I say hoarsely. I clutch my towel around me, dripping, and shiver a little in the breezy October air. “I … I don’t know what happened.” It’s a pathetic answer, but it’s true.
“Well, I don’t want to see it happen again. We’re lucky this is the off-season.” She sighs, straightening the Citrus Valley Vikings baseball hat that’s mashed down over her sun-bleached hair. “And your form was looking so good before you just … freaked out and bailed. I hope this doesn’t become a habit, Sunny. I’d hate to see you drop in the team rankings before the season even starts.” Coach peers at me over the top of her sunglasses. I swallow hard.
“I’m just—maybe I’m getting sick,” I say. Coach makes a frustrated noise and moves down the bench to where Cassie is celebrating with James, who won earlier for backstroke. I should be there, too, but I can’t even manage to be happy for my friends.
Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am sick.
Sick in the head.
Because nobody just spaces out mid-race and dreams they hear voices.
But it’s not real, either. Nobody’s screaming. Nobody’s dead.
As I’m heading to the locker room to change, I catch sight of Mom hurrying to her car to pick up Dad from work. I’m kind of glad I don’t have to talk to her about how I messed up my race. She’d say something well-meaning, but she’s never been part of a school sport and she wouldn’t understand how it really feels, how I didn’t simply disappoint myself. I drive home in silence, still trying to figure out what happened, but all I can think is maybe I didn’t get enough sleep last night.