Surviving High School (6 page)

Emily stared at the screen for a moment, her fingers hovering over the keys.

Emily logged off, closed her laptop, and flopped onto her bed. She felt bad for holding back, but the story of today’s swim practice was just too embarrassing to talk about.

More than that, she’d wanted to tell Kimi what had happened with Nick, but when the time had come, she just couldn’t type the words.
Hey, you know that guy who was driving the night Sara died? Well, I totally bumped into him today in the cafeteria!
Ugh. What a bunch of stupid drama. Why couldn’t Nick Brown have left her alone? They just had to make it through
one
year, and then he’d be gone.

Emily pulled off her jeans and T-shirt and slipped under the covers. No matter how long she showered after practice or how much shampoo she used, her hair still smelled of chlorine afterward. Her pillow reeked of it. But Emily had gotten used to the smell; it was her sister’s and her own.

In the dark of her bedroom, with the covers pulled tight around her, she could almost imagine everything was fine. She tried to concentrate on things that made her happy: the trophies lining her wall, the feeling of water on her skin, and Ben Kale.

The next time Emily saw Ben was right before swim practice. School had just ended for the day, and most of the other kids had already left. Emily was at the intersection of the school’s three main hallways and the long corridor leading to the indoor pool when she saw two figures approaching fast. One was medium-sized, the other huge: Ben and Spencer. She could just barely make out what they were saying as they ran toward her.

“Mission accomplished,” said Spencer as they neared Emily. “Dominique is going to freak. I totally owe you one.”

“Are you kidding?” asked Ben. “This is the most fun I’ve had all year.”

As they reached the intersection, Spencer pointed down a hallway to his right.

“Better split up,” he said. “Rendezvous at your place in thirty?”

“I’ll see you there.” Looking around, Ben noticed Emily for the first time. Pausing to catch his breath, he said, “Hey, it’s you. Yogurt.”

Emily frowned. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their next conversation going.

“My name isn’t Yogurt.”

“Sure,” he said. “Look. Do me a favor. If school security comes by, tell them I ran that way, okay?” He pointed down a random hallway before turning toward the door to the girls’ bathroom. “Oh—there’s no one in there, right?”

“I don’t—” But before Emily could say another word, Ben had slipped inside. She stood stupidly for a moment, waiting to hear shrieks from inside. Everything was quiet. Lucky guy.

She hesitated. Practice would be starting soon, and her dad didn’t appreciate tardiness, to say the least. But if she waited here long enough, Ben would come out of the bathroom and talk to her. Maybe he’d even learn her name.

As she waited, a man in a brown school-security uniform ran up. He looked down at her menacingly through dark sunglasses. The name tag on his chest read
OFFICER MONTE
.

“Hey, you,” he said. “See anyone run by?”

He scratched a bead of sweat from his black mustache and rubbed it against his pant leg. His nose twitched as if he were a bloodhound, tracking Ben and Spencer by scent.

“Uh—” said Emily.

“A correct response would be either yes or no,” the officer
said. He looked suspiciously over Emily’s shoulder at the bathroom door.

“A couple of guys ran off that way,” said Emily, pointing down the hall that Ben had indicated earlier. Without another word, Monte ran down the hallway at full speed, one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing off.

“He gone?” asked Ben from inside the girls’ room.

“Yeah.”

Ben opened the door and peeked out.

“Wow,” he said. “Girls write
way
dirtier stuff on the bathroom walls than guys do. I didn’t see you mentioned anywhere, though. Too bad.”

“Well, most people don’t call me Yogurt.”

“I know. But Emily Kessler? That’s just so, I don’t know—boring. Yogurt suits you way better.”

For a moment, Emily was speechless. He knew her name. He must have asked someone about her. Maybe he’d even Googled her—or Facebook-stalked her! Her photos didn’t show up to strangers, right? Kimi had posted that one of them dressed up like Uma Thurman and Lucy Liu in
Kill Bill
for Halloween!

“Uh, Yogurt?”

“That’s not my name!” Emily said, crossing her arms, but she couldn’t keep from smiling. There was no doubt about it. He was flirting with her.

