Killing the Spring: When a dive has poor timing during the take-off that results in stomping the board and killing its spring.
THE REST of practice went downhill from that point, at least for me. I messed up nearly every dive because I was thinking too much about the wrong things, and that’s the enemy of diving. I didn’t catch enough air to even try doing four twists, but I do catch Les in the locker room.
My impulse is to punch him in his smug face, but I opt for congratulating him on his dive because that’s what’s expected of me as his teammate and captain. But then, when I ask Les who he trained with to get that fourth twist his face goes beet-red. One of the freshmen blurts that Les’s dad sent him to Masters Diving Camp in Boston over the summer, which tells me everything I need to know. Masters is a game changer. College coaches from all over come out to train the springboard divers in that program.
“I heard Rocco went to Masters over the summer too,” Ace says to Les. “You see him?”
Les nods quickly. “Yeah, I saw him.” He gives us a one-shoulder shrug, then walks away.
“That was kinda weird,” Ace says.
“Agreed.” Especially since the note he left on my truck made it seem like he was hell-bent on talking to me.
Rocco going to Masters doesn’t concern me as much as Les because Rocco’s grades were never that good, even if the extra training is what helped him snag the co-captain spot at Andover.
I don’t realize I’m staring at the empty place where Les was standing until Chip hits me in the back with his duffle bag. “You coming over for pizza night?”
I have never missed a Friday night pizza night at the Langfords’. But today is different.
“I have to stop at the cemetery and check in with GP first, but I should be able to make it over.”
“Cool. I’ll catch you later,” Chip says. “For real if you plan on doing any dryland training on my trampoline.”
“I wasn’t,” I say. Though I probably should keep working on getting enough height at the apex of my dive because that would result in a higher score.
Even higher than whatever score Les might pull.
Chip looks at me like he’s suddenly keen to my thoughts on Les’s dive. “You totally nailed that reverse by the end of practice, bro. Keep doing that and you’ll be more golded than Louganis. That shit is in your blood.”
“Nobody is more golded than Louganis,” I say. “But yeah. Not too shabby. It went a hell of a lot better than this morning.”
“True, Sir Smacks A Lot,” Chip says. “Too true.”
“Give me a break.” Sully groans from his locker. “Not too shabby? Since when are you so modest?”
Craig Sullivan has been part of our circle since grade school, but right now he’s looking at me like I just drank the last beer on Monarch Night, which for him would count as a major sin.
“I have to clean it up,” I say. “You heard Coach.”
“Just don’t make me look bad at the carnival demo. Do something less.” Sully grins and scratches the scar that runs from his left nostril to his lip, a thick vertical striation he got when his youngest brother accidently whacked him in the face with a golf club. Girls love Sully’s scar. But what he really means is do something Les. As in one of his other dives. To shake him. I know he’s just messing around, but the truth is I can rip all of Les’s dives better than anyone. Except that Backward 4½ Twist.
I reach into my locker and pop an afternoon Adderall, later than normal, too late to help me with practice but I always have mounds of homework.
“If I were you,” I tell Sully, “I’d be more worried about Trey Dumas. I hear he’s perfected his Inward 2½ in pike.”
“Shit,” Sully says. “Seriously? That’s my best dive.” He walks away yelling, “Dumas, where you be, brother? We need to talk.”
Five minutes later, I’m winding my way to the student parking lot with pictures of Les Carter wearing the Cardinal jersey flooding my head. The idea of him going to Stanford on my coveted scholarship makes bile rise up in my throat. Not because I believe my dive was weaker. But because his was as good as mine. Shit. Better. I imagine Les turning in his perfect family tree. Complete with parents who are alive and well, beaming at him because he got into his school of choice. My school of choice. I rush the last dozen or so steps to the exit because I think I might hurl. For real.
The push-bar handle clacks like a shotgun being loaded as I exit the building, and my chest heaves like I took a hit. A cool September breeze hits my face and I lift my chin, taking a deep breath so my nausea subsides.
“There he is.”
Coach Porter’s voice startles me. Usually, he stays in his office until the last diver is gone, but today he’s outside, pulling photos and trophies from a cardboard box and arranging them inside a glass case. Iris is standing beside him with her notebook and purple pen at the ready.
I pull my head out of my ass. “Were you waiting for me?”
Iris smirks like hanging out with Coach Porter is part of her normal. “Waiting? No. I was just here bribing your coach for your address and phone number since you never texted me.”
My face goes slack. “I was meaning to,” I say. “Tonight. Once I looked over what I have.” Or don’t have in my case.
“I’m kidding, Theo. Relax. I only gave you my number this morning. I’m actually here because I have to write an article about one of our sports teams. The editor put me on athletics because she thought I was writing too many dark pieces. I told her I was the cemetery sexton’s daughter. Writing dark stuff sort of goes with my territory. She wasn’t swayed or impressed.”
I didn’t know that about Iris’s dad, but now it makes sense that her house sits on the edge of Pleasant Hill Cemetery.
“I was explaining to Coach Porter that since I’m working on a sociology project with you and Les, I picked springboard diving. Two birds, one stone.”
Coach raises his eyebrows like he thinks I might be in over my head with this girl.
“Did Coach Porter tell you that you’d have access to his best diver?” I try not to smirk because, really, I’m probing for what Coach made of practice today.
