Coming Up for Air, Page 2

  “Your shoulder still bothering you?” he asks. I nod, and he motions for me to flip onto my stomach so he can work on this knot from Hades that won’t go away.

  His strong hands massage my shoulder until the dog jumps on the bed to interrupt my bliss. Pepper presses her paws on my back and barks.

  “Pepper! That’s my job,” Levi says, motioning for her to get off the bed. He turns to me. “So. You excited for tomorrow?”

  I hesitate. Based on my swimming record, Cal offered me a scholarship last year. I can’t wait to kick some ass swimming in college, but I dread the idea of moving away from my friends. Especially Levi. We’ve never been apart for more than a week.

  “I’m sort of excited…? I don’t know.”

  Levi nudges me. “You’ll have fun this weekend. I had a great time visiting Texas. Some guys from the team took me out to dinner and then we went to a party. Do you think you’ll do something like that?”

  “I’m not sure… I wish we were going to the same college. I don’t want to leave you.”

  I look back over my shoulder at him, and he gives me a supportive but sad smile.

  My friend doesn’t want to leave me either.

  Rival

  I feel like I suddenly disappeared from America and turned up in Italy.

  That is my first impression of Cal-Berkeley. The white clock tower looks like something you’d see in Florence. I wouldn’t be surprised to come across a naked David statue. Though the campus could be covered in naked statues, and I wouldn’t care, because it’s the best swimming school in the country. I’ve worked my ass off to be here and now that I am? I’m bouncing on my toes with excitement.

  My flight took off at the crack of dawn. Even though I’m used to waking up early for practice, I feel a little off. I’ve traveled without my parents before but never this far and not without Coach Josh. It would have been nice if Mom and Dad could have come with me, but as event planners, Saturdays and Sundays are their busiest days of the week. The trip so far has gone fine; I made it to California in one piece and took a cab from the airport. The biggest problem I’ve encountered is sitting in coach on the plane. Having such long legs is great for swimming, but not for traveling.

  Using the campus map on my phone, I navigate to a boardroom in Haas Pavilion. This is where I’ll be meeting up with other new student athletes for a tour, and later on I’ll spend the night with a student host in her dorm.

  I walk into the boardroom and gasp when I see the black hair with purple and pink streaks, and the diamond nose stud.

  Roxy is here.

  Shit.

  She looks over at me, her mouth falling open a little, but she shuts it quickly and resumes her conversation with a man wearing a yellow Cal polo, pretending as if she doesn’t know me. She knows exactly who I am.

  I’m her former best friend.

  I met Roxy six years ago when we were eleven. After doing our laps at the Sportsplex, Levi and I would spend our summer days at Normandy Lake behind his house. We loved playing cards on the beach and doing tricks off the diving board attached to the floating wooden barge. That’s where I first saw Roxy, swimming along the rope line separating the shallow water from the deep. Her swift, graceful movements reminded me of a dolphin.

  Later I cornered her by the snack stand over on the public beach. “Who do you swim for?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you on a team? Tullahoma, maybe?”

  She shook her head, unwrapping her ice cream sandwich. “I asked my parents a few years ago, but they said no. It’s too expensive, and they don’t want to get up early to drive me to practices.”

  “You should be swimming. You’re great.”

  I told Coach Josh about her, and as soon as he saw her raw talent, he worked with New Wave to get her a club team scholarship. Even then he could tell she’d be unstoppable.

  Since her parents were wedded to sleeping in, my mom and Levi’s agreed to let her carpool with us, and for two years, the three of us were inseparable. I loved Levi, of course, but it was nice having a girl around. Especially when I got my period and had to figure out how to use tampons so I would never miss a practice. We even shared tips on how best to shave our legs.

  But then the tension started. When I’d get faster in the pool, she’d work hard to beat me, and then I’d work harder to beat her. It started pissing us both off, but I figured friendship came before winning. She didn’t feel the same. She’s too competitive. Roxy resented that even though she had natural talent, I was faster in the pool. But it wasn’t like I winged it. I had to work hard.

