Sink or Swim (12 page)

WATER, WATER, EVERYWHERE

EVER HEAR OF
“Drinkwater's theory of relativity”? I didn't think so. It's sort of like Einstein's theory of relativity. Only not as well-known. I came up with it last year while waiting in Nurse Nancy's office for my tetanus booster, and I only told two other people in the entire solar system. Right. Sam and Lucille. Here's how it goes:

Time expands in proportion to how much you are looking forward to something. It contracts in proportion to how much you are dreading it.

Here's how it works. Pick a time period. Any time period. Like today, for example. The actual time that elapsed between the beginning of my first-period science class and the beginning of my horrible, terrible, stupid, terrifying, end-of-day swimming practice, as measured by the clock in the cafeteria, was exactly six and a half hours.

The relative time? Less than five minutes. I might as well have been hurtling through space in Han Solo's spaceship at a velocity surpassing the speed of light; that's how fast it went.

And now the hour of doom is upon me. I trudge dejectedly down the stairs like I am on my way to my own funeral. Which, come to think of it, I sort of am. Because when I refuse to go into the water today, Coach Grubman is going to kill me. And if
he
doesn't, Principal Muchnick will.

“You are valkink very slowly, Mr. Drinkvater,” Mr. Arkady observes when he spots me.

“I'm on my way to swimming practice, Mr. Arkady.”

“Let me congratulate you,” he says. “You are doink a magnificent job of not gettink there.”

“Thanks.”

“I vuss hopink you verr becomink more accustomed to the water, Mr. Drinkvater.” He strokes his long, pointy chin with his bony hand.

“No such luck, I'm afraid,” I reply, thinking about last night with a shudder.

“You vill. Don't worry. You'll see.” Mr. Arkady looks at me sympathetically. “On a scale of one to ten, how hard vuss it for you to ace your science midterm the udder day?”

“One, I guess,” I reply. “I do well on tests.”

“Why is that?” Mr. Arkady asks.

“I never really thought about it. It just comes naturally, I guess.”

“And so vill svimmink, yunk lizard. Venn you let it.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I glance at the clock on the wall. The end-of-day bell is going to ring any second. Practice is about to start. I twiddle my claws and shift about anxiously on my very large flippers.

“You come from a lonk line of vater-lovink creatures. You do nut haff to learn to
svim
. You haff to learn nut to
stop
yourself from svimmink. Eet ees een your DNA.”

I think Mr. Arkady just gave me some really good advice about swimming. Only I could barely understand a word he said. But before I have a chance to ask him to repeat himself, the bell rings.

I race into the hallway and tear down the back stairs to the locker room. I've got to get to practice early so Craig Dieterly and his Bandito friends won't be there to make fun of me when I change into my bathing suit. I dash down the basement corridor and into the boys' locker room. Great! Nobody's here yet. I rip off my clothes, shove them into an open locker, and throw on my bathing suit before anyone arrives.

I walk slowly out of the locker room and stare at the Olympic-sized pool that lies before me. The combined odor of chlorine and mildewed towels hits me in the snout like a cement pillow. “Never going in. Never going in. Never going in.” Let them yell at me. Let Coach Grubman wheedle and threaten and complain. How much more can my teammates hate me than they already do? I am
never going in
.

Speaking of my teammates: where is everybody? It's much too quiet in here. I don't hear any shoving and pushing. Craig Dieterly's obnoxious laughter doesn't echo through the tiled cavernous space like a delirious hyena. No one's even making farting sounds with his cupped hand and his underarm. It's unnerving.

Suddenly wet feet slap against the tiled floor. I quickly turn to see every one of the fifteen Sardines lined up behind me in a solid phalanx. No one says a thing. They just lock arms and walk slowly, inexorably toward me, like those terrifying townspeople who have had their brains scooped out in
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
.

What do they think they're going to do, push me in? I'll yell for Coach Grubman and he'll come to my rescue. Coach might not like me all that much, but he can't exactly afford to have a student drown during swimming practice, either. Which is when I start to feel relieved. Which is when it dawns on me that Coach Grubman is nowhere to be seen.

I know this because when I holler “COACH!!!!!” at the top of my mighty lungs, not one single person comes running out of the locker room to stop them.

