Moment of Inertia: The property of a body that makes it reluctant to speed up or slow down in a rotational manner.
COACH PORTER bursts through the double doors to the pool complex and blows his silver whistle. Three ear-piercing shrieks that take the headache I’ve been riding all day to a new level. I’m not sure how he does it exactly, but Coach Porter uses that whistle like an extension of his personality with all the associated emotions. This time it says we have to get a move on.
“You know what day it is—Chuck-Your-Luck-Friday—the day you chuckleheads get to show me something new. Start warming up with lineups.” He looks around for a specific target and finds Chip. “Langford, take the swimmers to the far end and get them running one-arm catch-up drills.”
I scramble to line up with the rest of the 3-meter divers to practice entering the water with zero to little splash.
“Not you, Mackey,” Coach says. “Over here. I need a word.”
I step out of line and jog toward him. “Yes, Coach?”
“Rocco Bennett was made a co-captain for the Andover Sharks.”
“Wait. What?”
There’s no such thing as a lead-up in conversation with Coach. He’s staring at me like he’s trying to gauge whether or not I’m faking surprise. I’m not. Rocco defecting to Andover to dive for our longtime rivals wasn’t only a blow to our team, but a kick in the teeth to our friendship. The news of him becoming an Andover captain isn’t something I saw coming, and the betrayal I felt when he decided to leave unnerves me all over again.
“You didn’t know?” Coach asks. “Close as you two were.”
“Rocco and I haven’t talked that much since he left.”
“Hmm.” Coach scratches his chin. “The added secrecy must be part of Coach McGee’s strategy since we added another promising Bennett to the team this year.”
I didn’t know that either.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Coach asks.
“Claiming the title this season might be a cakewalk?” I give him a crooked grin to cover how I really feel. Andover may be our rivals, but we’ve beaten them every year. It’s been close a few times, but we usually bring it home in the end. That’s the reason they hate us, and the reason Rocco’s loyalty got thrown into question. Also complicated.
“I like the confidence,” Coach says, grinning. “But no. It means our dive lists are garbage.”
“Garbage? Wow. Okay. So you want to switch things up?”
“That’s right. Starting with you.”
“With me?”
“Stop repeating everything I say, Mackey. You’re starting to sound like a parrot.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Since Rocco had access to the dive list for every guy on our team, they may be looking to take out my top divers first. Starting with you, then Trey, Ace, Sully, and down the line. What they don’t know is we have Les Carter bringing something to the lineup this season.”
“Seriously?”
I don’t bother hiding my shock because I’m two for two. Les and Rocco were both peeved when I made captain, but only one of them was bothered enough to ditch the team.
“We’ll see,” Coach says. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I need my captain to go big.” He pokes my chest twice when my eyes wander. “Listen, if any of my top divers fail, Andover will have a shot at beating us out of our ranking. Understand?”
“Loud and clear. Should we tell the team?”
“About Bennett? Not yet. Let’s see what we’re really working with here first.”
“I have something to add to my dive list that might help,” I tell him. “I’ve been working on the 5337D in my free time.”
“Attaboy,” Coach says. “I can always count on you to bring your A-game. Get up there and show me something I can brag about at the coaches’ banquet this weekend.” He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Make way for your captain.”
“Oh captain, my captain,” Sully says, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow.
I scratch the space under my nose with my middle finger out of Coach’s view.
Truth is I’m not ready to rip this dive. But if Coach is putting any stock in Les Carter, I need to bring my A-game.
Everyone steps aside to let me pass. Everyone that is, except one pimple-faced freshman who pauses to look me in the eye for an extra beat. I don’t know his name, but future-captain wannabes surface every year. And this kid, like so many before him, needs to get in line (pun intended).
Halfway up the ladder I pause and give a sharp whistle for Chip. He hands a set of goggles to one of the swimmers and looks my way. I make a twirling motion with my index finger three and half times so he knows what dive I’m about to chuck in front of everyone.
He gives me a thumbs-up and shouts, “Chinga!”
He still doesn’t get it. That verb packs a lot of meanings.
Chucking a dive I haven’t perfected in front of the team is a huge risk, so a lot of those meanings probably apply.
I stand on the board and take a deep cleansing breath. Some people like the smell of freshly mowed grass, barbecue, even gasoline. I swear this one kid in my English class loves the smell of his own armpits. But for me, it’s chlorine. Which is a good thing because the smell never really leaves my skin. That’s what happens when you dunk in it every day like a tea bag.
I visualize Mom’s favorite dive and approach my take-off. One, two, three big steps to the end. I throw my arms hard after my hurdle, rotating backward. I’m a little swingy, flying farther out than I should for a reverse, but I manage to get enough height and come-out straight as a board. My layout is close to spot-on, and I rip the entry without causing too much ripple. It’s not perfect. But at least I didn’t eat shit.
