“What time?” I ask, remembering Addie signed in at 6:30.
“Six thirty,” she says with confidence. “You can ask anyone.”
I don’t need to ask anyone to know Addie was there and Corinne wasn’t. But I do know if I asked anyone but Addie, they’ll all tell me Corinne was there. That’s what people do to suck up to the popular group. But I get the feeling Addie wouldn’t be too concerned with the wrath of someone like Corinne. Or even the ripple effect because of it.
Her friends duck into the locker room when it’s obvious there’s nothing to see, but Corinne is still going on about her workout routine when Addie comes out of the locker room in her Speedo. She’s got two wide swaths of white sunscreen, one down her nose and the other across her cheeks, that make her face look a little like the Swiss flag, and her strawberry hair is tamed back into a tight ponytail. As she passes by I see a long, jagged, pink scar on her right shoulder that I hadn’t paid close enough attention last week to notice. She pulls on a swim cap and dives in without looking at either me or Corinne, then starts swimming warm-up laps.
“We’re going to get started in a few, so you might want to think about changing out,” I tell Corinne.
Not watching Addie is taking a Herculean effort, but the last thing I need is for Corinne to notice I’m stressing. She gets her teeth into that and finds out why, it would be a matter of minutes before I was in the principal’s office explaining myself.
She heads to the locker room, and though I have every reason not to stare at Addie, I no longer have the excuse. She could ruin what’s left of my pathetic life with one word. All day yesterday I agonized over what to say to her when I saw her today and came up with nothing. There’s no explaining away what I said and did on that park bench Saturday. The best I can hope for is she gets that it was a mistake and pretends it never happened. Which I’m totally on board with.
I watch her cut through the water like it’s helping her along rather than slowing her down. She looks like me out there, totally at home. She’s still going at two thirty when the rest of the team is gathered on the pool deck getting the nets ready. She finally stops when Corinne throws one of the goals down right in her path and she runs into it.
“Sorry.” Corinne sneers, but it’s pretty damn clear she’s not.
Addie swims over and connects the goal anchors to the pool edge.
“We’re going to focus on technique today,” I tell the team. “Most of my returning players have the eggbeater kick down, but none of you are maintaining position in the water the way you need to.”
None of them but Addie, that is, but I’m not about to draw that kind of attention to her when it’s clear she doesn’t want it.
“The stronger your legs are, the easier it’s going to be to maintain position and lift when you need to shoot or block. I noticed a few of you blew off conditioning this morning.” I give Corinne and Melanie pointed looks. “That’s not going to help your cause when it comes to earning a spot in the pool once league starts. No one’s position is guaranteed. I don’t care what year you are or whether you were a starter last year. You all made this team and you’re going to have to work for your spot in the pool.”
Corinne has a smug smirk on her face. She crosses her arms, pushing up her boobs and enhancing her cleavage. This is on purpose, I know. A diversion tactic.
Not going to work.
“Everyone take four warm-up laps, then form a circle. Eggbeater kick, three balls going at all times. One-handed passing and catching. Any drops will add minutes.”
They all climb in, Corinne and the other two returning seniors grumbling. After their warm ups, they work on their treading. I watch the three balls being passed around and not a single one goes to Addie. She’s treading higher and more quietly than anyone else in the pool. Almost no upper body motion at all.
She’s good.
I make a mental note to ask her what her deal is.
And then I realize, after Saturday, I should steer clear of any actual one-on-one conversations with her.
“How long do we have to do this?” Melanie asks, and I’m happy for the distraction despite her whining tone.
“Until I say you don’t have to anymore,” I answer, lowering myself onto a starting block and looking over my roster. Four names down my alphabetical list of twelve is Addaline Grace.
“I don’t get why—” Melanie’s complaint is cut short when a ball hits her in the face. She squeals and she goes under for a moment. “Who did that?” she screeches as she resurfaces.
No one confesses.
It’s fifteen minutes later that a ball finally comes anywhere near Addie, and I’m convinced it’s because whoever threw it is tired and their toss went astray. On reflex, she lifts six inches and catches it effortlessly…in her left hand. Then she throws to the player farthest from her, hard and spot on. And just like that, I’ve got my right wing.
Provided she doesn’t get me fired.
Chapter 2