is inside my walk-in closet, so the only other furniture in my room is a tall white bookcase. The books are allcrammed into the bottom shelf—the rest is full of trophies. The ones that don’t fit go in a case in Dad’s office right alongside the only empty shelf in the house, the one waiting for an Olympic gold.
It’s late. I should be sleeping, but I’ve had more sleep than I’m used to. Still, it was a stressful day. Connor was pissed about the interview. He said Coach just gave it to Alec for the publicity it’ll bring the program and that there’s no way Alec is getting a scholarship from Stanford. He said Coach just wants people to hear that athletes relocate to train with him.
I nearly told Connor about the steroid comment, but Jen talked me out of it. Alec wouldn’t dare say anything without proof—which doesn’t exist. If I tell Connor, he’ll go ballistic. They still have to swim a relay together.
I smile, remembering the way Connor slid his arm over my shoulder as he drove me home. He parked next door so Mom couldn’t see out the window and pulled me close for a kiss. Connor said my chest looked fine to him, which deserved the eye-roll I gave him. But then he was really sweet and said not to worry.
“If something was wrong with your heart,” he whispered against my earlobe, “you could never have broken a record on Saturday. You’re Fins,” he added. “Fastest girl in the water.”
“And you’re the fastest guy,” I whispered back.
“Darwin, baby.”
Then we kissed until the windows fogged up.
A sudden sharp but quiet
tap tap
at the door pulls me back to the present. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I sit up, bunching the pillows behind my shoulder. “Yeah?” I call out in a half whisper.
The knob turns, and Dad sticks his head in. “You still awake?”
“Yeah.”
He comes in and the hall light follows him in like a spotlight. He’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, and I can smell Crest mint toothpaste. No matter how old I get, whenever I smell mint toothpaste, it will remind me of Dad and our late-night talks.
We had our first talk when I was six years old. I’d just swum in my first meet at the local community center and won three first places. After each race, I ran to Dad with the blue ribbon and pressed it into his hand. “I’m one,” I said. I didn’t even know enough to say
first
.
“One and only,” he said. Then, on the back of the ribbons, he wrote the swim event and my time. He bought me a slushie, and I chose blue raspberry. Blue meant water and winning. I wanted to fill myself with as much blue as I could hold.
I went to bed so happy that night. I was replaying it all in my head when Dad slipped into my room. He sat at the edge of my bed and went through the whole race, how I’d looked and where the other kids were and how I pulled away each time. It was like watching a movie of me.
The late-night talks became a tradition. He’d start with the meet I’d just won and then he’d tell me exactly what it would be like when I swam in the Olympics. I could see it so clearly as he spoke. I could smell the water and feel the sun on my skin and taste the need in the back of my throat.
I loved those nights when I’d hear the tap on my door. Mom didn’t know, or if she did, she didn’t say anything. It was our time. His visions, wrapped around mine. I didn’t realize it then. But my dreams were born on those nights when I wouldn’t sleep at all.
Things hadn’t turned out right for Dad. He didn’t talk about it very much, but I understood. His collarbone had healed, but the disappointment still ached. “I never got a chance to see what I could do,” he said the night of our first talk. “But you will. And you’ll be better than I ever was.”
I didn’t think anyone could be better than my dad. I still don’t. And the big moments were never quite real until I heard that
tap tap
.
Tonight, there was more to talk about than my
It’s late. I should be sleeping, but I’ve had more sleep than I’m used to. Still, it was a stressful day. Connor was pissed about the interview. He said Coach just gave it to Alec for the publicity it’ll bring the program and that there’s no way Alec is getting a scholarship from Stanford. He said Coach just wants people to hear that athletes relocate to train with him.
I nearly told Connor about the steroid comment, but Jen talked me out of it. Alec wouldn’t dare say anything without proof—which doesn’t exist. If I tell Connor, he’ll go ballistic. They still have to swim a relay together.
I smile, remembering the way Connor slid his arm over my shoulder as he drove me home. He parked next door so Mom couldn’t see out the window and pulled me close for a kiss. Connor said my chest looked fine to him, which deserved the eye-roll I gave him. But then he was really sweet and said not to worry.
“If something was wrong with your heart,” he whispered against my earlobe, “you could never have broken a record on Saturday. You’re Fins,” he added. “Fastest girl in the water.”
“And you’re the fastest guy,” I whispered back.
“Darwin, baby.”
Then we kissed until the windows fogged up.
A sudden sharp but quiet
tap tap
at the door pulls me back to the present. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I sit up, bunching the pillows behind my shoulder. “Yeah?” I call out in a half whisper.
The knob turns, and Dad sticks his head in. “You still awake?”
“Yeah.”
He comes in and the hall light follows him in like a spotlight. He’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, and I can smell Crest mint toothpaste. No matter how old I get, whenever I smell mint toothpaste, it will remind me of Dad and our late-night talks.
We had our first talk when I was six years old. I’d just swum in my first meet at the local community center and won three first places. After each race, I ran to Dad with the blue ribbon and pressed it into his hand. “I’m one,” I said. I didn’t even know enough to say
first
.
“One and only,” he said. Then, on the back of the ribbons, he wrote the swim event and my time. He bought me a slushie, and I chose blue raspberry. Blue meant water and winning. I wanted to fill myself with as much blue as I could hold.
I went to bed so happy that night. I was replaying it all in my head when Dad slipped into my room. He sat at the edge of my bed and went through the whole race, how I’d looked and where the other kids were and how I pulled away each time. It was like watching a movie of me.
The late-night talks became a tradition. He’d start with the meet I’d just won and then he’d tell me exactly what it would be like when I swam in the Olympics. I could see it so clearly as he spoke. I could smell the water and feel the sun on my skin and taste the need in the back of my throat.
I loved those nights when I’d hear the tap on my door. Mom didn’t know, or if she did, she didn’t say anything. It was our time. His visions, wrapped around mine. I didn’t realize it then. But my dreams were born on those nights when I wouldn’t sleep at all.
Things hadn’t turned out right for Dad. He didn’t talk about it very much, but I understood. His collarbone had healed, but the disappointment still ached. “I never got a chance to see what I could do,” he said the night of our first talk. “But you will. And you’ll be better than I ever was.”
I didn’t think anyone could be better than my dad. I still don’t. And the big moments were never quite real until I heard that
tap tap
.
Tonight, there was more to talk about than my
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