Fire with Fire

AFTER SCHOOL LETS OUT, I GO STRAIGHT TO THE pool. The building is empty, and there’s a bluish cast because of the lighting. I hate the smell of chlorine. I set my teddy-bear beach towel along with my flip-flops down on the bleachers next to Reeve’s walking cast and his towel and gym bag. I’m wearing a white bikini with embroidered daisies and ties on the sides. It’s my cutest one. I tie my hair into a bun so it won’t get super wet.

Reeve’s already in the water. He’s got floats attached to his legs, and he’s curling his legs inward and outward, grimacing as he uses his arms to push himself forward. He’s focusing so hard it doesn’t seem like he’s noticed me, so I clear my throat. His head jerks up. “What are you doing here?” he demands.

“I’m here to practice for the swim test,” I say. “It’s a graduation requirement.”

“Well, don’t bother me,” he says. “I’m here to work, not to talk. That’s why I come here alone.”

“But you asked me—”

“I need this lane and I need this stuff here,” he says. “Don’t touch any of it.” Then he goes back to his exercises.

Seething, I grab a kickboard from the stack and make my way over to the pool ladder at the deep end. I start to go down one rung at a time, very carefully. The water is heated, but it still feels icy to me. I’ve already got goose bumps. This is so not worth it.

And my feet are still planted on the ladder.

If I were to take the swim test, I’d have to dive in and get from one end of the pool to the other two times without stopping to rest. Plus tread water for three minutes, plus float for one minute. I can’t do any of those things.

I mean, I know how to doggy-paddle. I don’t know the official strokes or whatever, but who cares? I’m not going to drown in my own pool. I don’t like putting my head underwater. I don’t like not being able to breathe. So sue me. I have plenty of other forms of exercise that I actually enjoy, like cheering, and horse-back riding, and tennis and golf. Why should I be forced to swim?

I hold on to the side for a minute, one arm on the wall and one arm clutching my kickboard. My feet can’t touch the bottom, which makes me feel panicky. Whenever I’m in my pool at home, I stay in the shallow end.

Meanwhile, Reeve has ditched the floats and is swimming like he’s an Olympian, lap after lap after lap. He barely even comes up for air. He’s pushing himself hard, maybe too hard. He’s doing the butterfly stroke, and his arms knife through the water powerful and sure, but his leg trails limp behind him. I have to admit it makes me feel better knowing he’s here. Like, if something did happen, no matter how much he hates me, he wouldn’t let me drown.

I don’t think.

I let go of the wall and start using the kickboard, holding on tight. I kick and kick my way down the lane, bobbing above the water, trying to keep water from splashing in my face. This is hard work; plus, I keep feeling paranoid I didn’t tie my bikini top tight enough. My swimsuits have always been purely decorative; they’ve never seen this much action. All in all it takes me forever—Reeve’s done three laps by the time I make it to the end.

Reeve doesn’t stop or acknowledge me. I’m floating by the ladder waiting for him to finish like some kind of swim groupie, if such a thing even exists. When he’s finally done, he yanks off his goggles and looks up at the big clock on the wall and lets out an annoyed gust of air.

Then he puts his goggles back on and starts doing laps again.

What, since his football career is a bust, he’s trying out for swim team now? I look down the length of the pool. It’s so long. I’m tempted to go home. But I’ve only been in the water for, like, fifteen minutes. I suck in a deep breath and kick off from the wall and start paddling on my kickboard again. I concentrate hard, imagining I am a duck. Kick-kick-kick.

I’m concentrating so hard on making it to the end of the lane that I don’t even notice when Reeve leaves.

On Wednesday, I’m wearing my yellow polka-dot bikini, the high-waisted one. Rennie calls it grandma chic, but it makes me feel glamorous, a bathing beauty, like Marilyn. This one doesn’t have a tie around the neck; it’s an underwire top, so it’s more secure.

It’s silent in here, except for the sound of Reeve’s kicks and splashes echoing against the tiles. I feel glum as I collect the kickboard and climb down the ladder into the pool. Same as yesterday. Yesterday we didn’t talk. Not really. And we definitely didn’t flirt.

I’m splashing and floating along toward the middle of the lane when I decide that today will be my last day. I’ve given it my all. Kat and Mary couldn’t ask for more. They’ll have to understand that I’ve done my very best to get Reeve to notice me, but this is pointless. I didn’t promise to spend the rest of my senior year on a kickboard.

I’m deciding all of this when Reeve’s bored voice calls out, “Why are you here again?” He’s hanging on to the side of the pool, shaking water out of his goggles.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk,” I say, resting my arms and chin on the board.

He ignores that. “You know they’re not going to let you use a kickboard in the swim test, right? At least that’s how I remember it. But I took it a long time ago. Like freshman year. With everyone else.”

“I know that,” I snap peevishly, and then I stop myself before I can say anything else. Not very Marilyn of me. This is my chance to make a connection, I have to make the most of it. I take a breath, and in a sweeter tone I say, “I’m just . . . getting used to doing laps.”

“What you need to get used to is putting your face in the water,” he says, swimming toward me. When he gets close enough, he splashes me right in the face.

“Quit it!” I yell, swiveling around to kick away from him and holding on tight to my board. Oh my God, I hate him so much!

Reeve makes a lunging motion like he’s going to dunk me, and I let out a scream. He grabs me by the waist, hoisting me in the air. I’ve still got my fingers clenched around my board, I’m kicking and splashing as hard as I can, but he doesn’t let go. “I said stop!” I scream, and my terrified voice echoes throughout the pool. Not because I’m afraid to be thrown. It’s his hands on me where I don’t want them to be. It’s me telling a boy to stop and him not listening.

It feels worse than drowning.

He lets go and I fall back into the water. When I come up to the surface, he’s looking at me like I’m crazy. My heart is racing; I’m breathing hard. Reeve swims back to the other end of the pool and lifts himself out of the water. With his back turned to me, he dries himself off with a towel.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again!” I scream.

He turns around and eyes me. “You’re going to have to get your hair wet eventually. If I were you, I’d worry less about my bikini and my hair and more about actually, you know, swimming.”

My mouth drops open. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t own a swim cap and a racer-back Speedo.”

He shakes his head at me like I’m some sad case. Then he walks off, and with his slight limp it’s more like a strut. The door slams behind him. And my heart is still racing.

That night, I’m digging around in my swimsuit drawer for my black one-piece to wear to the pool tomorrow. Because black says, I mean business. It’s not a Speedo—it has a halter neck and a little keyhole—but it’ll give me better support than a two-piece, at least.

I’m sifting through string bikinis when I find it. Not the black one. The red one. The one I wore that night, the night at the beach house.

My hands shake as I ball it up and throw it into the waste-basket.