Eighteen
I missed the swim practice three weeks in a row. I kept forgetting about it, and only showed up today because Cal reminded me right after school. I still didn’t know how to use the yearbook camera, and I wasn’t sure I felt comfortable being in the same room with three predators.
The pool atmosphere was exactly as I expected: sticky and humid. I had to work harder to breathe, taking long, moist gulps of air in my mouth and holding it deep in my chest before expelling it. I breathed through my mouth the entire time. Boys were diving in here and there, swimming laps, yelling and calling each other names the way men do to show camaraderie. I felt out of place and turned to leave.
“There you are,” Cal said. “Glad you could make it.”
He had on his swim gear which amounted to basically nothing. Speedos, goggles, and swim cap. I could see why girls thought he was hot. He had cut muscles, a ripped chest, and strong, thick legs. “All the better to pin you down, my dear,” I could hear him say.
“It only took close to a month,” I replied. I got right to the point. “Listen, I don’t really feel all that comfortable taking pictures. I still don’t know how to use this thing.”
“That’s not true. You used it during that chorus production,” Cal said.
“Yeah, but did you see those pictures?” I asked, chuckling. “They sucked.”
“Well, nothing like taking pictures of a practice to give you some practice, huh?”
Cute.
I smiled begrudgingly.
“Here. Lemme give you a quick tutorial,” Cal said, and ran through the buttons for me once more, watching to make sure I understood how to zoom the lens correctly. “You’re a pro,” he said afterwards, and dove into the pool.
I got splashed a little, and it annoyed me to no end.
I walked up and down the side of the pool methodically taking horrible pictures. In the beginning, I pulled the camera from my face after each shot to look at it. And every picture was the same: fuzzy splashes, and if I got lucky, maybe a hand or part of a head poking out of the water.
I quit looking at my work halfway through and decided it was time to leave. It wasn’t so much my irritation at being the world’s worst photographer. I didn’t care. It was really that I grew increasingly nervous the longer I stayed. Where was the swim coach? There was no adult, I realized, and only a handful of swimmers. Where was the rest of the team? I counted them. Just six. The swim team had at least twenty members.
I caught Parker and Tim glaring at me from time to time. I tried to ignore them. They were trying to intimidate me, and I knew why. Tim probably told his buddies about his thwarted dates and how I was responsible for them. He climbed out of the pool along with Cal.
I turned towards my book bag sitting in the far corner of the room.
“Hey, Brooke!” Cal called. “Hold up!”
I should have kept walking.
I should have.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Cal said, extending his hand for the camera. I walked over to the edge of the pool and turned it over with a huff.
“They’re really bad, Cal,” I said. “I told you I was no good.”
Cal sported a furrowed brow as he flipped through the pictures.
“You’re right, Brooke. You can’t take a picture to save your life.”
I shrugged, then screamed as I was pushed into the pool. I broke the surface breathing heavily, wiping my eyes to discover my attacker. I let loose a string of filthy words as I watched Tim dive in beside me. He hid beneath the water, and I feared he was circling me like a shark. I couldn’t touch the bottom and started panicking, kicking my legs hard to tread water.
I moved closer to the edge of the pool and was nearly there when Tim popped up blocking my way.
“You’re a jackass,” I hissed.
“Just having a little fun, Brooklyn,” Tim replied. He pushed off from the edge, wrapping his left arm around my waist and pulling me along in the water.
“Let go!” I screamed, struggling against him. My head felt heavy from the water pulling on the ends of my hair, raking wet furrows in a trail behind me.
I turned to look at the others in the water. Oh my God. How could I be so stupid? There was Hunter hanging on the edge of the pool watching. Aaron oblivious to the scene as he continued his laps. Mike, slipping through the changing room doors, ignoring my plight. Parker staring at me from a bench on the far side of the pool. All the boys in the Fantasy Slut League, and no one was coming to my rescue.
I twisted harder, pushing against Tim’s arm with all my might. But he was too strong, and in that second I cursed God for making women so fucking weak. “Get off!”
“Okay,” he said, releasing me and pushing me under the water.