In the morning, I go with Freddie and Agnes to the Y to swim laps again.
I feel like I’m starting to get the hang of this, and I sort of love the idea of having my own lane for this slice of time a couple of days a week. It’s my own private world, and I don’t have to worry about how good Freddie is or if Agnes is watching or if Hattie is doing something stupid or if I can pick up any extra hours at work. All I have to do is stay in my own lane.
As I’m hoisting myself out of the pool, Freddie says, “Hey, wait up. Let’s race just once. Whatever stroke you want there and back.”
“I thought you were only supposed to be racing against yourself,” I tease.
“Humor me.”
I shake my head and say, “Fine, but there’s not going to be much of a competition.”
The two of us position ourselves on the blocks while Agnes heads to the locker rooms.
Freddie counts us off. “On your marks, get set, GO!”
Again, my dive is a belly flop. This time I try the butterfly stroke, letting my upper body propel me forward while my legs work in unison like a mermaid’s fin. Or at least that’s what I’m going for. I probably look like I’m drowning and break-dancing at the same time.
After the second lap, my body slams into the wall like when you’re roller-skating and you don’t know how to stop. Freddie is waiting for me in the neighboring lane.
“I was wondering when you’d make it back,” he says.
“Shut up,” I spit, wanting to say much more, but unable to because my lungs are on fire.
Freddie pulls himself out of the pool. “Someone’s a sore loser.”
Between breaths, I say, “Someone’s a shitty winner.”
He holds an arm out for me, and I begrudgingly take it. “Come on,” he says. “Let me have this. Besides, after all those wasted years of training, you gotta admit it’d be pretty embarrassing if you kicked my ass.”
I ignore his hand and get out of the water on my own, just barely, though. I’ve got to admit: even I’m surprised by the adrenaline that’s coursing through my veins. “Go on,” I tell him. “I need to catch my breath.”
As he leaves for the locker rooms, I sit down on the block and pull my goggles off my head. I cringe as the elastic pulls at my wet hair. I suck at this. Freddie beat me fair and square and by a lot. I think that’s supposed to make me miserable, but it doesn’t and I’m trying to figure out what exactly that means.
Finally I stand up to leave the pool. The woman in the black Speedo I saw last time is sitting in the same spot on the bleachers. Her short, spiky hair seems to match her prickly persona.
As I pass her, she doesn’t even bother turning to me when she says, “Gotta learn pacing. You burn out too fast. Anyone can sprint. Stamina is something you have to earn.”
I stop. “I’m not trying to be, like, a swimmer or anything.”
She turns to me. “Oh, you’re a swimmer. You either are or you aren’t. And you are. You’re just not any good yet.”
I shake my head and jog down the hallway to the locker rooms. I can swim. Of course I can. The ocean is my backyard. But I’m no stranger to adults telling me how I should use my body. With my height, it’s nonstop questions about basketball or volleyball or whatever other sports where my stature might serve as a benefit. But sports, and any other extracurricular, have always felt like a waste of time. If it’s not something I’m going to be paid for, I don’t really have the time to waste. Or the energy to invest.
Back at Agnes’s place, Freddie whips together a frittata with cheese, mushrooms, spinach, and sun-dried tomatoes. The last three ingredients are the type of things I would never eat individually, but somehow Freddie has the ability to make them taste good. And of course, a plain sunny-side-up egg for Bart.
“Hey, Gram?” he says once we’re all seated. “This week’s Viv’s birthday, and I was thinking I could drive back on Friday after school for her party.”
Agnes doesn’t look up from her plate. “And what about your shift at the car wash?”
Freddie looks to Bart, who shakes his head and concentrates on his eggs. “I thought maybe I could call in this one time. Or maybe Adam will cover for me.”
Agnes makes a tsk noise with her tongue. “You know how I feel about commitments.”
“Come on, Gram,” says Freddie, resorting to that boyish tone I recognize from when we were kids. It’s the same charm he used to help me get Tyler’s cake—and he clearly knows how to wield it to get what he wants. “You know leaving Viv wasn’t easy.”
