I pick up Frick and cuddle him for a second, then carry him to the corner of the room to check on Frida and Horace. Frida is my cockatiel; she’s a rescue, too, in a way. The senior community where my abuela lives now doesn’t allow pets, so we took her when Bela moved. I tried to train Frida to speak, but the only thing she says is “Hola, Bela.” She whistles “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” too; Bela taught her that. Horace is the only animal in the house I raised up from a baby. He’s a box turtle.
Not counting family, there’s nothing I care about more than swimming, but animals come a close second. If I’m lucky, my career will last into my twenties, but once it’s over I think I’d like to be a vet.
Instead of heading to the shower, I lie down on my bed, shut my eyes and let the exhaustion I’ve been holding at bay wash over me. Everything that happened today—the false start, Dave’s insults, that boy who tried to comfort me—pushes its way into my head.
I bury my face in a pillow. Frack joins Frick and me on the bed. The two of them crawl on top of me and paw at my hair like they’re trying to braid it.
How are you doing? Amber texts. I tell her I’m fine and put my phone on silent.
Fighting with Mom and Dad is the worst. I can’t seem to find a way to make my parents understand how badly my slowdown has broken my heart. For years, the Olympics has been the one thing I’ve wanted, the one thing I’d give anything to have. I’ve worked hard for it. I’ve made sacrifices.
But so have my family. What Dad said about paying for the team sits under my skin like a splinter. Swimming is an expensive sport, and we’re not poor, but we’re not rich. Dad teaches history at a local college, but when I started getting good, he took a second job waiting tables at his cousin’s restaurant. He said it was to help Miguel, but I’m not stupid. His tips go straight into a checking account reserved for my swimming expenses.
It’s one thing to suffer for my sport and another thing altogether to watch my family suffer, too. Nina skipped the junior class ski trip last year because it cost too much. Dad’s car is super old, the house could use a new roof and we’ve never taken the trip to Mexico that Mom keeps talking about. I travel around the country to compete, but most of the time my family stays home, because we can’t afford airfare or accommodations for more than one person, and Mom and Dad can’t miss work.
There are days when giving up seems like the only reasonable solution. But if I do that, I’d be throwing away all the opportunities Mom and Dad have scrimped and saved to give me.
And worse, if I quit, I don’t know what I’d have left. Who I’d be.
How do you even begin to mourn the death of a dream?
* * *
I don’t come down for dinner. Maybe I’m sulking, but I’m also trying to avoid hearing how Dave reacted when Dad read him the riot act. I know I’m in for it when I return to practice, but I’d rather not confirm that right now.
I burn five thousand calories a day, though—I can’t skip meals. When the house is quiet, and I’m sure everyone else has gone to bed, I sneak downstairs to raid the refrigerator.
There’s a plate of chicken with beans and rice covered in cling wrap waiting for me. The sight of it puts a lump in my throat. I know my parents want what’s best for me. If it’s swimming, if it’s the Olympics, that’s great. But if it’s not, if it’s something else, that’s fine by them, too. For better or worse, swimming doesn’t affect how they see me. They would love me the same no matter what.
But swimming is a part of me—the biggest part of me—and the fact that it’s irrelevant to them makes me wonder: Who is it they think they love?
While I’m heating up my dinner, I notice a light on in the living room. Mom’s a paralegal, and last year she started going to law school in the evenings and on weekends. She spends every night she’s not in class studying, often until very late. More than once I’ve come downstairs before morning practice to find her passed out on the coffee table, dark curly hair fanned out over her books.
I put the kettle on, then sit down to eat while the water boils. Frick and Frack tumble into the kitchen. They circle my ankles under the table, waiting for something to drop.
“You have food in your bowls,” I tell them. They’ve learned bad habits from Lulu. The three of them eat their own food only after we’ve all gone to bed, when all hope of scraps is gone.
When I’m finished, I enter my dinner into my calorie counting app, then slip the dirty plate into the dishwasher and start the cycle. The whoosh of water as it swirls around the machine is soothing.
Before the kettle can screech, I grab it and pour hot water into two mugs. Mine says I love the smell of chlorine in the morning. It was a team gift from the GAC Boosters a couple of years ago.
Mom’s sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, hunched over her books. I set a mug down in front of her. She looks up, blinking at me like she just wandered out of a dark tunnel into the sun.
“Oh, hi,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “Is that for me?”
“It’s energy tea. Figured you could use it.”
I sit on the couch. Frick and Frack tussle briefly for the spot in my lap. Frack, who’s slightly larger and way bossier, wins as always.
“Gracias, mi amor.” Mom grabs her tea and comes to sit next to me. Frick wastes no time curling up into a ball on her thighs.
“De nada.”
I wish I knew more Spanish. Mom and Dad are both second-generation Mexican American, and they grew up in a primarily Latino neighborhood where it was the language you used with your family and community. They raised Nina and me in the suburbs, and we speak mostly English at home. I’ve been taking Spanish in school, but no amount of studying can give me the confidence to engage in entire conversations. Nina, contrarian that she is, takes French.
Mom nods at my mug. “That’s not energy tea, is it? You need sleep. You’re very cranky.”
I shake my head. “Chamomile.”
“Good girl.” She takes a big sip. “Ah. I can feel the neurons firing already.”
I laugh. “I don’t think I’ll need tea to get to sleep tonight.”
“It was a long day.” Mom puts an arm around me. I let my head fall against her shoulder. “You have a lot of those, kiddo.”
“I know it’s not easy on you guys, either,” I say. “Between practices and competitions and travel and equipment and membership fees and Boosters meetings—”
“And the bake sales!” Mom says. “All those freaking bake sales.”
“I know it’s not just me who’s giving everything up for this silly dream,” I say.