My skin starts to tingle, not from anticipation but from a sudden sizzling lightning bolt of fear, the fear of screwing up that blossoms inside me like an infinitely expanding fractal. That fear is an old enemy, and yet sometimes startlingly new. Even now, when I should know what to expect, it sneaks up behind me and leaps on my back, knocking the air from my lungs and wrapping its arms around my chest so tightly that I can barely breathe.
But there’s nothing I can do about it—I’m already on the block. As Amber closes in on the wall, I make the calculation, that inexplicable formula learned through what seems like a million years of racing. I give it one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three—then I jump.
The moment I hit the water, instinct tells me something’s off, but everything feels okay. I’m an arrow beneath the surface; the momentum from my dive, my painstakingly perfected streamline and my powerful dolphin kick are enough to get me to the fifteen-meter mark before my head breaks the waterline.
Arms back, then out, and then I’m flying.
My muscles are tense, and the first few strokes are a struggle while I search for my rhythm. Once I find it, my body melts into the swim so naturally that it comes as more of a surprise than a relief. I haven’t felt this good, this capable, in months. Even my left shoulder, which sometimes bugs me, isn’t a problem today. Fear loosens its grip, and a rush of water carries it away.
By the first turn, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic, and by the second I’m almost hopeful, though I can tell from quick spot checks that my creakiness off the start has lost me some of Jessa and Amber’s lead. I’ll make it up. I’ve done it before; I can do it again. Otherwise, what has all of this been for?
The surge of confidence pushes me harder into each stroke, and by the final lap I’ve caught up to the swimmer on my left, who passed me at the midpoint of the race. I put everything I have into that final sprint and slam into the wall like it’s done something to me. Like I’m punishing it.
Casey explodes off the block, soaring over my head. I heave myself out of the water, limbs shaking with the aftershocks of enormous effort. It’s a familiar, gratifying feeling, one that reminds me that, whatever happens, I worked my ass off. No hay peor lucha que la que no se hace, my abuela always says. There’s no worse struggle than the one that never begins.
I may be struggling, but there’s no denying I began a long time ago. And still, here I am.
The first thing I usually do after a race is look for Dave, but this time I’m too busy cheering for Casey as she tears up the pool, scraping out a lead of half a body length. Everything happens so fast; it’s not until she jams the heel of her palm into the timing pad that I realize we’re winning. That we’ve won.
I turn toward Dave, beaming with a mixture of shock and pride, expecting to see a look of, if not joy, then certainly approval on his big, ruddy face.
But he isn’t smiling, he’s glaring—at me.
What? I mouth.
He holds up his left hand and creates a circle with his pointer finger and thumb. At first, I think he’s telling me everything is OK, but then he turns his hand over, giving me the same gesture except upside down, and I realize he’s literally spelling it out for me: d. q.
I shake my head and exchange a bewildered look with Jessa and Amber. Casey’s still in the water, accepting tepid congratulations from the girls we beat.
Over the PA, the announcer broadcasts our first-place finish. Dave must be wrong. I replay the race in my head, searching for any mistake I might’ve made, and come up empty. My times have taken a hit, but I’m impeccably trained, and I know the rules.
Except...there’s that weird feeling I had when I entered the water, that something was wrong. It hits me again and this time I can’t shake it. I feel suddenly exposed, like in one of those dreams where you look down to realize you’re naked. I’ve always stood out on a pool deck, even before I shot up six inches, because I’m one of the few brown kids on a mostly white team. But this is different; it feels like everyone knows something I don’t, and they’re all waiting to see the truth crash down on me.
It’s excruciating.
Dave points at one of the officials who was assigned to watch our lane for infractions as he scurries over to the judges’ table. They huddle, whispering, then break apart. Dave turns his finger to the ceiling and, as if on cue, the announcer gets back on the PA.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have disqualified the Gilcrest Aqualions for a false start by Susannah Ramos on the butterfly leg of the 400-meter intermediate medley relay. The first-place finish in that race has been awarded...”
I stop listening as a wave of hot shame pours over me. Amber puts a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she says. “It happens.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say with forced lightness. Sometimes I wish she weren’t so nice. I don’t deserve her comfort, or anybody else’s. I failed them. I failed, yet again.
My muscles are shaking from exertion and I feel kind of faint. I need to warm down, drink some water, scarf an energy bar. But I can’t move. My gaze locks on Dave.
He’s looming over the judges’ table, arguing against the DQ the way he would for anyone else—wild gestures, flying spittle, red-faced bluster, the whole pageant drama. But I can tell his heart’s not in it. It’s not the judges he’s angry with; it’s me.
After the judges have calmly and firmly told him to get over it and go away, Dave stalks over to me. I wrap my goggles around my hand, tight enough to hurt, and stand my ground with my chin up and my mouth clamped shut. There’s nothing Dave has say to me that I’m not already thinking. He can’t make me feel worse than I already do.
“Disqualified!” he shouts, swinging his clipboard like he’s about to hit me with it, though he doesn’t. “At our own fucking meet!”
I take a deep breath. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“What the hell was that?” he asks, loud enough for everyone around us to hear. Amber, Jessa and Casey wisely make themselves scarce.
“It was an accident,” I tell him. “I made a mistake.”
“A false start isn’t a mistake—it’s a fuckup,” Dave hisses. “You’re too old for this shit!”
My jaw is clenched so tightly that my head starts to ache. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It won’t happen again.”
Dave folds his arms across his chest. The tattoo on his bicep peeks out from under his sleeve: Olympic rings. His medals, two bronzes and a silver, hang in frames on the wall of his office, not twenty feet from where we’re standing. Every time I wonder why I put up with this sort of treatment, I tell myself: He’s an Olympian. He makes Olympians. That is why I’m here.