Author’s note: I’m back! Hopefully I’ll stay back, but I honestly won’t promise anything. The reality of life usually catches up to me.

Anyway, this is (obviously) a brand new story… I actually don’t have anything else written yet, but I wanted to get this up for feedback. Yes, I already know that this is in need of some massive editing, but any advice would be helpful.

So, I’ll give this a shot, and we’ll see how far I get. I’m on spring break next week, so hopefully I’ll get time to write more.

-FrenzyFan78

I reached into the wall of the pool and grabbed the gutter as if it were my last lifeline. As I stood up and gasped for air, I glanced over at the plastic-covered clock to check the time. Damn, I thought. Six thirty. School starts in an hour. I hoisted myself out of the pool, sending streams of water down my legs and onto the tile deck as I pulled off my cap and goggles and loosed my hair. I grabbed my pull-buoy, kickboard, fins, and water bottle and strode off to the pool locker room. Within ten minutes I had shampooed my hair, changed into my sweatpants and sweatshirt, and burst out the door to my car waiting in the parking lot.

Today would be my first day at William Sorensen High School. I used to go to VanBuren High School, a small school nestled in the outskirts of the city near my house. But this year, I managed to convince my parents to let me transfer to William Sorensen. See, VanBuren was a tiny high school significantly lacking in funding for the sports programs. That caused me a slight problem, because my life is centered on swimming. I started when I was five years old, and it’s been the main part of my life ever since. The team that I was on at VanBuren could only serve to keep me from getting out of shape in between my seasons of club swimming over the summer. William Sorensen, on the other hand, was a high school that highly encouraged participation in sports programs, and it was known for having excellent teams in every sport. After begging my parents for years, they finally decided that I could transfer to William Sorensen for my senior year in order to have a better chance at catching the attention of a college scout.

A horn honked, and I was startled out of my thoughts in order to pay attention as I merged onto the highway, heading for the opposite side of town. Pay attention, Jane! I mentally cursed myself, but thoughts of my new school and its new opportunities continued to float through my mind.

Thirty-five minutes later I pulled into William Sorensen high school’s parking lot, searching for a few precious minutes before finding a spot on the far end. I snatched my backpack from the passenger seat and ran as fast as I could to the door, which wasn’t easy while wearing flip-flops. I opened the doors and was immediately greeted with the sight of a few hundred students chatting in the cafeteria before class. I followed a trickle of students leaving for class, and it wasn’t too long before I located the main office.

I opened the office door and heard a bell tinkle above my head. A middle-aged woman looked up from her position behind the desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m just starting school here today,” I told her as I approached her desk. “Is this where I get my schedule?”

“What’s your name, dear?” she asked me.

“Jane Connelly.” The woman – Mrs. Helquist, I noticed after reading her name plate – opened a file drawer and began sifting through some papers. I stepped back and looked around to occupy the time. The office looked small at first glance, but then I observed a hallway in the back of the room that lead back to what appeared to be several other offices.

“Ah! Here you are, Jane,” Mrs. Helquist announced as she withdrew a single sheet of paper. “Let’s see… Calculus, AP English, Physics, Spanish III, and 21st Century Literature. Does that look right, hon?” My eyes quickly flicked over the schedule before I nodded my assent. Mrs. Helquist proceeded to withdraw a second sheet of paper and handed it over to me. “Here’s a map of our school. Classes start in-” she glanced at the clock “-seven minutes, but your teachers will understand if you’re late. Just tell them that it’s your first day here,” she said with a warm smile.

“Thanks,” I told her honestly. “I’m interested in joining the swim team here, though. When can I talk to the coach about trying out?”

Mrs. Helquist brightened. “Oh! Coach Beckwith is the one you’ll want to talk to. He’s usually in his office, room 127, from sixth period until 3:00, when afternoon practice starts.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Helquist!” I replied as I left the office, bell tinkling behind me, and began exploring the halls to find my first class.

The reactions as I entered my first class that morning, AP English, were exactly what I expected. I made it in the room two minutes before the final bell and slid into an empty desk off to the side of the room. The classroom was about half full, and soon the remaining students filed in. As usual, no one noticed that I was there.

It’s not that I think of myself as a wallflower, but I just don’t attract attention. Since I’m almost always at the pool, I’m always wearing sweatpants, flip-flops, and either an old swimming t-shirt or a sweatshirt. On top of that, my hair is always wet and pulled back in a hurried ponytail. It’s mostly brown with a hint of red – nothing that stands out. I don’t have an ugly face, but neither is it strikingly beautiful. I guess I’m just average; I blend in.