The water rushes past me and washes away some of the weirdness from this morning. Every time I come up for air after a dive, I’m reborn. It’s my sanctuary. The only place I can escape from all the stuff in my regular life that bothers me.
When I surface, some of my buddies are standing around the edge of the pool, eyes wide.
“Holy shit,” Chip says. “That was it. A little swingy at first, but it’ll be fucking beautiful once you tighten it up.” His eyes flick to Coach before he lowers them. “Sorry about the language, Coach, but I had to come over and give props for that dive. If Theo pulls that off at the meet we’re gonna get paid.”
“I’ll let the offense slide this time seeing as I agree. But don’t start counting our wins yet. We’ve got some work to do.” Coach nods at me. “Not bad, Mackey. If you stop sailing out as far as Christopher Columbus, I think you’ve got something.”
Chip laughs so hard he snorts. “Good one.”
“You still here, Langford?” Coach says without looking his way.
Chip makes his oh-shit face and jogs back to the swimmers.
I clamp my hand around my buddy Ace Coburn’s heavily freckled forearm for an assist out of the pool. The Flying Ace might be all of five-foot-six but he pulls me up like I weigh a feather ounce.
“Nice flight, Big Mack,” Ace says. “You thinking of chucking that dive at the demo on Saturday?”
“Don’t you dare,” Coach warns. “That’s top secret.”
I smirk like I might disobey, just to get a rise out of him, and he gives me a serious warning look.
“Carter,” Coach says without looking at Les. “Take the board.”
“Me?” Les tugs a dark curl at the base of his neck.
“Yes, you. We got another Carter I have to worry about now?”
“No, sir.”
I get Les’s hesitation. I wouldn’t expect him to follow my dive either. He’s always been one of the guys we use to seed up front to fool other teams before unleashing the big dogs, so I’m anxious to see what he’s supposedly bringing to the table.
“What are you waiting for,” Coach barks, “a sparkly invitation? Get up there.”
“I’m not sure I want to do that dive we talked about,” he says.
“Why the hell not?” Coach asks. “You told me you had something big.”
“I do. It’s just…”
Les flicks his eyes to a group of freshman and I start to feel a little sorry for him. Nobody likes to chuck a dive with a big buildup, then smack. But I want to see what he’s got that’s so great so I say, “Don’t sweat it, Les. We all know the mantra.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth the chanting starts. “Les is more. Les is more. Les is more.”
Les is usually less in my opinion. The guy has never brought anything extraordinary to the team. He’s what I’d call a cobbler, taking a little something from this diver, and a little from that diver, with no real style of his own. But camaraderie is a big part of being on this team, and expected, especially from me as captain.
The chanting is enough of a boost that Les pulls his shoulders back and climbs the ladder. When he reaches the end of the board and turns, I’m a little surprised. Back entries are tough for everyone and Les struggled with his at regionals last season. His low scores cost us, but not enough to spoil our win. Trey and I made sure of that, along with Chip who scored big in butterfly for the swimmers.
Les rises onto his toes. The only sound in the room is the hum of the pool filters and Coach Porter’s raspy breathing. He takes one more breath before doing a perfect backward press and take-off, rotating into 1½ somersaults, then 4½ twists with flawless execution and entry.
No fucking way.
My brain feels like it might explode.
I did not see that coming. A 5239D has a 3.7 degree of difficulty. It’s simply not done.
There’s no doubt this is a championship team, especially now. I just hope I can defend my own ranking. I scan the faces of the other divers, wondering if anyone else is holding out. The freshman that blocked my path earlier pesters me with a crooked smirk that I can’t take seriously. There’s no way in hell a freshman would ever be a threat to me.
When Les surfaces, Coach says, “I may have underestimated you, Carter. Remind me what school you have your eye on again?”
Les glances at me before answering. “Stanford, sir.”
Every combination of curse words known to man runs through my head as Les climbs out of the pool and grabs a shammy from one of the guys.
Coach flicks his eyes at me and I swallow the giant lump rising in my throat. I never in a millions years thought Les-freaking-Carter would be the guy I’d have to beat.
A scholarship to Stanford is my ticket out of Ellis Hollow. Not because I don’t have any money saved for tuition. But because I want to get there on my own merits, like my mom, and finish what she couldn’t, because she had me.
I compare the degree of difficulty of Les’s dive to some of my own. My best dive is a 3.8. And his grades, as far as I can tell, are solid for the few AP classes we share. The only difference that matters is Les’s dive was perfect.
Adding a fourth twist to my mom’s favorite dive would raise the degree of difficulty to 3.9, but it’s unheard of in high school diving on a 3-meter board. Not only do I have to keep my grades up, I also can’t afford to screw up a single dive this season. And Les-freaking-Carter is tied to both problems.