Swim the Fly (32 page)

Tony Grillo and Ernie Plingus, a short, round-bellied kid from the Barracudas, head up to the starting blocks.

I breathe deep and start to go, but someone grabs my shoulder.

“Dude.” It’s Coop.

“Hey,” I say, facing him. “My race is starting.”

“I know.” Coop stares down at his feet. He looks up, giving me a closed-mouth smile. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“And . . . to apologize. For being such a deer hoof about you and Valerie.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I say. “Besides, I should be apologizing to you.”

Coop screws up one eye. I can’t tell if it’s the glare of the sun or what. “Anyway, I’ve made it up to you.”

“What do you mean?”

Coop looks around and then quickly flashes an X-Acto knife. “Let’s just say I happen to know where a certain someone’s mother does their wash.”

“What?” I have no clue what he’s talking about.

“You’ll see.” Coop claps me on the shoulder. “Now get going, dawg. Kick some Gorilla ass.” He spins me around and gives me a little shove.

I step through the gate and join Tony and Ernie behind the starting blocks.

The starter is a man in his sixties with a handlebar mustache. He stands next to the diving boards and reloads his gun. Tony Grillo and Ernie Plingus shake out their arms and legs. I wish I could say that I was feeling confident. That just being true to myself and not giving up was all that really mattered.

But the only thing I feel is a cold-clam-chowder nauseousness. I didn’t sleep five minutes last night. I must have swum this race in my mind a thousand times. And every race ended the same way. With five lifeguards diving into the pool to save me.

I glance over at Tony. He shoots me a quick, dismissive
sneer. But there’s no stare-down. It’s like he barely registers my existence. Tony rolls his head around his pro-wrestler neck. He looks straight ahead and slips his black Lycra cap over his thick, wavy hair. Slides his mirrored goggles over his eyes. The scar on his lip flutters a little.

“Go, Matt! Go, Matt!” I hear Valerie cheering from the stands. I turn and see her waving and leaping and smiling. This eases the grip in my stomach a little.

And then, standing right by the fence, I see Ulf. What the hell is he doing here? He doesn’t smile, just gives me a little nod like he’s proud I didn’t bail out. I’d like to say that it bolsters my confidence to see him standing there, but it doesn’t. It just amplifies my terror.

Two blocks down, Ernie Plingus pulls on his green swim cap.

I struggle to untangle my blue goggles. My hands are shaking. My fingers are cold, and they don’t seem to want to obey what my brain is trying to tell them. Finally, I give up and just tug the goggles over my head. The twisted rubber strap yanks my hair and then snaps.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

“Here. Take mine,” Sean says, hurling his goggles over the fence. They land at my feet.

“Thanks,” I say, picking them up and pulling them on.

The starter walks up to the side of the pool, with the loaded gun at his hip. “Swimmers, on your marks.”

I step onto my starting block. The textured plastic prickles the soles of my feet.

“Get set.” The starter raises his pistol.

I curl my toes over the edge of the block, knees bent, back straight, leaning forward, head down.

I’m ready. Waiting for the sound of the gunshot.

And that’s when I hear a loud ripping noise. Like someone’s just torn a T-shirt in half.

My first thought is that I’ve split my bathing suit. I barely have time to glance between my outstretched arms to check before I hear the loud BANG of the starter’s pistol.

I spring off and into the air.

Right before I hit the water, I hear a cacophony of shrieks and laughter. I have no idea what’s going on, but it’ll have to wait until after the race.

When I surface, I find my sloppy rhythm. The first length goes by pretty fast. I spin off the far wall of the pool and start on my second lap. I glance to my left and see I’m keeping pace with Ernie. Tony is long gone. He’s probably done and drying off already.

Each time my head lifts from the water, I can hear the cheers of the crowd over my breath. And then it’s the
whoosh
of the water and the muted thump of my heart. I know the cheers aren’t for me, but I pretend they are, anyway. I use them to keep me moving, even as my arms and legs quickly drain of usefulness.

On to the third lap now. I look over again and see that Ernie and me are still neck and neck. There’s a chance I could actually take second. But I don’t know. I’m starting to drag.

I lift my head, and a swell of water flushes up my nose and into my mouth.

The chlorine burns my throat. I start coughing. I’m tempted to break stride and start swimming freestyle.

But something keeps me going.

I hit the wall and turn into the final lap.

I CAN SEE THE END OF THE SWIM LANE.
The starting block. The timer lady wearing a pink baseball cap, crouching down with her stopwatch. She glances to her right, and then she focuses back on me.

Everything burns. My muscles, my lungs, my eyes. I want to hang on. I do. But I just don’t know if it’s physically possible. My brain says go, but my body is quitting on me.

Then, out of nowhere, Valerie drops into my mind. Her laughter. Her sweet smell. Her cheers.

And the image of her moves me forward.

I trawl through the water.

I will my head, my arms, my shoulders up.

I force my legs to give one last kick.

And I slap my hands into the ledge.

Finished.

Thank God.

I turn my head and see Ernie Plingus floating into the wall like a dead sea lion pushed onto the beach by a wave.