“Save your breath, Swamp Thing.” Craig Dieterly doesn't even bother to raise his voice. “It's just you and us,” he says, gesturing to the other Banditos, who continue their steady march toward me. “Coach Grubman isn't here to save you this time.”

“Yes, he is,” I insist feebly. “He's about to open the door any second. Oh wow. Listen to that.” I cock my pointy head to one side. “Here he comes now. I can hear him with my superpowerful creature hearing.”

“No, you can't,” Norm Swerling murmurs.

“Oh yeah? How do
you
know?” I try to sound tough and brave. But all I really sound is scared and little. Which, considering I am eight and a half feet tall and weigh over seven hundred and fifty pounds, is something of an accomplishment.

“Because Coach Grubman put a note into our cubbies saying he'd be fifteen minutes late for practice today, only somehow you never got yours,” Dirk or Dack Schlissel says smugly.

Craig Dieterly smiles cheerfully. “Say, what's this I see in my bathing suit?” Dieterly pulls out a wadded-up, soggy piece of paper and unfolds it. “It's got your name on it, Minnow Mouth.” He holds it up and waves it at me. “What do you know? It's a note from Coach Grubman.” I don't even bother to look. “Hey, Drinkwater, are you ready for a nice refreshing dunk? Heads up, fellow Sardines. On the count of three we play ‘push the creature into the pool.' Ready, everyone? On your mark . . . get set . . .”

“Please don't. I'm begging you. I can't swim.”

“What did you say?” Craig Dieterly cups his ear. “I can't hear you,” he taunts.

“He said he can't swim,” Larry Wykoff whispers urgently. “I don't know if this is such a good idea, guys. It could be really dangerous.”

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you, Wykoff.” Craig Dieterly glares viciously at him. “Everybody, man your battle stations and . . .
go!!!
”

My teammates gather around and start pushing me toward the dreaded pool. I push back as hard as I can, but my flippers slip and slide on the tiled floor, and within seconds I crash into the deep end.

The team cheers wildly as my head sinks beneath the water. I reach blindly for the edge of the pool, coughing and spluttering, until I get a firm grip with one of my claws.

I take a deep, satisfying gulp of air. And then another one. But Craig Dieterly and the Schlissel twins try to pry my claws loose. I am about to slip back into the water when Coach Grubman races into the room shouting, “What's going on here?”

“If you tell on us you're done for, so don't even think about it,” Craig Dieterly whispers furiously into my earflap.

Coach Grubman's rubber band is spinning around his hands so fast you can barely see it. “It's unsafe to go into the water without an adult present. You should know better. I'm surprised at you, Drinkwater,” he barks. “Do you hear me?”

“But Coach . . . you don't understand . . . I didn't do anything. I was just . . .”

“I don't want to hear another word.”

“We told him not to go in, but he wouldn't listen to us, Coach,” Craig Dieterly lies.

“
Enough!!!
” Coach grabs my shoulders and helps drag my enormous bulk from the pool. “You will remain silent and stay out of trouble for the rest of practice. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.” So I lie by the side of the water and watch as Coach blows three ear-splitting blasts into his whistle. Evidently this is some kind of secret code for people who understand whistle-blowing because everybody springs into action and runs around choosing teams.

Within nanoseconds, four groups of Sardines are eagerly lined up along the deep end of the pool while I watch, numbly, from the tiled floor. Swimmer after swimmer completes his qualifying rounds for tomorrow's big meet against the Carbondale Catfish.

Finally Coach Grubman blows another couple of blasts on his whistle. It must be the end of today's practice because everyone gets out of the pool. Thank goodness.

“Get some rest tonight, ladies and germs,” Coach announces through his bullhorn. “The bus for Carbondale leaves at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon from the rear of the building. Be on time. And be prepared to whup those pesky Catfish like they've never been whupped before.”

“YEAH!!!!!!!!” The entire team throws their towels in the air and erupts into raucous sustained yelling and screaming. I can't quite make out what they're saying, but it appears to involve some form of killing or maiming. I get to my feet and walk shakily in the direction of the locker room.

