“On your marks, get set, GO!” Coach shouted as we plunged into the water and began our free-style swim.
The water felt cold this morning, but I warmed up with each stroke forward down the Olympic-sized pool. Since this was just practice, we were swimming without having the lanes sectioned off and that meant I’d probably get bumped into by Marcy Dell if I didn’t get a very quick start.
That’s why I don’t like swimming with nine-year-olds, they’re such pains. When we break down into age groups for competition, the girls my age always know what we’re doing. It’s those dumb nine-year-olds that mess us up.
I tagged the shallow end and did a decent flip-turn as I began the final lap. I was feeling good; like I’d already beaten my closest competition, Sarah Filmore. She always gives me a good challenge here, and we hate each other at school, so it’s perfect. That way she can’t get to know me well enough to see my weaknesses, and I can keep up the image of The Best Preteen Swimmer.
I heard the whistle blow just as I touched the wall and I had to look up quickly to be sure I’d won. I had, but not by much. Sarah smiled at me and I smiled back. That’s about as close as we get.
Coach had to go and get Marcy Dell from the side and redirect her to the deep end. Not all nine-year-olds are that bad, I guess, but she just lacks any general sense of direction. Good thing she’s pretty.
I know pretty is important when you’re not talented, and even sometimes when you are, because my Daddy told me not to ever get fat or ugly or else I’d never keep a husband. It didn’t matter that he remarried someone really ugly and that she eventually got fat too; I took those words to mean everything and did anything I could to be the prettiest, thinnest, best everything possible. But things weren’t working out so well at the pool.
“Jones, McGuire, Turner, Filmore, Young…” the coach was calling the names of those who’d be on the starting team at next week’s competition against the Lakeside Pool team. I sat on my favorite rainbow towel watching droplets of water fall off my hair and soak into the concrete as I leaned just off to the side when Coach said my name, “Perkins,” as I knew she would. But then she said, “Stay after practice,” listed four more names and then sent most of us on our way to change and go home.
I didn’t cringe when she asked me to stay after because I knew why she had.
Butterfly stroke. My worst nightmare.
“Well, Katie,” Coach began, “how’s that Achilles’ Heel coming?”
“I’ve been practicing,” I lied, my towel now wrapped around my body as though it would keep her from making me get back in the water.
“But are you any better?” She added, “You know that you’re my fastest swimmer, don’t you?”
“Except the butterfly.”
“Except the butterfly.” She now had her arms crossed and was nodding, then she pointed back at the pool. “Ready to give me what you’ve got?”
I shrank inside. My dad was coming to pick me up today and I didn’t want to be late. But I knew I had to practice so I begged to just do two laps.
“Make them two exceptional ones,” Coach required.
As I hit the water this time, I felt hot already. I knew my coach wanted me to get it RIGHT, but all I could think was FAST, and that meant SLOPPY. I could hear her yelling as she walked the length of the pool, instructing me to concentrate.
When I got to the end of the second lap, I saw my dad outside the gate, waving and half-smiling. Although I knew he was glad to see me, I also knew he liked me to do my best and he’d say that he didn’t feel that I was just then.
Before I could get out of the pool and collect my towel, Coach went over to him and began talking through the gate.
As they discussed me, I was sure, I felt myself trying to be prettier, willing my features to be better. I even closed my eyes and prayed that the candy bar I’d eaten yesterday wouldn’t show.
I took a deep breath and walked toward Coach and Daddy.
“Get your things, darling,” he said. And even though I knew he meant it literally, all I heard was, “Not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not thin enough.”