Spotting: Visual cues used by divers to pinpoint where they are in the air to determine when to come-out of a twist or somersault.
I POPPED another Adderall on my way to the demo since I still hadn’t decided on a dive and my focus was pure shit. Twenty minutes later a wave of confidence and focus rolled through me like never before and I was ready to chuck whatever dive I thought of on the fly.
While I watch my teammates leave the board before me—Trey’s perfect reverse, Sully’s sublime Inward 3½, Les’s uninspired but solid Forward Triple tuck—I remember everything Iris said about expressing personal power. I pick up my phone to text her, just to prove to myself that I can, and right there, spelled out in black and white on the screen, is the perfect dive. A Forward 2½ Somersault, 1 Twist in pike, otherwise known as the last four digits of Iris’s phone number. It’s not my Mom’s dive, of course, but a 5152B is always impressive. It might even be showy enough to leave the crowd with the impression that we saved the best for last, even if I never did get around to sending her that text.
With only a few minutes to spare, I let the announcer know what dive I’m going to perform and rush back to the board. I scan the crowd for Iris as I climb the ladder and spot Uncle Phil slipping into the swim complex. He stays near the exit, far away from GP who has his arms crossed like this event is keeping him from another night with the bottle, which is true. But I should probably give the guy more credit since even when he’s on a bender GP never misses a single meet or performance.
I shake out my limbs and breathe deep, bringing my focus back to the dive. The 5152B isn’t one of the voluntaries on my list. If I’m going to chuck it in front of all these people, I have to visualize it perfectly. And I do. With more showboating and fanfare than accompanies most high school diving events, but it’s how I get myself fired up for the challenge.
I nod at the announcer and he starts the song I picked to go with my dive. “Break On Through” by The Doors. Which is exactly what I’m about to do. There’s a lot of chatter rising up from the stands. People who aren’t used to watching springboard divers don’t know silence is golden. Unless I’m just hearing them more clearly tonight. The Adderall has definitely sharpened my senses. Packing a punch that makes the lights seem extra bright and the smell of chlorine so sharp I can taste it. I search for the hum of the pools’ filters and use that to find a quiet place in my head. Then I find the perfect spot in the rhythm of the song to unleash the dive.
I approach the end of the board, crow hop, and press down hard, letting the board spring me into my flight. I rotate into the 2½ somersaults and transition into the twist, right hand by my head, left hand on my chest, toes pointed. I come-out of the dive right as the song demands that I break on through to the other side and I punch the entry.
A round of applause rises from the crowd as I lose contact with a physical world that explodes with color, then disappears.
But the portal I’ve always loved transforms right before my eyes and I find myself surrounded by unfamiliar dark water. A shadowy form zips past me, pointing to the surface, screaming my name in waterlogged tones. I whirl in panicky circles, searching for something, someone, anything, nearly running out of air before I remember to frog-kick back to the surface.
The light changes as I rise, like a Polaroid developing in reverse. The pool returning to its normal crystal blue state, lit by fluorescent bulbs overhead. I take a huge gulp of air as I break the surface and the series of camera flashes assaults me from all sides.
I don’t want my picture taken.
The crowd is still applauding as I hoist myself out of the pool and wave. Keeping up the appearance of the Theo everyone expects, even though the smile I present them feels loosely tied to my face by the thread unraveling inside my head.
That didn’t feel like a flashback to me. If anything, it was another dream state. But I can’t really deal with that if it starts affecting my diving.
Maladaptive.
Interrupting day-to-day activities.
That’s when Uncle Phil said it becomes a problem. I’m going to have to tell him if it keeps happening. But right now, I need to focus on getting through the rest of the night—Monarch Night.
The announcer taps his microphone and informs the crowd that my dive concludes the demo right as another camera flash hits my eyes, bright as a solar flare. Cameras aren’t allowed at meets, but they don’t ban them from the demo because we’re seen as more of a circus act.
I look for Uncle Phil on instinct. The camera flash put blind spots in my vision but I still see him filing out with Rocco Bennett. Seeing them together shouldn’t bother me, considering they’ve known each other since Rocco and I were in grade school, but it does. Actually, just seeing Rocco here makes me uneasy. The guy was once my buddy, a Monarch. Now that he’s an Andover Shark co-captain the last thing I need is him snooping around our team taking note of our dives.
A towel smacks me square in the face as I round the corner into the locker room and I overreact to the hit.