“Hold on, Charlie,” Coach Grubman calls. “You are officially on the swimming team, and that means you have a role to play at this meet, just like everyone else. You're going to be our mascot at the game tomorrow.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Coach says simply. “Here's your outfit.” Coach hurls an enormous green felt Sardine costume at me. I catch it in my claws. It's got stupid-looking rubber fins, big dumb googly eyes, and silver sparkles all over it.

Oh no. Tell me this isn't happening. I can't wear this thing in public. I'm already strange-looking enough. I'll never live it down.

Coach hands me a few pieces of densely typed paper neatly stapled together. “These are your cheers. Learn them well, and perform them with plenty of pep. Don't slack off. Don't screw up.” He turns on his heels and heads for his office.

According to Drinkwater's theory of relativity, tomorrow afternoon's meet will be starting in approximately twenty-five minutes and fifteen seconds. The countdown has begun.

JUST DESSERTS

“TURN OUT THE
lights, Fred,” my mom calls from the kitchen. “It's time.”

My dad jumps up from the table and switches off the chandelier, plunging the dining room into relative darkness.

Light spills in from the hallway. I can still see Aunt Harriet grinning from ear to ear. It's her birthday today, and boy is she happy.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday . . .” My mom pushes open the door with her hip and enters the room. Her face glows from the light of fifty-three brightly burning candles. She proudly carries in the same high-calorie, sugar-laden, dense chocolate mocha fudge birthday cake she makes every year. Aunt Harriet loves it. I dare you to think of a dessert Aunt Harriet
doesn't
love. No wonder she's got a heart problem. Balthazar lies eagerly at her feet, waiting for a morsel of food to drop.

We all join in the song. My dad conducts with his fork. Dave throws a handful of confetti. Uncle Marvin toots his noisemaker enthusiastically. Aunt Harriet just stares at the cake longingly and licks her lips. “Make a wish, Harriet,” my mom says as she carefully sets her creation down on the table. My aunt closes her eyes tightly and scrunches up her face for so long the candles have left a puddle of sticky wax over much of the cake by the time she gets around to blowing them out.

Aunt Harriet always takes forever to make her wish. I never knew why before. I do now. I bet she's wishing that Stanley's happy and safe. She must miss him a lot. I wish I could tell her how noble and brave he is. And how much he enjoys living under Crater Lake. But I can't. Not now, anyway. Not while he's still searching for the antidote. When I got home from school this afternoon, I put his dinner out behind the garage. His breakfast was gone. But last time I looked, dinner was still sitting there, untouched. I hope nothing happened to him.

“When are you planning to cut the cake, Doris?” Aunt Harriet asks as soon as she blows out the last candle. “I'm starving.” Evidently being sad about her son hasn't affected her appetite.

“Soon, Harriet,” my mom replies. “But first, in honor of
your
special day, I'd like everyone at the table to tell us about one special thing that happened to
them
today. You go first, Marv.”

“Got my finger stuck in a bottle this morning,” Uncle Marvin says cheerfully. “Boy, did that hurt.”

“What's so special about that?” my dad asks.

“Got it out again!” He laughs and waves his bandaged finger.

“When do I get my cake?” Aunt Harriet persists.

“What about you, Charlie?” My mom ignores her sister. “Do you have anything special you'd like to tell us about?”

“Not really,” I say.

“Charlie got chosen to be the team mascot at the big swimming meet tomorrow,” Dave says proudly. “That sounds pretty special to me.”

“How'd you find out, Dave?” I ask under my breath. “I wasn't exactly planning on telling anyone.”

“It's all over the school website, little bro. Sorry.”

“That's amazing!” my mom exclaims. “Can you believe it, Fred! Team mascot? What an honor! Your father and I can't wait to come to Carbon-town or wherever you said the meet was and cheer you on, Charlie.”

“We sure can't!” Dad exclaims. “This is wonderful. When do we leave?”

“Count me and Harriet in, folks.” Uncle Marvin toots his noisemaker in my earflap. “We're so happy for you, Charlie!”

“It's really not such a big deal, guys,” I protest. “Let's not get carried away here.”

“Are you kidding?” My dad beams. “I wouldn't miss this for the world!”

Maybe
you
wouldn't, Pop, but I sure would.

“I'm ready for my cake now,” my aunt says mournfully. “Is anybody listening?”

