Swimming by Nicola Keegan Page A

the dreaded Atrocious—a pesky traditional nun—for homeroom, which means I have to make sure my socks are even, my shirt tucked in, my tie flat, my ears clean, my hair neat, my prayers said, my homework complete. This morning I watched her remove eyeliner from Tanya Slaughter’s eyelids with her own spit. But spring is coming, so I think of summer. I make a li st: fins, Carmex, maxi pads, Mountain Dew, sports bra, flip-flops . I bury my face in Manny’s neck. He stinks like shrimp.
    I create a simple routine I follow like a map. I ride my bike to school, then listen without saying much for six hours. Kids animate the halls with urgent discussion between classes; drama reaches its peak during lunch. I observe, do not partake. Bron’s ex-friends’ little sisters and brothers avoid me. Their faces deflate if I catch them smiling. After school, June picks me up, throws me a sack with two apples, a chocolate crunch protein bar, a slice of corn bread dripping with honey, and says: Eat . I get to the Quack, jumping out of the car fast with a Thanks she doesn’t wait around to hear. The air is good; college kids are walking around with backpacks on. I put my backpack on too, blending in, making my way to the locker room, which smells like bleach, rubber-soled shoe, talc, shampoo, burning hair, dried blood, bananas. Stan is standing on deck, a baseball hat on his head, a sheen of sweat lighting his face. He’s all business, grinds his voice down, shouting: Come on come on come on come on let’s go let’s go let’s go let’s go . I swim myself into a trance, make fun of anyone more than five pounds overweight in the locker room, then Lilly and I wait for Mrs. Cocoplat, whom she refers to as Aleta .
    When Bron’s in the hospital, Mrs. Cocoplat drops me off at Glen-wood Memorial on her way home. I drink a Gatorade and talk about school. When Lilly and I were organizing vaginal areas into subgroups, she placed Aleta’s in Category Four: Rip Van Winkle . Mrs. Cocoplat lets me out in front of the automatic doors. The hospital reception lady looks up from her magazine and waves. The elevator is as large as a horse’s stall. Nurses nod. I nod back. They’ve sedated her. Mom is somewhere else demanding answers. There is a chair next to the bed. I sit on it and stare at things. Her slippers, pink velour with Vichy checkered bows, brand-new with plastic grip bottoms. I’d been jealous of them, wanted the same, now do not. Her cello is lying in its case in the corner, her music stand folded up beside it. Her backpack remains zipped. I unzip it, rummage, find Seventeen: The Beauty Issue, Time magazine for debate, a lifetime reading list the Superior Sister Fergus handed out at the end of World Ethics.
    Her eyes open for a second, focus. I know exactly what you’re doing , she says. Her eyes close, but now she’s smiling like a creepy cat. My heart sinks. It’s dark already, the darkness humming with the sound of clinking needles on metal trays, water running, people complaining in murmurs and bursts. Someone’s TV says: I can name that tune in four notes, Bob .
    The nuns say that church bells are the voice of man calling for the voice of God. God is called thoing thoing thoing thoing . The voice of God is occupied, but the occasional ambulance answers with a shriek. I stand by the window, watching what’s left of the sun sink in the sky. I try to swallow out hospital taste, my tongue sitting in the middle of my mouth, dry and useless, as Bron dozes. I jump every time I hear a siren.
    Something freak you out at the pool? I’ve woken her up.
    No, no, I’m good , I lie.
    You look like crap , she says, acknowledging the lie.
    Thanks . I’d cut some bangs to look different and am living to regret it.
    I’m just saying … Mom says you’re racing like crazy now . Eyes close.
    Yeah, yeah . I wish Mom would shut up.
    She drifts in and out, jerking awake again if I make big noise.
    Quit fucking jumping around! I command myself