Ernie looks over at me and shakes his head. He can’t believe I beat him. And neither can I. I’d smile if I didn’t feel like throwing up.

“Congratulations,” the timer lady says.

“Thanks.” I drag myself from the pool. My arms are dead.

The timer lady looks at her watch and laughs. “I think it’s a new record.”

“Oh, yeah?” She’s making fun of me, but that’s okay. I’m just happy I finished.

“Well, I can’t imagine anyone else has ever come in first with a worse time. Three minutes, forty-six seconds.”

“First?” As I say this, I see my entire team surging through the gate. They’re all headed toward me, whooping and shrieking.

Mom and Grandpa Arlo and Peter and Valerie are caught up in the pack, but they are leaping and smiling and waving.

“How is that possible?” I say.

“Tony Grillo was disqualified.” The timer lady smiles at me. She steps aside as all the Razorbacks swarm around me.

There’s a chorus of screams. “You did it! You did it! We won! First time in thirty-four years! Holy crap!”

Coop and Sean are right beside me, slapping me on the back.

“Tony breached his Speedo.” Sean laughs.

“You should have seen it, dude,” Coop yells over the crowd. “He flashed his saddle bags to all of Rockville. It was friggin’ awesome.”

“He leaped from the starting block and ran into the bathroom,” Sean says.

I narrow my eyes at Coop, who smothers a laugh. “It’s amazing what a few light strokes with a sharp blade will do to Lycra.”

“You’re insane.” I crack up and fling my arms around my two best friends.

We walk through the crush of our cheering teammates. Three of the most out-of-shape champions you’ll ever meet.

I glance over to the fence and see Ulf walking toward the parking lot. It’s strange. I was wishing he hadn’t come, but now I’m glad he was here.

“So,” Sean says as we approach Valerie and my family, “this has been a totally kick-ass summer. The only thing is, how are we supposed to top it next year?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Coop smiles big, looking over at a busty lifeguard in her
Baywatch
Speedo. “I’m sure we can come up with something.”

“All right!” Ms. Luntz screams. “All Razorbacks on the bleachers for the team photo.” She blows the hell out of her ear-piercing whistle. “Let’s go, people! Move it! Before the Tricentennial.”

As I pass Mom and Grandpa and Peter, Mom gives me a confused glance.

“I thought you guys took your team photo weeks ago,” she says. “With the shirt and tie and towel?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, my eyes sliding sideways. “I’ll explain later.”

Valerie comes running up and wraps me in a hug.
“Très magnifique!”
She plants a big kiss on my lips right in front of the entire Rockville Swimming Association.

“Merci,”
I say, which gets me another kiss because we’ve found kisses work even better than candy with the French lessons.

Shannon Motts starts singing “We Are the Champions,” and even though a few people grumble, Coop, Sean, and me join right in, and soon the whole team is belting it out as we make our way up onto the bleachers for our first team photo as gold-medalists.

Ms. Luntz does her best to arrange us roughly by height, with the taller swimmers at the back, but Sean pretends not to know what’s going on and sits right next to Coop and me, even though his face will probably be hidden by Gregg Zuzzansky’s big head.

The photographer adjusts his camera. He points the
lens at us and says to smile. As if he really needs to tell us this.

“One, two, three,” he says.

The shutter snaps and the flash pops, freezing us all in time.

And with that, the summer is officially over.

I am indebted to many people for helping make this book what it is. My deepest gratitude and thanks to: Kaylan Adair, for plucking my manuscript from the slush pile, for her tireless and exceptional effort in editing this manuscript, and for putting up with my countless e-mails and questions about everything from em dashes to Jolly Ranchers; Liz Bicknell, for her comments and suggestions and for being the mysterious and encouraging “editor behind the scenes”; Jodi Reamer at Writers House for her guidance, wisdom, and direction; Ken Freeman and James Fant, my writing-group cohorts, for their brilliant, writerly advice; Christianne Hayward and her Lyceum Book Clubs for their enthusiasm and recommendations; Caroline Lawrence, Kate Cunningham, and James Weinberg for all their hard work on the design of this book, inside and out; Hannah Mahoney and Karen Weller-Watson for their eagle eyes in copyediting; Sharon Hancock for championing this book to schools and libraries; and everyone at Candlewick — people whose names I may never know (though I’d like to) — for all their hard work in getting this book into shape and getting the word out.

Most of all I want to thank my wife for just about everything, including seeing a novel in a couple of short stories I wrote, and for not leaving me alone until I wrote it.

DON CALAME
is an accomplished screenwriter who has worked with Marvel Studios and the Disney Channel, among others. About
Swim the Fly,
he says, “This novel began as a short piece I wrote several years ago about an incident that happened to me when I was a teenager on the swim team. (Yes, I have the collection of green fifth-place ribbons to prove it.) I tucked the story away and promptly forgot about it until my wife gently nudged me — thirty-six times — to expand it into a book. I’m grateful she was so persistent, because I’ve never had so much fun writing something in my life.” Don Calame was born in New York and now lives in British Columbia with his wife, his stepson, and their two dogs.