My mom is way too excited to pay attention to her sister. “We'll have to ask Mrs. Pagliuso to join us; I know she'll want to be there. And Fred, honey, make sure to check with your office to see who needs a ride to the swim meet. We'll probably have to rent one of those airport-type van thingies. I hope there's time.” She gets up and clears the table. “Don't worry, Charlie, I'll start making decorative banners as soon as I'm done with the dishes.”

I really wish my mom didn't make such a big deal out of everything. When Dave stopped wearing his retainer, she invited his entire freshman class over for a pizza party to celebrate. She bought Balthazar freeze-dried salmon treats and a shiny yellow raincoat when he graduated his obedience training course last year. He got special honors. Just like every other dog in his class who didn't bite the instructor.

“Cake, cake!” Aunt Harriet cries and reaches for the untouched dessert.

“My goodness, I was so excited about Charlie being team mascot, I nearly forgot the most important part of the meal.” My mom snatches the cake out of Aunt Harriet's hands and starts slicing it into perfectly symmetrical wedges.

“For my wonderful sister on her fifty-third birthday.” She puts the first piece on a plate and proudly presents it to my aunt. Aunt Harriet gobbles up every molecule of that piece of cake faster than you can say “if the birthday girl isn't careful, pretty soon she is not going to be able to get through the front door.”

“You get the coffee, Fred, and I'll finish cutting the cake.” My mom likes to run things almost as much as she likes to cook. “Dave and Charlie, you see who wants ice cream. Isn't this a wonderful evening!”

“I'd love another piece of that cake, Doris,” Aunt Harriet says. “With a scoop of strawberry ice cream on the side.”

“Can you wait until I've served the others, Sis?”

“No,” Aunt Harriet says calmly. “I can't.”

Just then, the doorbell rings.

“Fred, honey, can you see who that is?” Mom calls.

It's Principal Muchnick. I can smell him all the way from the front porch. Today he reminds me of Balthazar's breath mixed with chocolate chip cookies. It makes me feel a little hungry and a lot like I want to throw up.

Somehow I don't think he is here to congratulate me.

My mom doesn't even look up when my dad brings our principal and his flunky Doc Craverly into the room. “I'm afraid we're busy celebrating my sister's birthday tonight, gentlemen.” She calmly finishes cutting the cake. “We don't have much time. I hope you understand. What's going on?” My mom doesn't like Principal Muchnick very much. And she doesn't hide it very well, either.

Principal Muchnick clears his throat several times before he begins. “I'm here to discuss your son, Mr. and Mrs. Drinkwater.”

We all look at him expectantly.

“I won't be long. I'm anxious to get to the bottom of this whole messy situation, as I'm sure are you.”

“As far as we're concerned, there is no situation, Principal Muchnick,” my mom says quietly and simply. “Messy or otherwise. Our son tells us he is innocent. We believe him. What else is there to discuss?” She passes the cake around the table.

“Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . I see,” Doc Craverly stammers. “Charlie is certainly a lovely . . . uh . . . boy . . . that's for sure . . . and you have every ra-ra-ra-reason to uh . . . believe . . . uh . . . whatever it is you want to believe . . . uh . . .” Doc Craverly does not do well with confrontations. Or any other form of human interaction, for that matter.

“Butt out, Craverly,” Principal Muchnick says ominously. Doc Craverly appears to shrivel like a dried prune. He hunches over, bites his lip, and stares at his shoes. My friends and I call this his “default” position.

“Doris, this dessert is outstanding!” Uncle Marvin beams. “Anyone who can bake this well deserves to have her own store. Don't you agree, Principal Muchnick?”

“I really never thought about it before, but . . . uh . . . yeah . . . sure.” After an awkward pause, Principal Muchnick continues. “As you undoubtedly realize, Mrs. Drinkwater, there are two sides to every story. I hope you will do me the courtesy of listening to this discussion in the friendly and open-minded spirit with which it is intended. I assure you I will do the same.”

Friendly
and
open-minded
are not exactly words I would use to describe Principal Muchnick.
Stubborn
,
arrogant
, and
smelly
would be a lot more like it.

“I hope so,” my mom says tersely.

