voice.
“Anyway, we’ve still got the summer,” he said, punching me lightly in the arm. “And hey, they need guards at the pool,” he added, stepping back to his family. “You should apply. We’d have fun.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I managed to get out.
I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, texting my dad that I was ready for a ride.
With the graduates gone, the school year tapered down for the rest of us. Summer swim club was in full swing by late May. Dara worked me like a mule, and if I complained, I got the lecture: “Three years I’ve devoted to you, Mueller. You’re not going to crap out on me now.”
“But you’re not even going to be here to train me in two months,” I argued. “What happens then?”
“I told you not to worry about that.”
But I did worry about it. I was looking for any assurances I could find that my Dara days were numbered.
We were swimming outdoors for the summer while the high school pool underwent repairs. Summer had barely started and already I was tan. Hours upon hours I swam, thousands of yards a day. Plus Dara had me weight training at the gym until I was so sore I could barely lift my arms. I ate like a pig and slept like the dead — I had energy for nothing else. I fantasized daily about how I was going to break it to Dara that I was cutting back on training. But I could never bring myself to actually do it. For one thing, I was getting visibly stronger, which I liked. I also liked the idea of my name going up on the record board at the school pool one of these days — maybe even next season, with my medley relay team, if D’Amico’s replacement was strong enough. And maybe even in that hundred breast slot before I graduated. Some fucker had gone a 59-low back in 2005, so I had my work cut out for me.
Mostly, though, when it came down to it, I could stand being achy and exhausted more than I could stand fighting with Dara. Besides, it helped me pass the days until Meg’s return. And since learning that my mom had invited them for dinner their first night in, anything that distracted from my obsessing was a good thing.
The night before she came back, she sent me the following message:
Tomorrow’s the big day . . . I guess we’re coming for dinner? It was really nice of your mom to invite us. My dad is pretty psyched to see your dad.
My dad was excited, too, but I could tell he was trying to keep a low profile about it. My mom was tense, but it seemed like she was trying to be positive. She and I were baking a rhubarb pie for the dinner. I hoped Meg still loved rhubarb pie. How many times had we sat drumming our fingers at my kitchen table, waiting for my mom to say the pie had cooled enough to cut into, which took eons? Mason had called it “boo-bar” pie. He always insisted he wanted a piece and then never ate it. He didn’t really like it — or any dessert that wasn’t made of chocolate — he just wanted to do whatever Meg and I were doing. Sometimes Meg would bail on our plans to go to the pool when Mason cried because he couldn’t come, too. Man, that used to piss me off. I loved spending time with her away from our parents’ watchful eyes — especially when it involved a bikini. At times like that, I thought Mason was a royal pain in the ass, and to this day I hate myself for that.
I stared at the screen and cracked my knuckles, wondering how to respond. Finally, I typed:
I’m glad our dads will get to hang out again. It’s been too long.
I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then I added:
I’m glad
we
get to hang out, too.
I hit Send before I could change my mind. My palms started sweating as I waited for her response.
Finally, it came:
Oh, Otis. That’s so good to hear. I’m nervous. About so many things. And I know it’s time to face them. But it is very hard, not knowing how you feel. I’m afraid you hate me. I wish I knew what was going through your mind.
Okay, not hearing from her for three years had been
“Anyway, we’ve still got the summer,” he said, punching me lightly in the arm. “And hey, they need guards at the pool,” he added, stepping back to his family. “You should apply. We’d have fun.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I managed to get out.
I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, texting my dad that I was ready for a ride.
With the graduates gone, the school year tapered down for the rest of us. Summer swim club was in full swing by late May. Dara worked me like a mule, and if I complained, I got the lecture: “Three years I’ve devoted to you, Mueller. You’re not going to crap out on me now.”
“But you’re not even going to be here to train me in two months,” I argued. “What happens then?”
“I told you not to worry about that.”
But I did worry about it. I was looking for any assurances I could find that my Dara days were numbered.
We were swimming outdoors for the summer while the high school pool underwent repairs. Summer had barely started and already I was tan. Hours upon hours I swam, thousands of yards a day. Plus Dara had me weight training at the gym until I was so sore I could barely lift my arms. I ate like a pig and slept like the dead — I had energy for nothing else. I fantasized daily about how I was going to break it to Dara that I was cutting back on training. But I could never bring myself to actually do it. For one thing, I was getting visibly stronger, which I liked. I also liked the idea of my name going up on the record board at the school pool one of these days — maybe even next season, with my medley relay team, if D’Amico’s replacement was strong enough. And maybe even in that hundred breast slot before I graduated. Some fucker had gone a 59-low back in 2005, so I had my work cut out for me.
Mostly, though, when it came down to it, I could stand being achy and exhausted more than I could stand fighting with Dara. Besides, it helped me pass the days until Meg’s return. And since learning that my mom had invited them for dinner their first night in, anything that distracted from my obsessing was a good thing.
The night before she came back, she sent me the following message:
Tomorrow’s the big day . . . I guess we’re coming for dinner? It was really nice of your mom to invite us. My dad is pretty psyched to see your dad.
My dad was excited, too, but I could tell he was trying to keep a low profile about it. My mom was tense, but it seemed like she was trying to be positive. She and I were baking a rhubarb pie for the dinner. I hoped Meg still loved rhubarb pie. How many times had we sat drumming our fingers at my kitchen table, waiting for my mom to say the pie had cooled enough to cut into, which took eons? Mason had called it “boo-bar” pie. He always insisted he wanted a piece and then never ate it. He didn’t really like it — or any dessert that wasn’t made of chocolate — he just wanted to do whatever Meg and I were doing. Sometimes Meg would bail on our plans to go to the pool when Mason cried because he couldn’t come, too. Man, that used to piss me off. I loved spending time with her away from our parents’ watchful eyes — especially when it involved a bikini. At times like that, I thought Mason was a royal pain in the ass, and to this day I hate myself for that.
I stared at the screen and cracked my knuckles, wondering how to respond. Finally, I typed:
I’m glad our dads will get to hang out again. It’s been too long.
I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then I added:
I’m glad
we
get to hang out, too.
I hit Send before I could change my mind. My palms started sweating as I waited for her response.
Finally, it came:
Oh, Otis. That’s so good to hear. I’m nervous. About so many things. And I know it’s time to face them. But it is very hard, not knowing how you feel. I’m afraid you hate me. I wish I knew what was going through your mind.
Okay, not hearing from her for three years had been
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