So when I stopped by Coach Beckwith’s immediately after classes ended, I was in for a surprise. I knocked firmly on the door and was startled to see a student my own age open it for me. “Is Coach Beckwith in?” I asked softly.

“Yeah.” The student before me was a guy just barely taller than me with dark brown hair hanging into his eyes. He started to move into the office, then paused. “Hey. Aren’t you in my AP English class?”

My eyes widened slightly at his observation, and when I thought back I could recall a fuzzy memory of seeing this guy in the classroom. “Yeah, I think so,” I told him.

A smile broke out onto his face. “I thought so. What did you want Coach for?”

“I want to try out for swimming.” The guy’s smile widened even more as he disappeared into the office. A few moments later he returned with who I assumed was Coach Beckwith.

“I hear you want to be on the swim team?” the coach asked politely.

“Yeah, I do. I know your team has been practicing for a few weeks already, but I just transferred here,” I told him.

Coach Beckwith looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you swum competitively before?”

“Since I was five.” The coach seemed pleased by my answer, and exchanged glances with the guy I had met earlier.

“Excellent. The girls’ practice doesn’t start for another 45 minutes, so why don’t you head over to the pool now. I’ll have Caleb – he’s the team manager - evaluate you, and if you make it, you can stay for practice and I’ll get you all the paperwork afterward.” I smiled happily and thanked him. “The girls’ locker rooms are just down that hallway,” he said as he pointed me in the right direction.

I hiked across the now nearly empty parking lot to fetch my swim bag from the morning before following the coach’s directions to the girls’ locker room. Once inside, I noticed how almost everything was tan. The wall tiles, the floor, the lockers, and the bathroom stalls were all the same sandy color. A number of lockers and benches were clustered off in several rows to my left, and to the right I noticed two bathroom stalls and clusters of showers. I smiled in satisfaction after my observation, noting how it was all clean and smelled distinctly of chlorine, a smell that I associated with home.

I dropped my swim bag with a thunk onto a wooden bench, shed my sweatshirt and stuffed it into a nearby locker. I dug through the bundle of drag suits and found one that was in good enough condition that it wouldn’t be transparent. I pulled out two more drag suits, colorless and full of rips and knots holding them together, and layered them on top to make sure I had enough coverage. Two minutes later, I had all my equipment and was headed out to the pool deck for my try-out.

I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes as I entered the pool room, smiling slightly as I felt my body’s ache to dive into the cool water. I had no doubt that I could make it on the team, so I wasn’t worried about the try-out. My eyes opened and my gaze casually flicked over my surroundings. I had been here before, but never as part of the home team. The cold gray bleachers took on a new meaning as I imagined them full of people at every home meet, and the record boards on the far end of the pool seemed to be begging for a new name to replace old records. Blue and white backstroke flags set up over the pool bore the word “Wolves”, which was the William Sorensen High mascot. My mascot.

My gaze snapped to the doorway as I heard the creak of an opening door, and I watched the boy I had met at Coach Beckwith’s office stride in. “Caleb,” I greeted, making the connection with Coach’s earlier words. Caleb held a clipboard casually in his left hand and sported a whistle and stopwatch around his neck.

“Jane,” he said, smiling as he copied my greeting. “Ready?”

“Always,” I replied as I dipped my cap in the water and stretched it over my head. “What do you want me to do?”

“Are you a sprinter or a distance swimmer, and what’s your primary stroke?” he asked me instead.

“I could do anything, really, though my favorites are probably the 100 and 200 free, and the 100 breast. My weakest stroke is backstroke, but I’m not too horrible at that,” I mused aloud, tapping my pointer finger thoughtfully on my chin.

“Alright,” Caleb said as he laughed. “We’ll make this simple. Why don’t you swim 300 yards or so to warm up and get used to the pool. After that, I’ll time you on a 200 IM and 200 free to get your splits and watch your stroke. That should give me a good enough idea of your skill level.” The 200 IM, or individual medley, was a race combining all four strokes. A swimmer would start with 50 yards butterfly, and then continue with 50 yards each of backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle.

“Perfect,” I told him as I took my place behind the starting block closest to the bleachers where Caleb had sat down. I dipped my goggles into the chlorinated water and snapped them tightly over my eyes before sliding in silently. I ducked underwater and pushed off the wall, my body automatically forming the naturally aerodynamic streamline position. I fell into an easy rhythm as I stretched my muscles out, preparing them for sprinting in a few minutes.

My hand reached out to touch the gutter as I finished the final 25 yards, and I gracefully pulled myself against the wall. I pulled up my goggles and climbed out of the pool. “Ready,” I told Caleb simply as I moved behind the starting block.