  Then one day Coach Josh took me aside to say the Memphis Marines club swim team had recruited Roxy away from us. Her family, who by then understood Roxy was going places, agreed to move three hours away to Memphis. I cried when she left.

  At first we kept in touch, texting every day, but the special treatment from the Marines made her snobby. My texts went unanswered. When I saw her at meets, she either laughed at my team or ignored me.

  Every time she’d beat one of my times, she’d brag about it online. Once, after I lost a race to her, she took a picture of me with a horrible look on my face and posted it with the caption: Second Place.

  When I bowed out of the Speedo Grand Classic because I’d strained a hamstring, Roxy posted on Twitter: “Maggie King knew she wouldn’t be able to win. That’s why she pulled out. She’s scared!”

  The next time I lost to her, she posted yet another unattractive picture with the tag: Runner Up.

  Those pictures and their captions are on the Internet forever. She deleted them from her accounts so it doesn’t look like she started them, but they’re still out there. When I win races, I celebrate with my friends and hang my medals in my bedroom. I would never gloat.

  Roxy’s betrayal made me rage, and that’s when Levi took my phone and unfriended and blocked her so I wouldn’t see that crap anymore.

  She did a number on me. I didn’t have many friends because of my practice schedule, and after that I was pretty wary of new people, especially other girls in my swim club.

  I didn’t blame Roxy for moving on to a team she thought would be a better fit for her, but I felt betrayed. I’d put myself out there for her. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have gotten the training to become one of the best swimmers in Tennessee. Not to mention, she has about ten thousand more Twitter followers than I do and people love her Instagram account. Some of her pictures get hundreds of likes.

  And now? When we race against each other, she usually outswims me, even though I’m better at backstroke than she is. I know I am. My times kill hers. But it doesn’t matter how fast you are if your mind isn’t in the right place. Whenever I compete against Roxy, she gets in my head, and I can’t get her out. Of all the strokes, 200 backstroke is my best chance of getting an Olympic trials cut. Unfortunately, it’s her best event too.

  It would’ve been nice to have had some warning Roxy would be here, but I haven’t been friends with her on Facebook or Twitter in a while. I will admit I spy from time to time, but I haven’t in a few months.

  I text Levi to tell him what’s up, that Roxy’s here, that I don’t want to go to college with her, that I’m terrified she’ll spaz me out at our meets this spring and I won’t qualify to compete at the Olympic trials. I really, really don’t want to go to Cal with her.

  He replies: Enough. You’re better than her. When you get home, we’ll figure this out. Got it?

  I type, Got it.

  Levi already has an Olympic trial cut in 200 breaststroke—he got it last summer at a meet in Jacksonville. In June, he will compete for a spot on the US Olympic team. Only about a hundred people in the entire country will qualify in each stroke, so it’s amazing Levi’s got a spot in 200 breast. He’s hoping to qualify for the trials in 100 breast and freestyle too.

  Me? I don’t have cuts
in any stroke yet.

  Going to the Olympics has been a dream for a long time. When I was eight years old, an elite swimmer named Allison Schmitt spoke to my club team about her career. She was still in high school but had hopes of making the next Olympic team—and then she did. I remember watching her on TV that summer, thinking, wow, I met her. And wow, I want to do that too. To walk out onto the pool deck in front of cheering fans and the entire world, and swim my heart out to win. Because I love winning.

  Since I haven’t qualified for the trials yet, I don’t have any illusions I’ll make this year’s Olympic team, but Allison didn’t win gold at her first Olympics. All her training built and built over the years, and it paid off when she won at her second Olympics. That’s what my goal is: to train and train until I win the biggest race there is.

  And Cal-Berkeley is the next step on the path to winning.

  I slip my phone in the back pocket of my jeans, then make my way over to Roxy. “Hi,” I tell her, and when she doesn’t respond or make any effort to introduce me to the man she’s talking to, I thrust a hand toward him. “I’m Maggie King.”

