Page 39 of The Black Table
Morgan, to my surprise, nods. “I respect that,” she says, and I actually believe her. She shoves the bright tangle of nylon and hangers to the side. “Here. I’ll do you one better.”
TEN
CALLAHAN
The water is socold and calm I almost hate to disturb it.
Splash.
Almost, but not quite.
I plunge under, breath trailing from my lips in bubbles, hands knifing in front to pull my body to surface, and breathe.
Lake swimming isn’t like pool swimming. No burn of chlorine or squeaking echoes of a massive gymnasium,thweetsof whistles or coaches yellingcome on, O’Brian, push it!Just water, poured out wherever the rain put it, speckled with pine needles and faintly swirling with silt.
I shake my head to clear the water from my eyes and inhale again, treading water. It’s early; the sky above is steel gray and the water looks almost leaden beneath it, the only color the deep green of the forest that rings the far edge. Another thing I like—no concrete lip to cling on, no slick tiles to push off of, only a slow sweep of sand up to shore.
I dive back under.
Swimming used to be everything. Was going to give me everything, or so I’d been told since I hit my growth spurt late in elementary and the coaches from Catholic Memorial startedeyeing me up as I swam laps at the Boys & Girls Club off Morrissey Boulevard. An education. A scholarship—to Caliburn University, no less. A way out of Neponset and into real life. Something to make nice Meggie and Sean O’Brian proud of their only son.
Now, it’s occasional. A visit to who I used to be. A memory.
Just like my parents.
I kick in earnest, slicing my arms and turning my shoulders through the churn of icy water—no temperature control here—and suck in air through my bluing lips. I don’t know if the cold is the point, or the quiet, but either way, I need it. Need this, even after everything.
Somewhere to my left, down in the depths of Camlann House, the other three are doing their morning conditioning, but I get dispensation for my own version—Kingston’s insistence. The mental benefits just as important as the physical, he says, and mentally, I need to swim. Even if I can’t do it competitively. I wonder what they get up to in there, idly try to picture it—weights, cardio sprints, stretching—and before I know it my mind has focused in on just one of them in my mind’s eye. Flushed skin, bright eyes, lips parted with effort?—
God.
I’d known I liked boys before Lanz. Six years at Catholic Memorial, torturous hours at swim practice and the locker room looking at their lean forms, their broad shoulders, the rare and furtive glance of more, all had me burning up on the inside. But I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t risk it. Didn’t want to, if I’m being honest: didn’t take risks by nature. Still don’t. I made it all very clear. When the girls from Fontbonne came up to me at a mixer or a field day, everyone knew that Callahan O’Brian was saving himself for marriage.
Then everything fell apart. I couldn’t swim. Couldn’t earn my keep. Started to sink. And he was the one to pull me out.
A burn in my lungs—I’m straining—and I gasp to the surface, panting hard. I catch my breath, feel the acid ebb out of my muscles, and for a moment, I float.
The lake at Caliburn is more than just an ordinary lake. Especially for them—for us. For the fencing team.
But for me, Callahan, all it needs to be is ordinary. Cold, calm. Holding me up.
Then I hear someone else.
I pivot upright, pushing water to spin myself in the direction of the sound, and there I see it: a line of buoys on the far side of the lake, the shore closest to the Field House and farthest from Camlann. A single lane, for a single swimmer. I frown: no one ever swims in the lake, not this early. An occasional drunken dip after a cap, yes. An early-morning swim? No. Unless you’re me.
Through the wisps of fog, I see two figures emerge: both female, one in a red one-piece and ponytail and the other in an honest-to-God wetsuit, ankles to knees.
Immediately, almost instinctively, I recognize her.
The girl from last night. The one we…defended. The first time I, at least, had ever had to uphold that part of our code.
And I recognize the other one, too.
Elena. Swim team captain—late roster add for the women’s team, apparently took Caliburn’s scholarship as a backup. But this isn’t practice.
What is she doing?
My breathing, just leveled out, picks back up again.
