I didn’t blame Roxy for moving on to a team she thought would be a better fit for her, but I felt betrayed. I’d put myself out there for her. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have gotten the training to become one of the best swimmers in Tennessee. Not to mention, she has about ten thousand more Twitter followers than I do and people love her Instagram account. Some of her pictures get hundreds of likes.
And now? When we race against each other, she usually outswims me, even though I’m better at backstroke than she is. I know I am. My times kill hers. But it doesn’t matter how fast you are if your mind isn’t in the right place. Whenever I compete against Roxy, she gets in my head, and I can’t get her out. Of all the strokes, 200 backstroke is my best chance of getting an Olympic trials cut. Unfortunately, it’s her best event too.
It would’ve been nice to have had some warning Roxy would be here, but I haven’t been friends with her on Facebook or Twitter in a while. I will admit I spy from time to time, but I haven’t in a few months.
I text Levi to tell him what’s up, that Roxy’s here, that I don’t want to go to college with her, that I’m terrified she’ll spaz me out at our meets this spring and I won’t qualify to compete at the Olympic trials. I really, really don’t want to go to Cal with her.
He replies: Enough. You’re better than her. When you get home, we’ll figure this out. Got it?
I type, Got it.
Levi already has an Olympic trial cut in 200 breaststroke—he got it last summer at a meet in Jacksonville. In June, he will compete for a spot on the US Olympic team. Only about a hundred people in the entire country will qualify in each stroke, so it’s amazing Levi’s got a spot in 200 breast. He’s hoping to qualify for the trials in 100 breast and freestyle too.
Me? I don’t have cuts in any stroke yet.
Going to the Olympics has been a dream for a long time. When I was eight years old, an elite swimmer named Allison Schmitt spoke to my club team about her career. She was still in high school but had hopes of making the next Olympic team—and then she did. I remember watching her on TV that summer, thinking, wow, I met her. And wow, I want to do that too. To walk out onto the pool deck in front of cheering fans and the entire world, and swim my heart out to win. Because I love winning.
Since I haven’t qualified for the trials yet, I don’t have any illusions I’ll make this year’s Olympic team, but Allison didn’t win gold at her first Olympics. All her training built and built over the years, and it paid off when she won at her second Olympics. That’s what my goal is: to train and train until I win the biggest race there is.
And Cal-Berkeley is the next step on the path to winning.
I slip my phone in the back pocket of my jeans, then make my way over to Roxy. “Hi,” I tell her, and when she doesn’t respond or make any effort to introduce me to the man she’s talking to, I thrust a hand toward him. “I’m Maggie King.”
His face lights up. “I’m Alan Watts, the athletic director. Maggie, I can’t tell you how thrilled we are you chose Cal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Coach Pierson mentioned the swim team has a meet in Michigan this weekend, right?”
“Yeah, we couldn’t find a weekend where our meets didn’t clash, so I decided to skip it to come to this orientation.”
“That’s why Roxy is here this weekend too. I imagine you swim in many of the same meets.”
“Yeah,” we say simultaneously, side-eyeing each other.
When the athletic director turns away for a sec, Roxy gets in a jab: “Yep, we swim in many of the same meets…which I always win.”
“In your dreams,” I reply under my breath.
Before we join the academic tour with the other athletes—mostly field hockey, lacrosse, and basketball players—Roxy and I go with Mr. Watts to check out the brand-new, open-air aquatics center.
I love it. It’s bright, airy, and yellow and blue Bears flags are draped over the calm blue pool. The air smells fresh and only a tiny bit chemicaly. My pool back home is humid because it’s indoor. I can totally see myself swimming here in college.
The first time I ever jumped in a pool, I was two years old at a church barbeque. The way Dad tells the story, I was a crazy ass toddler my parents couldn’t control. I saw the pool, took off running, and did a belly flop into the water. People started freaking out, screaming that I was going to drown, and Dad jumped in to rescue me, but by then I was doggy paddling. The way he tells the story, I was even making a pouty fish face, pretending I was a goldfish.
To this day, anytime I see water, it’s hard for me to resist the pull to dive on in. The Cal pool is beautiful.
“Maybe we’ll have time to grab a swim before we fly home,” I tell Roxy, bouncing on my toes.
She doesn’t respond.
“Are you really going to do this?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Pretend like I don’t exist.”
She rolls her eyes.
That’s that, I guess. What else is new?
After we spend time exploring the pool and facilities, Roxy and I join up with a group of about twenty new athletes from across the country for a campus tour of the library, dining hall, and classrooms. She immediately starts clinging to this super cute lacrosse player.
To be honest, I don’t know the rules of lacrosse. It’s too bad I couldn’t attend the orientation for swimmers, which is next week, but I’m competing at conferences, and unless I qualify there, I can’t go to regionals. Still, I don’t mind checking out some of the guys. A super cute one with glasses and cropped black hair glances at me and smiles. But he’s much shorter than I am. Ugh, I hate being taller than most guys.
With her arm looped around Lacrosse Boy’s elbow, Roxy stares over at me and smirks, as if to say, I’m hotter than you, and I know it.
I ignore her and try to focus on the tour, but she keeps laughing loudly to show off.
Is it too late to pick a new college?
The guide leads us back to Haas Pavilion, the arena where the basketball team plays, to watch their game against Stanford. The stands are already filled with rowdy fans. The guys on my tour start horsing around. Two of them rush out onto the court and pretend to shoot an imaginary basketball.
“Get off the floor!” the guide screeches, and they hurry back to the sidelines, where they keep pretending to take shots.
I don’t blame them for being excited. The arena’s smaller than I imagine it looks on TV, but it’s still gorgeous. I take a picture of the basketball hoop and the gleaming wood floors with Cal written in blue.
I text the photo to Levi: Guess where I am?
Levi: Stop trying to make me jealous you evil woman
I grin at his response.
During the game I keep texting him, giving him a play-by-play. Levi wants to know what it smells like (sweat), if the seats are soft (hard), and what the fries taste like (they’ve got nothing on Jiffy Burger’s, but I tell him they are a perfect ten just to make him jealous).
The game is great. The team beats Stanford in overtime, and afterward, the guide leads us back to the boardroom to hear the university’s president give a short speech about how thankful they are “athletes of our caliber are attending Berkeley.” Then he announces that our student hosts will show us where we’ll be staying tonight.