  His face lights up. “I’m Alan Watts, the athletic director. Maggie, I can’t tell you how thrilled we are you chose Cal.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Coach Pierson mentioned the swim team has a meet in Michigan this weekend, right?”

  “Yeah, we couldn’t find a weekend where our meets didn’t clash, so I decided to skip it to come to this orientation.”

  “That’s why Roxy is here this weekend too. I imagine you swim in many of the same meets.”

  “Yeah,” we say simultaneously, side-eyeing each other.

  When the athletic director turns away for a sec, Roxy gets in a jab: “Yep, we swim in many of the same meets…which I always win.”

  “In your dreams,” I reply under my breath.

  Before we join the academic tour with the other athletes—mostly field hockey, lacrosse, and basketball players—Roxy and I go with Mr. Watts to check out the brand-new, open-air aquatics center.

  I love it. It’s bright, airy, and yellow and blue Bears flags are draped over the calm blue pool. The air smells fresh and only a tiny bit chemical-y. My pool back home is humid because it’s indoor. I can totally see myself swimming here in college.

  The first time I ever jumped in a pool, I was two years old at a church barbeque. The way Dad tells the story, I was a crazy ass toddler my parents couldn’t control. I saw the pool, took off running, and did a belly flop into the water. People started freaking out, screaming that I was going to drown, and Dad jumped in to rescue me, but by then I was doggy paddling. The way he tells the story, I was even making a pouty fish face, pretending I was a goldfish.

  To this day, anytime I see water, it’s hard for me to resist the pull to dive on in. The Cal pool is beautiful.

  “Maybe we’ll have time to grab a swim before we fly home,” I tell Roxy, bouncing on my toes.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Are you really going to do this?” I ask.

  “Do what?”

  “Pretend like I don’t exist.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  That’s that, I guess. What else is new?

  After we spend time exploring the pool and facilities, Roxy and I join up with a group of about twenty new athletes from across the country for a campus tour of the library, dining hall, and classrooms. She immediately starts clinging to this super cute lacrosse player.

  To be honest, I don’t know the rules of lacrosse. It’s too bad I couldn’t attend the orientation for swimmers, which is next week, but I’m competing at conferences, and unless I qualify there, I can’t go to regionals. Still, I don’t mind checking out some of the guys. A super cute one with glasses and cropped black hair glances at me and smiles. But he’s much shorter than I am. Ugh, I hate being taller than most guys.

  With her arm looped around Lacrosse Boy’s elbow, Roxy stares over at me and smirks, as if to say, I’m hotter than you, and I know it.

  I ignore her and try to focus on the tour, but she keeps laughing loudly to show off.

  Is it too late to pick a new college?

  The guide leads us back to Haas Pavilion, the arena where the basketball team plays, to watch their game against Stanford. The stands are already filled with rowdy fans. The guys on my tour start horsing around. Two of them rush out onto the court and pretend to shoot an imaginary basketball.

  “Get off the floor!” the guide screeches, and they hurry back to the sidelines, where they keep pretending to take shots.

  I don’t blame them for being excited. The arena’s smaller than I imagine it looks on TV, but it’s still gorgeous. I take a picture of the basketball hoop and the gleaming wood floors with Cal written in blue.

  I text the photo to Levi: Guess where I am?

  Levi: Stop trying to make me jealous you evil woman

  I grin at his response.

  During the game I keep texting him, giving him a play-by-play. Levi wants to know what it smells like (sweat), if the seats are soft (hard), and what the fries taste like (they’ve got nothing on Jiffy Burger’s, but I tell him they are a perfect ten just to make him jealous).

  The game is great. The team beats Stanford in overtime, and afterward, the guide leads us back to the boardroom to hear the university’s president give a short speech about how thankful they are “athletes of our caliber are attending Berkeley.” Then he announces that our student hosts will show us where we’ll be staying tonight.

