FISH OUT OF WATER

3. Hey, Mom …-1

Chapter 3

Hey, Mom …

Dad barely waits for me to get my seat belt on.

“You looked tired out there today,” he says. I’d think he was concerned about the fact that his child is tired, but it’s not that. He’s concerned that I won’t hit the times I need to place at the upcoming district meet, which means I won’t qualify for the regional meet, which means university scouts won’t pick me out of the lineup of dozens of other swimmers competing for the same scholarships and early acceptance offers.

“I am tired, Dad. It’s been a long week.” I reach over and turn on the radio. Maybe he’ll get the hint.

He lowers the volume using the button on the steering wheel. “‘Never make excuses. Your friends don’t need them and your foes won’t believe them.’ John Wooden said that.”

I don’t want to know who John Wooden is. My dad is obsessed with self-help books and people who proclaim to be success gurus. Right now, I’m so tired, I could fall asleep sitting up. I wonder if John Wooden has a quote about that.

“Talked to Coach—she told you about the butterfly workshop on Saturday?”

I nod.

“Honestly, Marina, if you want these scouts to take you seriously—just because you’re a junior doesn’t mean you have loads of time to get this right. You’re sitting at the bottom of the top ten swimmers in your division right now—as an eleventh grader—but you’re just barely there. Even with the seniors graduating next spring, it doesn’t mean you stay on that list. New kids start in the swim program every fall—you know that. One slow heat and you’re out of the top ten.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” I say under my breath.

“I know what you’re capable of. So does Coach. You just need to get your head in the game and push a little harder.”

I close my eyes and put my head back against the headrest. He continues talking. It’s a buzz in my waterlogged ears.

“Marina, are you listening?”

I pop my eyes open, my vision a bit fuzzy for a few blinks. “Dad, full disclosure: I am not listening because I have an exam tomorrow on cellular energetics, so my brain isn’t concerned about how fast I swam across the pool today.”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel and his jaw clenches. He reaches for the pocket in the dashboard and grabs a piece of gum from the plastic tub he keeps there. The car fills with the scent of spearmint. He chews to the count of ten, takes a deep breath, and loosens his grip on the wheel.

“Swim. Study. Succeed. Remember? I just want the best for you, Marina.”

“I know. And I’m trying as hard as I can to make it all work.” I prop my head in my palm against the closed window. I brave a look over at my dad to see if he is actually listening to me or if he’s still wound up. Seeing the wedding band on his finger squeezes my heart for a single beat. I don’t know how he can keep wearing it.

Man, I miss Mom.

“Just let me get through the exam tomorrow and I promise to be faster on Saturday.” On the radio, one of my dad’s songs starts up, introduced by the DJ as “an oldie but a goodie.” I like this song—he and my mom used to dance around the kitchen singing it, not hard and loud like the rock version but soft and romantic, like he wrote the song just for her. I think he probably did. He’d sing, she’d sing, they’d duet, then they’d kiss and I’d giggle and slam into their legs because when you’re five, seeing your parents sing and dance and kiss meant that all was right with the world.

With one long, guitar-calloused finger, he silences the radio, leaving only the sound of his aggressive gum chewing and our separate breaths behind.