“Hey!” They heard a shout at the end of the hall. “You! Stop right there!”

“That would be my cue to leave,” said Ben as they looked
down the hall to see Monte charging toward them full-speed. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Anyway, I’d better get to practice.”

He was backing up now, ready to turn and run.

“You never know when swim practice might be canceled!” he shouted. “I’ll see you around!”

Ben turned and fled, Officer Monte following close behind. For a moment, Emily stood watching them, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Ben Kale knew her name, had just spent two minutes flirting with her, and had said he wanted to “see you again sometime.” But what did he mean about practice being canceled? She walked down the empty hall toward the pool.

The rest of the swim team, still in their street clothes, stood by the blocks as Emily entered the gym. The girls peered nervously at the water as Emily’s dad paced back and forth, swearing under his breath. The pool was green. Bright green. And instead of chlorine, it smelled like apples.

“Uh, what’s going on?” Emily whispered to Hannah Carmichael as she joined the crowd.

“Apparently some
boys
dumped, like, thirty vials of green food coloring into the pool. And maybe some other stuff, too, based on the smell.”

“I think it smells kinda yummy,” said Amanda, a cute, red-haired girl who was one of the weaker swimmers on varsity and a notorious airhead. “I kind of want to drink it.”

“No one’s drinking it!” shouted Emily’s dad. “No one’s so
much as dipping a pinkie toe in there until we drain the thing and pump in fresh water. Who knows what chemicals are in there? I’m not getting sued by some mother whose daughter’s skin turns green.”

“So is practice canceled?” asked Lindsay hopefully.

“Absolutely not,” said Emily’s dad. “The school still has a weight room, doesn’t it? Unless someone turned that green, too.”

So much for Ben’s plan of getting practice canceled. The girls muttered insults and cursed their luck as they marched toward the locker room to change into workout clothes. Lindsay and Amanda breathed in deeply as they left the room, filling their nostrils with the pleasant apple scent.

“You two, wait,” said Emily’s dad, pointing to Emily and Dominique. “I’m pulling you out for the first hour to talk to a reporter, Maria St. Claire from
Swimmer’s Monthly
. I believe I mentioned she’d be coming? She’s waiting in the hall.”

The two girls exchanged a worried glance. This sounded like a bad idea.

“She’s talking to us together?” asked Emily.

“Is there a problem with that?”

Yes
, Emily thought.
There’s a big problem: Dominique and I hate each other!

She smiled weakly.

“No problem at all, Coach.”

Five minutes later, Maria St. Claire had shaken the girls’ hands, introduced herself, and escorted them into an empty
classroom, where she pulled three combination desk-and-chair sets together to form a group.

Up close, the overpowering citrus scent of the reporter’s perfume made Emily’s eyes water. There was something too neat about the woman that set Emily on edge. Miss St. Claire’s mascara seemed so carefully applied that Emily wondered if she’d done it one lash at a time, and her eyebrows were heavily plucked and redrawn in dark makeup, as if she’d gotten overzealous with a pair of tweezers and had to make up for it later.

Miss St. Claire whipped out her laptop and began to tap furiously at her keyboard as she asked them questions. The first few were pretty standard:
How much time do you spend practicing? How’s your life different from a typical high school student’s? What gives you a leg up on all the other young swimmers out there?

Emily smiled and gave the same polite answers she’d rehearsed in her head.
I practice every day. I’m just a normal high school kid. As far as winning goes, I just
want
it more.

“Okay,” said Miss St. Claire. “Now for the juicy stuff. As two of the top swimmers in your age group in the nation, do you ever find the rivalry spilling from the pool into the outside world?”

Dominique and Emily looked at each other nervously. Uh-oh. This story was no puff piece: Miss St. Claire was here to get some dirt. Emily imagined the headline now:
POTENTIAL OLYMPIANS IN THE WATER, SPOILED BRATS ON DRY LAND
.

“Outside the pool—” started Emily.

“We’re totally friends,” said Dominique. “I mean, not BFFs or anything, but we’re definitely—close.”