“Actually, he told me to go to the dive demo and make that assessment for myself.”
“You should.”
“You’re welcome,” Coach inserts, giving me that good-luck-with-this-one look again.
“I think I will,” Iris says. “But only if you promise to put on a good show.”
“I’ll do my best.” I scratch the base of my head and shift my eyes to the trophy case. “Are those for this weekend?”
“Yep. We’re finally hosting the coaches’ banquet, thanks to you and the guys on the team. There’s one from your mom’s big year,” he adds.
“Theo’s mom was a diver? I want to see.” Surprise shoots Iris’s voice an octave higher.
“I’d actually love to see that myself,” I tell Coach. “Pictures of my mom from her diving days are few and far between, since…” I stop. It’s still hard for me to say since the fire.
Coach Porter pats my shoulder and crouches to dig through the framed photos in the box.
“I swear it was here this morning,” he says. “I came in early and put the box on top of my desk so it would be ready to go after practice. I had every intention of pointing it out to you. The 1988 Individual Springboard Diving First Place Winner, Sophia Rogan, Andover Preparatory Academy. Not that I’m ever proud when E.H.H.S. takes second place. But your mom. That’s hard to forget, considering you went against legacy by coming here.”
“That was more about districting. But I’m bummed your photo is missing. Not because of the sociology project we’re doing for Malone, but for me. I never even thought to ask what you might have.”
“It’s a family history project,” Iris explains.
“I see.” Coach says, and the sympathy I’ve seen so many times before creeps into his eyes. “Well, don’t give up hope, Mackey. People aren’t erased from existence when they pass on. They always leave traces behind for us to remember them. I’ll check my desk for that photo before I lock up.”
Truth is, erasing my mom from existence is exactly what I did. The fire burned so hot and long they weren’t able to recover a body. We put an empty casket in the ground, leaving whatever scant ashes remained to blow on the wind or get picked up by bulldozers.
I glance at Iris, trying to keep any elements of guilt or grief from surfacing on my face. She smiles back like she understands, completely unaware that I’ve never gone back to try and dig memories out of the rubble at the old house. But now that I’m starting to remember—if I’m starting to remember since the parking lot may have been a fluke—then I want to believe Coach Porter is right about traces left behind.
“Sophia Rogan? I feel like I’ve heard her name somewhere before.” Iris turns her attention to Coach Porter. “Did you say she went to Andover Prep?”
I’ve seen Iris do this in class, put together smaller pieces of information to make a whole. It might be a journalism thing for her, but my mom being a former diver for Andover isn’t something I talk about openly. Even if that shit is in my blood.
“Isn’t that something?” Coach says to Iris. “We’re happy Theo chose to dive for us, especially with rival champion blood in his veins. Just wait until you get him talking about his dad. Theo might just give you the story of the year.”
“I look forward to hearing about every member of Theo’s family,” she says. “Thanks to Mr. Malone my article for the paper may have just gotten a more interesting angle.” Her eyes stay glued on me like I’m a blue ribbon–winning science exhibit at the county fair.
Zero thanks to Mr. Malone.
“Do you need a ride home?” I offer. “I’m headed that way.”
Maybe I can convince her to drop whatever angle she thinks she’s picked up for a story. The Twisting Mackeys, a tale told in motivational maxims that ends in tragedy.
“To the cemetery?” she teases. “Those are your big Friday night plans?”
“Something like that. It’s the first anniversary of my dad’s death, so I should probably swing by and—I don’t know—say something.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Theo. I didn’t realize. I should have been paying more attention.”
Everything that’s been coming out of my mouth has this girl staring like I’m an alien. I told Chip it was weird. He didn’t believe me.
“Why didn’t you say something, Mackey?” Coach asks. “You could have taken the afternoon off from practice to be with your—”
“Grandfather,” I say, letting Coach off the hook. “But then I would have missed the opportunity to see Les’s new dive.”
“You did pretty damn well yourself in that department today.”
“Thanks, Coach. I appreciate that.” I rock back on my heels. “So how about that ride?”
“My dad is on his way to pick me up for dinner. Can I get a rain check?”
“You can have an all-weather pass. Anytime. Day or night.”
“Christ,” Coach says. “You two flirty-birds are starting to make me feel old.”
“Don’t listen to a word he says, Iris. Coach can still rip dives better than every guy on the team.”
“Including you, hotshot, so keep your mind on that 5337D and play it safe this weekend. Don’t try anything stupid.” He gives me a long look meant to serve as a Monarch Night warning. Coaches can’t mention it outright, but they know all about the team’s cliff jumping tradition.
“Understood, Coach. I’ll see you Monday, Iris.” I flick a good-bye wave with my phone in my hand, then send her a text.
Aren’t phones also impermanent?
After several seconds my phone buzzes. Yes. But field trips are forever.
That’s very Hallmark greeting card of you.
I do what I can.
I’m feeling a little better about my shitty day when my phone buzzes again. I expect the text to be from Iris, an emoji or something. Instead, I find one from Les.
You need any help with your family history project?
Jeezus. Why didn’t he just talk to me in the locker room?
Nothing you can help me with, I reply.
Then I text Thanks to be polite. Because I am team captain.
People like to say the struggle is real about everything. But for me, the real struggle has always been maintaining expectation, even in crisis.