Page 42 of The Black Table
“Your time starts,” Elena says, unceremoniously, and holds up a stopwatch. “Now.”
She clicks the button with a thumb, then frowns down at her stopwatch in confusion. “Oh, would you look at that?” she says, and holds out the tiny screen. “Seems I already started it. You’ve only got ten minutes left.”
I clench my fists. Shift my weight from foot to foot.
No, I decide. I don’t trust her. Ishouldn’ttrust her. With her here, this isn’t even a swim test anymore. It’s a setup, a trial of more than my ability to swim, and one that I know for certain that Elena wants me to fail—no matter how giggly she is about it.
“Tick tock,” she says, waggling her stopwatch. “You’re down to nine and a half minutes.”
My muscles stiffen involuntarily. Fifteen was brisk but generous. Under ten will be a push.
But what choice do I have?
I reach for the long-tailed zipper at the back of my neck and slowly pull it down, peeling the wetsuit from my body.
I can feel her staring, know she is, even without looking, because who wouldn’t?
My body’s a testament to everything that’s wrong with me.
And now she sees it.
Just get it over with.
Toeing out of my sneakers, I step to the edge of the water. It’s cold, bracingly so, but I have no choice. There’s no going back.
I go in up to my ankles, take a deep, deep breath, and spring forward.
It’s not an elegant dive, more of a belly flop with my hands out forward, but it’s something. A plunge, head first, a sign that I’m going to try.
The water eats me. Cold as an acid burn, Morgan’s swimsuit pasted to my skin, and I gasp as I emerge, hair streaming behind me. Before me, the buoys bob in an obedient line, a garish orange against the steel gray, and I suck in another breath, resolute.
Be normal, I tell myself.
I surge forward with my right arm, then my left, face just kissing the edge of the water as I do the freestyle. My middle school swim lessons feel like a lifetime ago, from the lifetime of a different person, and in a way they were.
But I’ve remembered enough to move forward. I’ve remembered enough to keep going. To not drown.
And that’s what I’m going to show Elena. To show everyone.
I slice forward—right, left, right,breathe; right, left, right,breathe—and chance a look ahead when I emerge.
I’ve barely gone anywhere. Surpassed maybe one and a half ofthe buoys, and there’s another half dozen or more to go. My muscles lock—from nerves or from the cold, I can’t tell.
But I refuse to stop moving.
I thrust my chest forward again, pulling with my arms, pushing at the water, wasting energy, I know, judging by the froth I’m stirring up. Right, left, right. I open my eyes again, and this time it truly feels like I’ve gone nowhere, except for the fact that the sandy bottom has dropped away.
In its place, a void has opened beneath me. Like I’m floating on top of an abyss.
The cold tightens around me. My chest constricts around my organs like my ribcage is a closing bear trap. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I can feel a pulse of pain in the two scarred slashes just above my heart.
No, I think.No. I’m not going to fail. I’m not going to give her or anyone else the satisfaction.
But I’m sinking, sagging, and I can feel it. My hips are dragging. My feet are stumbling against waves and currents rather than kicking at the surface and powering me forward. And all the while, I hear nothing, nothing but the muffled scattering of drops and the frantic panting of my own breathing. Nothing from Elena, no time markers, no words of encouragement, obviously, and no indication that she’ll save me if it comes to that.
And it might be coming to that.
It’s too cold, I think. Too cold to swim in. Too, too cold. How quickly does hypothermia set in?
