I was twenty minutes late for practice and still pissed off at myself for overreacting to my nosey new neighbor. So he had a hot body and an attitude? Big whoop. He was the least of my problems. I had my family to worry about, my position as co-captain to defend, and a guy I was crazy about to convince I’d make a great girlfriend.
“Did you fix your flat?” Coach Fletcher asked when I walked to the pool deck.
“I’ll take it to DC Tires after practice.” I slid in the pool and joined the thirty members of the Gold Team. Silver and Bronze swam at five.
We had eight lanes, but two were reserved for club members, which meant we shared lanes, taking turns pushing off the wall and looping each other. I didn’t see Eirik. He rarely skipped practice, so that was weird.
Following Coach Fletcher’s instructions, I finished my freestyle warm up laps while the others worked on their backstroke. I attacked the water like it was my enemy, although I wasn’t sure who I was ticked off at, me or my new neighbor. When I started studying the male swimmers and comparing their bodies to Blue Eyes, I knew I was definitely my own enemy.
“Since all of you swim for the Trojans, don’t forget we have Ultimate Frisbee tomorrow afternoon at Longmont Park. We’ll meet in the north field at four o’clock,” Coach Fletcher said at the end of practice. “I sent your parents e-mails last week, so no excuses. This is supposed to be for the team, but we’ll meet some of the new swimmers and discuss a few things. Tryouts start on the seventeenth, which is sooner than we usually start. Why, you may ask?” He grinned and paused for effect. “We’ll be hosting Jesuit High and Lake Oswego on the twenty-ninth at Walkersville’s swimming pool.”
Everyone started talking at once. Others high-fived each other. The two schools produced the best swimmers every year and often won at state championships. We’d never hosted them before.
“In the meantime,” Coach Fletcher continued, “I’ll need volunteers to work with some of the new swimmers. Any takers?”
No one raised a hand. Coach Fletcher crossed his beefy arms and studied us with piercing black eyes. He was a short, stubby man with a receding hairline, who preferred to shave all of his hair, but took extreme care with his beard and moustache. “Come on, guys. I need volunteers.”
I looked around and saw Eel’s hand shoot up. ‘Eel’ was Jessica Davenport, our senior co-captain and our swim team bad girl. Sighing, I raised mine. A few more shot up.
“Good. You’ll each work with a student the last thirty minutes of practice every day. If they need extra coaching and you want more time, let me know and I’ll okay the use of the pool after hours.”
“I have pep band practice every other Friday and won’t make it to practice,” I reminded Coach Fletcher after everyone left.
“We’ll have someone sub for you. Where’s Cora?”
“She wasn’t feeling well when I saw her after school,” I fibbed. Coach Fletcher’s expression said he didn’t believe me. I wasn’t surprised. I sucked at lying.
“Tell her to text me.”
“Sure. Did Eirik text you?”
“Yes. He explained his situation.”
I frowned. “His situation?”
Coach ignored my question and looked at his watch. “If you plan to take your car to the shop, you’d better get going.”
It was six fifteen, and DC Tires closed at seven. I didn’t bother to shower, just changed and raced to my car. The air pressure held up again, thank goodness. At the shop, while they fixed the leak, I checked my text messages and responded to Cora’s, which were funny. The game was close and could go either way, but she sounded like we’d already won. Cora had a way with words.
There were no texts or missed calls from Eirik, which was beginning to worry me. He never missed practice, and he usually answered my messages and calls. Did his absence have anything to do with the ‘situation’ Coach Fletcher had mentioned?
It was seven when I left the shop for home. I looked at my rearview mirror, convinced I’d heard the sound of a motorcycle start, but there were only cars behind me.
I entered my cul-de-sac, and the first thing I noticed was the Petersons’ mailbox. The wooden post no longer leaned sideways, and the tiny house looked normal as though I hadn’t hit it. Weird.
As soon as I parked, I hurried to the mailbox and studied it. There were no dents. No new nails hammered in. Nothing out of place. I touched the surface to see if it had been repainted. It was dry as the day Mr. Peterson had unveiled it. I pushed at it to see if it would lean sideways, but the vertical pole anchoring it to the ground was firm.
Where had my new neighbor found a replacement? The Petersons bragged about ordering the miniature mailbox house from some fancy homeowner’s website, so there was no way Blue Eyes had bought it locally. Had he used magic? Yeah. Right. There was no such thing as magic.