He’s fucking gorgeous.
I pause when his words register. “I’m here for the same reason.”
Slowly, we size one another up. There’s no way Coach James will let us both off the hook. Too visible. Other students would start asking. Shit.
“Why don’t you want to take the class?” His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Wait, aren’t you too old for this class?”
Rolling my eyes, I fall into the chair next to him, ripping my bag of popcorn open. “Lame as hell, but I’m short a P.E. credit from when I…uh, studied abroad freshman year. That’s half my problem, too. It’s going to all be underclassmen.” I glance at him, remembering that he’s a sophomore now, and extend the bag in offer. “No offense.”
Reaching inside, he takes a few pieces of popcorn. “None taken.” Micha may be the most confident person I know.
“You barely even look like an underclassman anymore,” I add, giving him a sly look as I chomp on my piece of popcorn. “That was quite the glow-up you had over the summer, Adams.”
He gives me a sharp look, saying, “Bitch, I’ve always glowed.” The words are without bite, though. “So what’s the second half of your problem? Because I doubt Coach James is going to care about you being too cool for underclassmen.”
I give him some more popcorn and reluctantly confess, “Uh, well, I’m not exactly a great swimmer. I’m not even a bad swimmer. Basically, I just don’t swim at all.”
He rolls his eyes. “I follow your ChattySnap, Georgia. Mostly because you post a lot of fine guys, but also, I’ve seen all the pictures you posted over the summer of you on that yacht. Don’t tell me you can’t swim.”
“I was on the boat, Micha. Not in the water.” I sigh, letting my head fall back as I chew. “I had this dumb incident when I was a kid, and now I just hate getting into deep water. What’s your excuse?” Something occurs to me. “Wait, isn’t your sister some kind of swim star at Vanderbilt?”
“Yeah, and?” De-fen-sive. “You know we’re not blood-related, right? You can tell, what with her being so white and all.”
“You’re half-white,” I point out. “That’s not, like, totally outside the realm of logic.”
“The point is, it’s not like we got the same athletic genes. I just never saw the point in learning. It’s not like I was ever going to be better than Gwen, so what’s the point, right?”
I give him a baffled look. “I don’t think that’s really how stuff works.”
“You sound like you only have one sibling,” he says, reaching into the bag for more. “I have four, so let me give you some wisdom; that’s the secret to familial harmony. Everyone gets their ‘thing’. Mine is dance.” He flashes me a winning smile. “That and being fucking awesome.”
I purse my lips. “I think you spent too much around Sebastian last year.”
“Not possible.” Giving me a look that’s always been reserved for the fairer Wilcox around this place, Micha shrugs. “The thing is, I spend a lot of time on my hair and makeup. Getting wet always seemed like a waste of all that work.”
Well, he’s not wrong. I gather my perfectly curled hair up protectively. “Then why are you even signed up for the class?”
“Oh god, it’s the worst,” he groans. “My mom is on this big self-sufficiency kick. It’s all about ‘life skills’ and a bunch of boring crap she thinks everyone should know. Getting your driver’s license, changing a flat, cooking and cleaning. I tried telling her that some things are bound to fall at the wayside in pursuit of the perfect liquid liner technique.” He raises his hands to quote, “Apparently that’s not actually ‘useful’ in ‘adulthood’. She decided that if I don’t learn how to swim at school this year, she won’t let me apply to the summer dance program at Julliard.”
I grimace at him sympathetically. “Tough break.”
The door swings open and reveals Coach James, standing just inside his office. He takes one look at the two of us and sighs. “Adams. Haynes. You’re both in my intro class that starts in ten minutes. Is there any reason that you’re not dressed out and in the pool area?”
Micha and I both stand, each doing our very best impressions of beleaguered, helpless, pitiful students.
I beg, “Coach James, seriously, is there anything else I can do? Anything other than swim? I can write you the best essay you’ve ever seen.”
Micha shoves himself in front of me. “I can write three of them, and they’ll have so many glitter stickers, you’ll die.”
I shove myself in front of him. “I can clean the pool deck.”
Micha shoves back. “I’ll carry your clipboard.”
I give him a look that says just how lame that idea is. “I can boss the ninth graders around, keep them in line.”
Micha argues, “I’m on the paper this year! I can get you the best pictures. The swim and dive teams are really so unsung in school media, don’t you think?”
“P.E. is a non-negotiable requirement, Ms. Haynes. And Adams, your sister was the best swimmer this school has seen in decades, so you must realize that swimming is an important skill.” He looks disappointed in us.
I know it’s time for me to admit the truth—that I literally cannot swim. “Look, Coach James, I’m just going to level with you here. I can do a basic doggy-paddle and possibly not drown right away, but beyond that, I’m useless.” I think back to the party at Reyn’s house. I intentionally didn’t get in the water. Partially because Reyn’s dad was present, hot as hell, and fun to flirt with, but also because I can’t swim. “It’s embarrassing. And scary.”
“Embarrassing? Please.” Micha scoffs, turning to the coach with big, earnest eyes. “As this school’s only genderfluid student, where exactly do you expect me to change, and what exactly do you expect me to wear? Following a long line of tradition set into place by our very white, very male, and very non-queer founders, Preston Prep adheres to a gendered locker room policy that fosters a hostile environment for LGBT youth!”
I gape at him, outraged. Outraged! How am I supposed to beat that? The smug jut of his chin tells me Micha knows.
Unfortunately for him, Coach James just smiles. “I’ve already discussed this with your father. We agreed to give you the option of changing in either room, or my office. You can wear the shorts or the one-piece. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
Micha’s face falls. “But—”
The Coach cuts him off. “I’m given to understand that neither of you knows how to swim. Correct?” At our nods, he heaves a loud sigh. “There is a remedy to this.”
“Really?” I ask. Micha straightens along with me.
“The only technical requirement is that you’re able to swim two full laps of a basic stroke. Freestyle, the crawl, backstroke, your choice. Even for a beginner, learning that shouldn’t take an entire semester.”
“So we could do that and be finished?” I ask, feeling optimistic. “That sounds doable!”
“It should be,” he says, eyes tight at the edges. “But there’s both good news and bad news.”