Agnes’s shoulders sink, and I see the weight of responsibility she carries and how well she understands the sacrifice that moving here was for Freddie. “Okay,” she relents. “But only if this one”—she motions to me—“agrees to go with you. I don’t like the idea of you making that trip by yourself.”
Freddie turns to me.
I take a moment too long to swallow my mouthful of frittata. “I’ll—uh, have to see if I can get someone to cover my route on Saturday morning.”
Agnes doesn’t look up. “My kind of girl.”
I shrug in Freddie’s direction, but his attention is in a far-off place outside this house. His legs bounce so aggressively that Agnes reaches under the table and pats his knee until he stops.
We ride our bikes to school, the humidity so thick my hair doesn’t even begin to dry until third period, which is the only class Freddie and I share. I’m dozing in and out of Ms. Pak’s economics lesson when Adam, who sits behind me, taps my shoulder. He reaches down low and shoves a note into my dangling hand. I glance back to get a read on him, but it’s Freddie, who sits two desks behind him, who I find winking at me.
In my lap, hands positioned underneath my desk, I unfold the full piece of notebook paper that’s been folded into a sad piece of origami.
In surprisingly beautiful handwriting, the top of the page reads:
REASONS TO GO WITH ME TO BATON ROUGE
1. BEEF JERKY, AND NOT THE SHITTY KIND. I KNOW THE BEST GAS STATION IN LOUISIANA, WHERE THEY MAKE THEIR OWN JERKY. IT’S A SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE.
2. YOU GET TO LEAVE THE COAST.
3. HAVE YOU EVER EVEN LEFT THE COAST?
4. I’LL LET YOU DRIVE THE CADDY.
5. YOU CAN MEET VIV. YOU GUYS WILL LOVE EACH OTHER!
6. AND THE REST OF MY SWIM TEAM FROM BACK HOME.
7. HOT GIRLS. I KNOW LOTS OF THEM.
8. I WILL PAY FOR ALL YOUR MEALS.
9. YOU’RE A GOOD FRIEND.
I grin and try to fold the paper back the same way it was given to me, but give up and stuff it in my pocket. Under the cover of my desk, I text Charlie about my paper route this weekend to see if anyone can cover.
A few seconds later, he responds. I’ll check with my little bro, he says.
When the bell rings, Freddie follows close on my heels with Adam behind. “Well?”
“I’m working on it,” I say.
He nods and bounces on his toes a little.
“Working on what?” asks Adam. “Your strokes?”
“Ugh.” Freddie shoves him.
Adam turns to him innocently. “What? I know you’ve been getting up early to stroke it.”
“Swim strokes,” Freddie says. “Swim strokes, you perv.”
I turn to Adam, grinning. “Nope. He got a membership at the YMCA to practice his strokes. The M stands for masturbation, obviously.”
“You’re both filthy human beings,” says Freddie. “Oh, wait. Adam, you think you could cover my shift this Saturday?”
Adam groans, his head rolling to the side.
Freddie grips his shoulder. “Come on, man.”
“My mom’s gonna make me cover your shift either way.” Adam turns to head to his next class. “You owe me!”
Still following me, Freddie asks, “So did my list sway you?”
I stop and turn to him. “Your next class is on the other side of the building. And I will let you know as soon as I know. Chill out, okay?”
He stomps off like a toddler, but in a half-joking way.
“What was that all about?” asks Ruth as she emerges from a neighboring hallway.
I turn to follow her, still laughing at Freddie. “Cute boy not getting his way.”
“He knows you’re not exactly his target audience, right?”
I shrug. “Cute is cute.”
Her upper lip curls. “Yeah. Nope.”
After school Freddie is waiting for me at the bike rack. I hand him my phone with my text message exchange with Charlie open for him to read.
“Enjoy your weekend?” It takes him a moment. “Enjoy your weekend! YES!”
He jumps up and down and yanks me off my feet as he spins me around in a circle. “I swear to Christ, Ramona, you’re my best friend.” When he sets me back down, he pulls my fist into the air as he hums “We Are the Champions.”
I know he’s probably exaggerating, but the idea that I’m someone’s best friend fills my rib cage with summer.