Free Breathless by Jessica Warman Page B

first scrimmage, I come in first in every one of my heats. Most of the other girls tell me how excited they are to have me on the team this year, but I’d bet anything they glare at me the second I turn my back, especially Grace.
    The following Monday, Coach Solinger tracks me down during a boring lesson on sentence diagramming in English class, tapping me gently on the elbow and nodding at the door.
    No matter what time of year it is, Solinger looks like he just wandered off a beach in Malibu. His blond hair is sun streaked, and he’s always in swimming trunks, flip-flops, and some kind of T-shirt. I guess he gets away with it because he’s the swimming coach. Today he’s wearing a threadbare Tom Petty T-shirt that you just know he’s had since college.
    Solinger is flirty and has a reputation for picking favorites among his varsity swimmers.
    “Katie, I have to tell you, you’re my favorite swimmer,” he declares, leaning against the wall in the empty hallway, gazing at me with a combination of hope and adoration. He rubs an open palm against his whiskery chin, shaking his head. “I simply don’t know where they found you.”
    He’s probably in his late thirties now, but I heard he spent the early part of his twenties swimming professionally, and even had a mediocre turn in the Olympics, where he walked away without a medal. He has his doctorate in sports medicine, and I can already tell he’s a great coach. He’s so cute, it’s embarrassing to make eye contact, especially when we’re alone in the hallway like this.
    My breath catches. “Hillsburg, Pennsylvania,” I supply.
    “What?”
    “They found me in Hillsburg. It’s about an hour east of Pittsburgh.”
    “Oh. Right.” He grins for a split second before growing serious. “Listen,” he continues, “your schoolwork is important. I mean, nothing is more important than your education, right?”
    I’m not sure I’m completely sold on the idea. So far, it seems to me that good looks and money are more important than anything. But whatever—Woodsdale’s slogan for the year (they have a new one every fall) is, “Education is the most valuable tool a person can have.” “Right,” I agree. “I mean, it’s the most valuable tool a person can have.”
    Solinger continues to rub his chin. “You’re going to be our key swimmer this year on girls’ varsity. I hope that isn’t too much pressure for you.”
    I shake my head. Pressure can feel good, especially if you can push through it. Swimming is all about forcing your way through endless resistance.
    “What you need to do,” he continues, “is practice, practice, practice.” He pauses, waiting for a reaction from me. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Practice.” Then he puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Practice. Practice. Practice.”
    I nod. “Three thirty. I’ll be there.”
    “That’s not what I mean.” He takes me by the elbow. “Come with me.”
    I glance toward the classroom door. “What about—”
    “Don’t worry. You’re clear.” And he tugs me down the hallway, in the direction of the pool.
    In a few minutes, I’m standing on deck beside Solinger, feeling ridiculous in my full school uniform. At the opposite end of the pool, in a three-lane area sequestered by buoyed ropes, the ninth-grade girls’ phys ed class is running through a synchronized swimming routine to some kind of classical music. They wear identical maroon swimsuits and bathing caps made of thick, fancy latex that covers their ears. They are operating—all of them—on an insane level of concentration. The effect is both eerie and beautiful, all of them wet and cloaked in stinging fluorescent light.
    At first I think Solinger and I are the only people in the natatorium besides the girls. But then I notice somebody swimming in the lane closest to me. His body is parallel with the water, almost beneath it, moving quickly and without too much visible effort, exactly the way it should