When I reach the finish, I pull myself up onto the wall, waiting a few seconds before the guy from St Vincent’s in the next lane finishes second.
“Good race,” I tell him as he catches his breath. And I mean it—he’s a solid swimmer. He grimaces at me.
Making my way back to the benches, I watch the next few events. The sharp chlorine smell, the echo of splashes against the walls, it’s all so familiar, comforting in a way. But even that isn’t enough to pull me fully from the edge of gloom that shadows the corners of everything I do.
Is this the last time Mum will ever watch me race?
“I think Mr Rudd is going to be very impressed with us.” Kath nudges my shoulder, as if she knows where my mind is going. “A school record, a handful of medals—he’s definitely angling to be part of the BBC documentary on your life, Sam.”
“Please,” Josh cuts in. “If there’s a documentary, I’m obviously going to feature in it. Think of all the stories I can tell—like the time Sam fell asleep mid-maths lesson because he was up so early for training.”
I roll my eyes. “I really hope no one ever makes a documentary.”
Josh smirks. “And if they do?”
“I really don’t want them talking to you, mate.”
Kath snickers, and for a moment—just a moment—everything feels normal. I try to absorb the feeling, even though I know it won’t last… it never does.
My phone buzzes with a text.
“Who’s that?” Josh asks.
“Molly.”
“The girl from St Hilda’s?”
“Yeah.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I immediately know where his brian has gone.
“We’re just friends,” I say.
“Mm-hmm."
I roll my eyes and text her back.
Molly’s nice. It’s good to have another friend who doesn’t know every detail of what’s happening with Mum. Someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m one piece of bad news away from falling apart. Whatever Josh thinks we really are only friends, and friends who text very rarely at that. In a rare moment of openness, I told her straight away that I would never be interested in being anything more that friends, and she was completely fine with it.
Anyway, I have more free time on weekends now since Kath’s usually with Bobbie.
I glance over, about to say something to Kath—
But she’s put on her headphones.
Chapter 13
Seventeen years old
Kath
It’s a Friday evening, and instead of being out with my friends, I’m lying face down on my bed, crying. I feel like an idiot.
Claire walks back into my room, carrying a third cup of tea. Each one has had progressively more sugar, like she thinks the sweetness will magically fix everything.
“I promise that tea makes things better,” she insists, placing it on my bedside table.
I’m not so sure. I don’t feel any better yet. Claire sighs and plops down next to me, rubbing my shoulder. “If tea doesn’t work we can make a voodoo doll and shove pins into unmentionable places.”
