FISH OUT OF WATER

4. The Three S’s-2

“Marina … time to wake up.” My dad nudges my shoulder. I don’t want to know what time it is—one eye cracked open reveals that it’s still dark outside.

I groan. “Please … sleep …”

“It’s a gorgeous morning and no rain so come on. Let’s run. Two miles before school is the best way to start your day!”

“The sun isn’t even up,” I murmur into my pillow.

He yanks my comforter off. I guess that settles it.

“Downstairs in five!” he throws over his shoulder on his way out of my room.

I yank on a pair of Spandex running pants and a tank top and zip-up sweatshirt. I can hardly see my laces to tie them. How can a human person be this tired and still be alive?

Moving down the stairs, I’m more blob than feet and legs taking steps. Dad hands me a glass of fresh juice from his latest overpriced juicer—I think we now have four in the cupboard? The green goo tastes like he mowed the lawn, shook out the trimmings, and added an apple to mask the earthy flavor. I pinch my nose to swallow, trying not to imagine ground-up worms and bugs in this latest concoction.

I’d normally be at the pool this morning, but every fourth Friday, they do a maintenance thing where we can’t swim until noon. What a pity. Every fourth Friday is basically my favorite day of the month. Except when it’s not raining and my dad makes me run instead of swim.

After a few stretches on the porch, Dad sets the pace. My uncle Tim teases his brother now about how fit he is, how important nutrition and wellness has become to him. He stopped drinking alcohol completely, though Tim still gives him a hard time about his rocker days, how my dad didn’t even know the food groups existed and how he single-handedly kept all the local takeout restaurants in business. The more grease, the better.

Not anymore.

We’re a few blocks from the house and I’m falling into my breathing pattern that ensures I’ll be able to run as long as he wants, despite the lawn trimmings bouncing around in my belly. Though it’s not raining, it is late October and fall is well underway, the early air bitingly cold. We live in a suburban neighborhood filled with families with little kids, so just about every house we pass has their Halloween decorations on full display. Pumpkins and skeletons and witches, oh my!

“So,” Dad says, eyes forward as he pounds the pavement, “I heard you last night. In the locker room. Everyone did.”

I don’t say anything. It’s too early to get into an argument about me singing. It’s singing, Dad, not grand larceny.

“You sounded good. Really good,” he says. I jerk my head at him for a few steps.

“Thank you?”

He smiles at me but I’m not sure if I should take the bait.

We get through the first mile and stop at our usual turnaround spot to swallow some water. My dad sips carefully—he says if you gulp water during your run, it will give you a stomachache when you need to burp. I’ve never found this to be true, but he can do what he wants as the self-appointed expert. I gulp my water heartily.

He tightens the lid on his bottle, his eyes on me. “It’s not that I don’t want you singing. You know that, right?”

I almost choke but swallow without spraying a mouthful of water all over him. “It sorta seems like you don’t want me singing.”

“It’s just—I—”

“I know. The music industry is toxic and terrible and they will ruin my life. I get it.”

His face is so sad as he looks away, off into the distance. “I’m just trying to protect you. You can sing all you want—at home. You’ve got an incredible voice. Like your mom’s. Beautiful and full and your range is something most singers can only dream about.”

“But …?”

“I just need you to focus. Swimming doesn’t have to be your life—you don’t have to grow up and be Coach Tosto or anything.”

“Seriously, that is not going to happen.”

“And I know that.” He flexes his back, wincing. Probably a tight muscle from an old injury sustained when he was a wild skateboarding, rock-playing teenager—the complete opposite of me. “The three S’s: swim, study, succeed, right? It’s important that you focus now. College is expensive. Scholarships are only available to the best of the best. It’s not that I didn’t plan for your college expenses—we can manage it, though it’ll be tight—but you are too skilled a swimmer to let this opportunity get away from you. Universities across the country are going to be fighting to get you to sign with them IF you can improve these heat times. IF you win at districts so you can go into the regional meet at the top of the rankings list—”

“DAD, I know all this. Can we just run? I don’t want to be late for school.”

The light in his eyes, the one he gets when he starts dreaming about what my future will look like, dims a little. “I just want you to know that I’m pushing you so hard because I love you. I want what’s best for you.”

It’s too early for a heart-to-heart. “Thanks.” I step off the curb and start toward home, my dad falling into step beside me.

“I’ll do the butterfly clinic Sunday morning, but I’m going to Sierra’s for a sleepover tomorrow night. That’s cool, yeah?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the pool at eight on Sunday?”

“A day off would be nice,” I say, hoping he’ll agree. His jaw tenses again. “Yeah, Dad, I can get to the pool at eight.”

“Does it have to be a sleepover? I can come pick you up whenever you guys are done … doing whatever it is teenage girls do on a Saturday night. No boys, right?”

“Daaaaad,” I growl. “It’s Lily and Sierra. We will probably go to a movie or karaoke or get sushi or something completely benign and boring and boy-free.” I hope he doesn’t see my fingers crossed in my fist. It’s not my fault if Charlie shows up to see Sierra, or if Steve magically appears to see Lily. He doesn’t need to know anything about my friends having boyfriends, or then he’ll get all weird about them possibly trying to find me one too. (As if that would be the most terrible thing in the world … ugh.)

He doesn’t say anything; I can see I’m on the verge of Saturday night not happening at all.

“It’s Sierra’s birthday,” I lie. “She’d be super sad if I missed it. We’re just going to do something quiet. No party or anything. You know we’re not like that.”

“Didn’t Sierra just have a birthday?”

I don’t answer.

We finish our run in silence, which is preferred as the way home is uphill and talking is too hard. I wait for Dad to unlock the front door and then follow him into the kitchen, noting that I have just enough time for a quick shower and to toast a bagel.

I stop on the bottom stair. I’m not leaving this morning without a solid answer that I can go out this weekend.

“So, yeah? Saturday is cool?”

Dad is stuffing more celery and twigs into his juicer. “As long as you can be at the pool at eight on Sunday morning, I don’t see a problem.”

I fly up the stairs on winged feet before he can change his mind, flopping my sweaty butt onto my bed and grabbing my phone.

I can go! I can GO! He said yes! I type into the group chat, followed almost immediately by celebratory emojis and GIFs from my two friends.

Okay, Friday. Let’s do this.