Caleb nodded and stuck the silver whistle in the side of his mouth and readied the stopwatch. “Swimmers step up,” he commanded, reciting the mantra I had heard so many times in my life. I stepped onto the starting block and bent over, keeping my muscles loose and ready to spring into action. “200 free first, Jane,” he told me. I nodded to show that I had heard him. “Take your mark!” he called out, and then blew the whistle. My fingers clenched and in a split second, I was soaring through the air.

I could barely feel the change in resistance as my body slid through a single hole in the water. From years of habit and training, I kept myself in a streamline position and started my 200 with several powerful dolphin kicks before breaking the surface again. By this point I had completely stopped thinking about what I was doing. Get to the wall, Janie. Faster. Faster. FASTER! I commanded myself. My body responded, and I stretched further to reach my goal again and again, until I came to an abrupt stop at the end of the eight laps. I allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction, knowing that I had done quite well for a non-competitive situation.

I looked up at Caleb as I removed my goggles once again. He briefly glanced down at me with raised eyebrows. “Not bad,” he commented as he scribbled down my time on his clipboard. “Do you need a break, or do you want to go right into the 200 IM?”

I climbed up the ladder at the side of the pool and started stretching out my arms. “I think I can do it in just a few minutes,” I told him. “I’ve done consecutive races before.” I paused. “Not that I enjoy it, mind you, but I have done it.”

I glanced over at him long enough to see his blue-gray eyes sparkle with the laughter he tried to contain in a suppressed smile. “Shame. I thought you’d be the type to enjoy those consecutive races. Every swimmer knows how wonderful they are!”

I allowed myself a quiet snort, an indication of my amusement that sounded distinctly unladylike to my ears. “Right. I’m ready now, though,” I told him as I replaced my goggles and stepped up to the block again. I briefly noted the immediate shift in attitude that we both took, switching from a casual joking to a serious concentration, before focusing entirely on my next task.

I finished my timed 200 IM strongly, plowing into the gutter with the strength of years of practice. I was utterly winded, and took a moment to float on my back before exiting the pool again.

“So, Caleb, how’d I do?” I asked him. “Did I make the team?”

He raised one eyebrow condescendingly. “I think you already know,” he commented, taking note of my smug smile. “I’ve got to run your times by Coach, but if it was up to me, I’d say, ‘Hell yeah, you’re on the team!’” I beamed proudly at the news, even though I had known I would make it.

I walked over to sit in the bleachers to wait out the fifteen minutes before practice started, and Caleb soon sat down next to me. I brought my breathing and heart rate back down to normal and remained silent. Now that the excitement of racing a clock was past, I realized that I was still just Jane, and that I was sitting alone in the bleachers with a guy I didn’t really know. I sat on my hands to give them somewhere to go other than my lap and started jiggling my leg sporadically.

“Why’d you decide to come here?” Caleb’s voice echoed throughout the now silent pool room. I jerked my head up to look at him, slightly startled by the sudden conversation. Caleb was watching my face, and I could see an honest desire to know the answer in his eyes.

I decided to play along and shrugged my shoulders noncommittally. “I used to go to VanBuren, and I wanted more of a challenge for my senior year.”

“Ahh. VanBuren High School. How many girls did you have on your team there?”

I tilted my head back and thought for a moment. “About twenty, I would say.” He whistled. “I want to make it all the way to State this year, too,” I continued. “Sometimes my team back at VanBuren didn’t even show up at sections.”

“I’d probably transfer too,” Caleb told me with a grin. “After all, you’re not going to get those full-ride scholarships if you don’t get yourself out there.”

“Exactly.” I smiled timidly as I started to warm up to the conversation, but we were interrupted by the pool door slamming against the wall as it opened.

Caleb stood up and grabbed his clipboard. “Hey, Coach,” he greeted. “I’ve got Jane’s splits for a 200 free and 200 IM.” He passed the clipboard over. “What do you think?”

Coach Beckwith stared at the piece of paper for a full five seconds before looking up. “You’re on the team. I’ll have you swim in lane 1 with Iverson, Matthews, and Pearson for today, and we’ll see how that works out. Practice is at 5:00 – 6:30 am and 3:00 – 5:00 pm Monday through Friday, and from 7:00 – 9:00 am every Saturday. Come talk to me after practice, and we’ll get you cleared to be on the team.” Coach Beckwith turned and walked out of the pool room, mumbling something about talking to the team.

I turned to the only person left in the room and laughed happily. I’m on the team!