“Yes . . . well . . . anyway . . .” Principal Muchnick says. “As you may or may not know, the police are no longer interested in pursuing the three robberies, as all plaintiffs have agreed to drop criminal charges. So it remains for Dr. Craverly and myself, on behalf of the school, to come to our own conclusion as to the guilt or innocence of your child.”

Doc Craverly looks up cheerfully and seems to wink at me several times. I can't tell if he's trying to be friendly. Or has something in his eye. Or has simply developed an eye twitch. I try my best to ignore him.

“Just one more tiny little piece, Doris,” Aunt Harriet whispers insistently. “And don't forget the strawberry ice cream, please.”

“Not now, Harriet,” my mom whispers back. “And what have you concluded?” she asks the principal, her voice rising.

Principal Muchnick pulls out a small, dog-eared yellow pad containing several pages of notes from his vest pocket. He begins to read aloud. He can't even look us in the eye. “Several factors have contributed to our belief that Charlie is indeed guilty of all three crimes.”

“I thought this man was the school principal,” Uncle Marvin comments. “Is he an experienced forensics professional?” Principal Muchnick gives Uncle Marvin a dirty look.

It's not exactly late-breaking news that Prinicipal Muchnick thinks I'm guilty. If someone steals a paperclip, he calls me into his office the next morning and reads me the riot act.

“First and foremost,” Principal Muchnick continues, “several additional eyewitnesses have come forward and placed your son at the scene of the Hollabird robbery, in addition to Mrs. Dieterly. Not only that, but we have studied the forensics of the case in great detail and can now prove beyond a reasonable . . .” He pauses while he turns the page and tries to find his place.

“I'm listening, Principal Muchnick,” my mom says softly. “But I don't know for how much longer.”

“My sentiments exactly,” my dad mutters.

“Harumph,” Aunt Harriet agrees, wiping the excess frosting from her extremely chocolaty lips.

Principal Muchnick finds his place and continues, unruffled, “. . . beyond a reasonable doubt that the robber was well over seven feet tall, and possessed unusual and highly advanced climbing skills. In addition, a number of clawlike marks were found at the scene of every crime, as well as . . .”

Uncle Marvin gets up and shakes his fist. I've never seen him so upset. “This is all circumstantial evidence at best, and we don't appreciate it one bit!”

“We understand you have a difficult job on your hands, Principal Muchnick,” my dad says. “Somebody in this town has definitely done a lot of bad things, and if it's one of your students you're going to have to do something about it. But you've made a terrible mistake. It isn't our son you're looking for.”

“Charlie Drinkwater never broke a rule in his life,” my mom says.

Not exactly true, Mom, but thanks for standing up for me anyway.

“He is one of the most honorable people you'll ever meet,” she goes on. “And if you thought twice about it, you'd realize what damage you're doing to this poor child with your unfounded accusations.”

I wonder if she'd be saying this if she knew I snuck out last night and went swimming in Crater Lake without even a lifeguard present.

“He's innocent, Principal Muchnick,” Dave says quietly.

“I appreciate your sentiments, everybody. But you're the boy's family. What else are you going to say?” Principal Muchnick motions to me. “Come over here, Charlie.”

My mom squeezes my claw, and I get up from my place at the table and walk slowly over to the principal. I lean way down and he looks me right in the eye. He is so close to my snout I am becoming light-headed from the toxic smell of his cologne.

“I want you to listen to me very closely, Charlie. Doc Craverly and I are your advocates. We're on your side. We're here to help you.” Principal Muchnick wants to help me about as much as I want to play defensive linebacker for the Stevenson Middle School football team. “But I only have so much patience.”

He's not kidding. You could put all of Principal Muchnick's patience into a thimble and still have enough room left over for a couple of raisins and Craig Dieterly's heart.

“I'm offering you an opportunity, young man,” Principal Muchnick continues. “The opportunity stands for the next twenty-four hours: confess to these thefts, and we can all move on and forget about your childish pranks. But if you remain silent, I will throw the book at you. Mandatory weekend study halls. Daily cleaning of the teachers' lounge. Weekly therapy sessions with Doc Craverly.” Doc Craverly looks up gratefully. “I'll put you on the basketball team. It won't be pretty. And it will all be on your permanent transcript. Understand?”