In Deep Read Free

could swim. How unbeatable I could be.
    There were a series of tricks and things I had to use at first—games I’d play with my brain and ways I’d secretly reward or punish myself—but eventually they worked. Now, no matter how tired I am, no matter what’s going on, or how tempting another few minutes of sleep might seem, once I get myself up and started, it’s like my body just knows what to do.
    The best thing is, it always works.
    I can’t say the same thing for Louis. Unlike me, he needs about three cups of coffee and some kind of sugary carbohydrate before he can function, and every morning it’s like he’s dragging himself out of the house at 6:45 for the first time. When I get down to the kitchen, he’s leaning against the counter and staring into his cup like he can’t remember why it’s there.
    â€œLouis?”
    â€œMmph?” Bags under his eyes. Paunch over his belt.
    â€œYou ready?” I’m laughing at him. He knows it.
    â€œHow many more weeks of this?”
    â€œFive. And then we get to start summer practice.” I clap my hands cheerleader-style.
    â€œIt’s an hour later than all this noise, at least.”
    I pat him on the shoulder and give him a little shove toward the garage door.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    It’s not that he’s not into my swimming. Once I joined the club, Louis was more serious about it than I was in some ways. He even changed his work schedule around so he can take me to school, go into work, and then leave an hour earlier than everyone else to take me to practice. The day after my sixteenth birthday, Louis took me for my driver’s test, just for safety’s sake, but even though we’re better off now, we still can’t afford another car. This deal works out okay. That there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts between my school and his office is an added bonus for him, but he really does care. And I know it.
    We leave our neighborhood, the radio droning classic rock, though the volume’s barely up. As we pull onto Monroe, I point to a dusty maroon station wagon with a low-hanging back end.
    â€œOn his way home from a janitorial shift at one of the office complexes downtown.”
    This is our game. A way to not just sit in the car silently focused on how tired we are or feel like we have to talk about anything else, either. I started it my first summer practice with the club as one of the ways to trick myself. Louis still enjoys it, even during the school year. It’s another thing that’s comfortingly automatic about my life: playing this game with Louis every morning instead of anything else.
    â€œWhich complex downtown?”
    â€œUm . . .” I try to remember any names.
    Louis makes the sound of a buzzer and slaps the meaty heel of his hand on the steering wheel. “Too slow, too slow. What about her?”
    We’re passing the gas station that’s a famous hangout for hookers and drug deals.
    I make the buzzer noise myself. “Too easy.”
    â€œOkay, this guy.”
    And like that, all the way to school.

4
    THAT I DON’T CARE MUCH about school is an understatement. But it isn’t because I’m so absorbed in my swimming. (Though that is a mighty convenient justification, for many teachers.) Instead it’s the senseless, mind-numbingness of the whole situation. The timed bells. The shuffling to the lockers. The disgusting cafeteria. The way we’re all supposed to be so excited about cheerleading and baseball scores and yearbook and all that. People say sixteen is the best year of your life—they make such a stupid deal of it. But sixteen? The pinnacle? Not for me, thanks. Of course it’s true that even the best swimmers have pretty short careers, but that’s why I’m looking for a swim scholarship to a decent college, away from here. It’s not like I haven’t thought this through. Whether my high