  I lift my overnight bag and walk to the K—N table and tell them my name is Maggie King.

  The name checker drags a finger down her list. “You’re paired with Sylvia.”

  Please don’t let her be a raging lunatic. Please don’t let her be a raging lunatic.

  The athletic director comes over when he hears my name, and checks a chart. “Sylvia’s one of our highly talented freshmen on the dance team. She’ll walk you around and you’ll stay with her in MacDonald, the dorm you’ll be living in this fall. All of our athletes live there freshman year.”

  A dance team member? That’s good news. Georgia’s a cheerleader, so I know all about routines. She’s tried to teach me some, and I can do Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” dance. I may look like a bumbling octopus with my huge hands and flipper feet, but hey, I can do it.

  I glance over at Roxy. She’s animatedly talking to her host.

  The AD introduces me to Sylvia, a small girl still wearing a skirt and tiny top from dancing at the basketball game earlier. She cranes her neck back to look up at me. “God, you’re tall!”

  “Will that be a problem?” the AD asks in a depreciating tone.

  Sylvia shoots him a look and places a hand on her hip. “C’mon, Maggie. We have to go get ready.”

  “Ready for what?” the AD and I ask simultaneously.

  “Uh, dinner in the dining hall. And a night tour of the library.” Sylvia grabs my heavy overnight bag, throws it over her shoulder with surprising ease, and yanks me out of the boardroom. “I thought we’d never escape. The AD thinks the dance team is made up of idiots.”

  “One of my best friends is a cheerleader, and she is definitely not an idiot.”

  Sylvia smiles. “I like you.”

  She stops to put on a hoodie over her dance uniform before leading me back to her dorm, pointing out places like the Terrace Café and the bookstore along the way. The quad features a few marble statues surrounded by trees. I could definitely see myself studying there this fall.

  It’s Saturday night, but campus is busy and bustling. Some people are running around screaming, celebrating the basketball team’s win. A group of guys wearing Greek fraternity letters—I’m not sure what they say—come spilling out of the dorms.

  “Let’s streak!” one hollers.

  “Yes!” anoth
er replies, pumping his fist in the air. “But first let’s get pizza.”

  I crack up. No matter where you go, guys are still guys, and that means food comes first.

  “Don’t eat before you streak!” I call out. “You might get cramps.”

  The boys laugh at my joke, then hustle down the sidewalk, presumably in search of pizza.

  Watching these people goof around, I can’t remember the last time I let loose. I guess when I went to a bonfire last summer with my friends and stayed out past midnight. It was fun, but you know what’s even more enjoyable? Winning. Which means practice comes first. Which means I need rest in order to get up at the crack of dawn and swim my best.

  Sylvia swipes her ID card in a door reader and we go inside her dorm. Two students manning the front desk greet Sylvia by name, then look back down at an iPad they’re sharing. They must be watching videos while they work. I’ve never had time for a job, but I like the idea of greeting people as they come home.

  Sylvia leads me to the stairs. “I’m on the fourth floor. You okay to walk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. It doesn’t matter if you live up on the eighth floor. People will give you shit if you take the elevator in MacDonald.”

  We hustle up to her floor and she leads me to a door with a little white board for messages. I make a mental note to remember to buy one of those, along with some markers. Inside her room, there’s enough space for two beds, desks, and dressers. Pictures of dancers and cheerleaders cover the walls. A collection of medals hangs from a peg above her desk. Maybe I’ll do that with my medals next year. And I could hang a bulletin board with pictures of my friends.

  It’s very clean in here. Much cleaner than my room. I tend to toss my dirty clothes on the floor instead of in the hamper, which drives my mom batty. Levi too. He generally invites me to his place because my room is always a pigsty. Having a roommate for the first time in my life will be different. I’ll need to keep my space tidy. Wait. What if she’s even messier than me? Hopefully I’ll get somebody I’m compatible with. If I’m rooming with another athlete, odds are we’ll be at practice most of the time, when we’re not in class or sleeping.