“Is that right?” asked Miss St. Claire, looking doubtful. “Several people I talked to seemed to think that—”

“I think it’s hard,” interrupted Dominique. “Er, for other people to understand the kind of competitive spirit that gets into you when you swim at the highest level. But if it comes off as anything but an in-the-pool rivalry, that’s just—wrong.”

Looking disappointed, Miss St. Claire hit the Delete key several times and scrolled down her list of notes, searching for a new line of questioning. As she got to something near the bottom, she looked at Emily and smiled.

“Dominique,” she said. “Thanks so much for your time. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few more questions for your ‘friend.’ ”

Dominique got up, a strange mix of emotions on her face.
She’s glad to be done with the interview
, thought Emily,
but worried about what I’ll say once she’s gone
.

“Not a problem,” Dominique said. “Thanks
so
much for the questions.” She glared at Emily with a look that said
Don’t screw this up
. “See you later, Em.” She left the room, her blond ponytail swishing behind her.

As Dominique closed the door, Miss St. Claire turned back to Emily. Her eyes sparkled with something, but was it genuine concern or false sincerity?

“Emily, it’s clear to me that you’re the real story here.”

“Huh?”

“I’m talking about your motivations. Yes, clearly you and Dominique both want to win—but with you it goes deeper.”

What was Miss St. Claire getting at? Emily’s parents had tried to make her visit a counselor after Sara’s death to talk through her grieving, but she’d hated it and refused to speak during her sessions, and after a couple of unproductive months, they’d given up. She felt like she was back in that therapist’s office now.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Fine,” said Miss St. Claire. “I should be more direct. Emily, you come from a family of successful swimmers…”

She trailed off, as if hoping Emily would get the hint. Emily ignored her and looked out the window, where the sun hung low in the sky.

Miss St. Claire continued. “Your father, Coach Kessler, is of course a former Olympian”—Emily refused to react—“and your sister, Sara, set a Juniors Nationals record at the age of sixteen, before her tragic death last spring. What’s it like trying to live up to such a legacy?”

Emily felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“Emily?” asked Miss St. Claire.

Emily sat perfectly still, acting as if Miss St. Claire was some horrible dinosaur that could see its prey only when it moved. No such luck.

“Emily, help me out here. How does it feel to have that kind of fam—”

“How do you think it feels?”

“Well, I don’t know, sweetie. That’s why I’m asking you.”

Emily’s face was getting hot with blood.

“It’s just—it’s just so stupid. I could sit here and explain how I can’t get into a pool without thinking of my older sister, or how I follow the
exact
same training regimen my dad designed for her, even her sleep schedule down to the minute. Or how before I ever check my times against Dominique’s, I check them against Sara’s.”

Miss St. Claire was typing furiously, trying to get every word.

“Sara—” said Emily. “She could have won medals, too. Way more than my dad ever did. But she didn’t get to. And if I don’t work just as hard as she would have—if I don’t live up to that—I mean, what was it all for? And now here you are asking all these questions about her, just trying to turn all this into some kind of—some kind of
story
.”

“You’ve got me all wrong,” said Miss St. Claire, stopping her typing for a moment to look Emily in the eye. “Of course I’m looking for the best story, but I’m on your side. I’m going to make you a hero. I’m going to make you a star.”

The
Swimmer’s Monthly
article came out three weeks later. Emily’s father flopped it down in front of her as she ate a bowl full of hard-boiled eggs, and she nearly choked on one when she saw the cover. It was her, tearing through the water, a wet spray hanging in the water beside her outstretched arms. The
headline read:
AMERICA’S BEST SHOT FOR GOLD: HOW ONE GIRL’S QUEST TO FULFILL HER SISTER’S LEGACY FUELS AN OLYMPIC DREAM
.

“Congratulations,” said Emily’s father, beaming. “You’re famous.”

Emily felt sick.

“Dad,” she said, “the cover? Really? Now everyone in school is going to think I’m—that I’m—”

“A great swimmer,” he said. “And I don’t think too many kids at the high school read
Swimmer’s Monthly
.”

And he might have been right—

Except that the next Friday, both the school paper and the local one picked up the story and ran it on the front page.