“Jumpy much?” Chip says. He’s sitting on the wooden bench between the lockers, tapping away at his phone.
“Yeah. I, um, Rocco was out there,” I stammer. Diverting attention from what’s really bothering me. “You don’t think he was trying to get a preview of our dives before the meet, do you?”
“I doubt it. He knows we don’t unleash new dives at the demo.”
“He just came to watch, out of the blue?”
“Who cares? You guys didn’t rip anything new.”
That’s not exactly true. I ripped a new dive along with a hole in my already questionable sanity. I know what Uncle Phil said about PTSD, but something about my flashbacks and dream states doesn’t feel normal at all.
“Just be happy you didn’t choke out there,” Chip adds.
“You thought I would? Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I shake my head and open my locker.
“Let’s just say I wasn’t placing any bets after seeing how much Les’s dive got under your skin at practice.”
I give him a what-the-fuck face and poke my head around the corner. “Are the guys still here?” The last thing I need is anyone else thinking I’m sweating Les’s dive.
“Relax,” Chip says. “You know I wouldn’t do you like that. They all showered when you got on the board and split. Your buddy Les mumbled something about having to hurry so he could stop a friend from doing something stupid. I was only half listening to him, as usual. But you’ll be happy to know I was paying full attention when Ace said he and Sully were going on a packie run with his brother. They’re gonna meet us at the quarry.”
“What about Trey?”
“Oh, this is classic,” Chip says. “His mom told him he had to come home for dinner or he couldn’t go back out because she doesn’t want him eating junk at the fair. When he tried to protest, she started yelling at him in Korean loud enough for me to hear and he took off.”
I wrap the towel around my neck and laugh. “Hopefully she’ll let him out of the house.”
“Whatever,” Chip says. “I never feel bad for that guy. He’s going to Harvard. I’m pretty sure having a super-strict mom helped him get that early admission.”
“I wouldn’t mind my mom yelling at me if it meant she was around.”
“If you stop kissing my mom’s ass, for five minutes she might yell at you.”
“And ruin my favorite-son status? Never.”
“It’s gross how much you two like each other.”
“Are you gonna tell me what you thought of Les’s new dive now that you called me out or sweat me about the love affair I have with your mom?”
“Honestly,” Chip says. “I thought it was fucking poetic. Didn’t you? Don’t lie.”
“No, I did. It was. I just wasn’t expecting Les Carter to rip a dive like that in the eleventh hour. I never had to see him as competition for Stanford before.”
“I don’t think you need to sweat it,” Chip says. “It’s one dive. The scouts for that team already think you’re the shit.”
Let’s hope it stays that way. I grab my deodorant and street clothes from my locker. “Give me ten minutes to rinse off and we can go.”
“In case you didn’t notice, you had a better audience watching on you than Rocco Bennett,” Chip adds before I walk away. “Iris was out there, GP, I even saw Dr. Maddox near the door, wisely giving your grandfather some space. Haven’t seen those two in the same room for a long time.”
“I went to see him after my run and asked if he wanted to come.”
“Brave. Did he give you anything for Malone’s class?”
“He’s still looking. But he did give me a higher dosage of Adderall.”
“Nice. Now we don’t have to take as many.”
“Exactly.”
Keeping up the façade of normal is getting harder, especially with Chip, but I feel a little better after hitting the shower and changing into jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. When I get back to my locker he’s on his phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.
I kick the toe of his black Adidas and slide on my letterman’s jacket. “You ready?”
“One sec.”
“Is that Amy?”
Chip shoves his phone into his front pocket. “She wants us to meet her by the games.”
“I think that means she wants you to win her a stuffed animal.”
“Then it’s a damn good thing I possess a variety of skills to please the ladies.” Chip tugs at the front of his black-and-white plaid button-down and struts toward the door like a penguin headed to a mating ritual.
“Whatever you say. But at some point I have to go to the performance tents. I told Iris I’d let her give me a psychic reading.”
Chip freezes and spins around extra slowly. “Hold up. You actually spoke to her? As in words came out of your normally idiotic mouth and went into her ears?”
“I invited her to Monarch Night. Guess I’m not as chickenshit as you think.” I take a step forward and he throws up a block.
“Not so fast. On the phone or in person?”
“In person. Does it matter? I ran into her while I was out running.”
“Hell, yes, it matters. It’s about time too.” Before Chip opens the door he says, “Get your game face on, Big Mack. The Monarch Night games begin five, four, three, two—”
“One. Showtime.”