The pool’s gurgling invitation echoes throughout the empty room. Bouncing on the low diving board, she swings arms backward and shoots into the pool, her long glide breaking the still surface, soaring like a lone airborne bird. She feels naked, the water washing worry’s wounds away, away, away, from her last day on swim team, before her grades disqualified her, before she understood —really understood — that quip about no “I” in team. Left behind, no one calling her, coaching her, cheering her, nowhere to go after school except home to passed-out Pops, dirty dishes, unwashed laundry, and wilting flowers from Mom’s memorial service.
So she waits after school until swim practice is over, risking suspension and a permanent mark on her school record, to slip into the silent locker room and submerge herself into a memory: Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. She’s about to flip turn when she senses something, someone.
Grabbing the pool’s edge, she looks around, panting. “Hello?” Her heart’s racing, not just from swimming, as if anxiety had a pulse. “Hello? Is anyone there?” She tilts her head, listening.
But only the pool filter babbles back, a stark contrast from the whistles, shouts, splashes, cheers of swim-team practice, murmuring that she’s alone, alone, alone. Salty tears drip down to merge with chlorinated wetness as she moves arms and legs rhythmically, treading water in the darkness.
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative based in New Jersey. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and others, including as a WOW flash runner-up. She has written essays in various journals including Brevity Blog and is a volunteer reader for Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at http://www.ldebeerwriter.com/ and https://lizardstale.substack.com.