Addie
“Newton’s Third Law states that, for every action, there is an opposite but equal reaction,” Mr. Mathis says from the front of my physics classroom, pointing at some formula he’s written on the board.
I want to raise my hand and tell him Newton didn’t get it quite right. The “opposite” part is true, but the “equal” part, not so much.
Case in point: my life—or lack thereof for the last two years.
But I don’t raise my hand. Ever. Because that’s an action that could have a reaction. Actions are to be avoided at all costs.
The bell rings, cutting Mr. Mathis off mid-sentence. He glares at the clock, obviously irritated by the shortened period today. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” he yells over the instant chatter. “Tonight’s homework is up on the website.”
No one’s listening. It’s the end of the day, so most of them checked out before seventh period even started.
I collect my things and blend into the sea of humanity flowing through the door and into the hallway. It’s a half-day for Back to School Night or something stupid like that. Before Mom died, Dad used to come to these things, but I haven’t bothered to tell him about this one. The likelihood he’d come even if he knew is nil. All it means for me is that water polo practice is cancelled.
But that’s not going to keep me out of the pool.
Tryouts were three weeks ago, and despite my pathetic teammates, or maybe because of them, practice is my outlet. In the anger management class they forced me into after Mom died, the counselor said exercise is one of the best stress relievers. Finally, someone told me something useful. Running or lifting weights sounded like torture, but being in the water seemed to settle the storm raging inside me. I’m happier there alone, but swim season is only in the spring, so I play polo in the fall.
I head to the pool as everyone else streams out the front doors into the bright late September sun talking about where they’re going to lunch. With everyone gone, the pool should be quiet and I can get some laps in.
On the way through the gym, I slow as I pass the trophy case along the wall of the lobby. There are pictures of all the league and section championship teams since 1968, when the school was built. As I move slowly up the row, the pictures become more current. Near the end of the row, I find what I’m looking for.
Marcus Leon is one of only two athletes in the history of the school who has an individual picture with a brass plaque under it. I read the accolades: league record holder in all the freestyle and butterfly sprints, as well as the 200 Individual Medley; state record holder in the 100 butterfly; three year captain of the two time Division II State Champion water polo team, where he earned First Team All-State all four years. And then, tacked onto the bottom, a second plaque outlines all of his accom-plishments at UCLA, including leading his water polo team to two National Championships.
When she found out I played water polo, my calculus teacher asked me if I knew my coach had been his class valedictorian five years ago—another feather in his cap. As if there weren’t enough of them already. Apparently, he was one of her favorite students.
I feel my whole body warm, some places more than others, as I stare at his picture and I mentally flog myself as I turn for the doors. It is so high school cliché to crush on your hot coach, and I don’t do cliché.
But I swear he asked me out.
I waited for the entire practice the Monday after we met at his sister’s wedding for him to say something to the team about burgers at Sam Hill. I was pretty sure he’d been flirting with me, but until he nearly flipped out, I didn’t realize that he hadn’t recognized me. But then he started stammering about team bonding and whatever and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure…until he said nothing about a team dinner to the group.
Since then, I’ve shown up and done my job—which basically entails taking out my aggressions on the water, the ball, and my teammates—without really even looking at Marcus.
I cross the athletic complex to the pool house and am a little surprised to find the gate unlocked and no one around. I change in the locker room and dive in, taking a few warm-up laps.
Usually, when I swim, the world drifts away and my mind settles into a hum…white noise. But not today. Today it’s full of images that I can’t seem to shake of Marcus in the pool. Every afternoon before practice he swims, and watching him is nothing short of a religious experience. The way the water moves around him as he strokes smoothly through it, I’d swear he’s part dolphin.
I drag myself out of the pool to stretch, spreading my legs slightly and bending to touch the pool deck between my feet. When I glance between my legs I see Marcus sitting in a molded plastic chair near the locker room.