“Maybe,” I mumble. Knew that was coming. “Come on, I’m gonna be late to the pool.”
“Fine, fine.” She throws her hands up. “I’m just trying to build a social life via you. Maybe I can be friends with this girl’s mum. We don’t know anyone in the whole of London, let alone this borough.”
I grumble as she starts driving, but deep down I know there’s no stopping her once she gets an idea in her head.
When we get to the leisure centre I change at breakneck speed and make my way to the gym to start with the warm-up whilst Coach Andy writes the training plan onto the board. My mind slowly begins to quiet as I fall into the familiarity of the routine, starting the stretches that are so ingrained in me I could do them in my sleep. Some mornings I think I probably do.
Nothing beats the feeling of diving into the water. The way the world goes quiet, muffled. Just one stroke after another. Slowly, my leftover nerves from the day fade away until it’s just me and my breathing. No niggling thoughts about who I’ll sit with at lunch, or clammy palms when I try to avoid being asked a question in class. Just a stroke pattern.
I love this. I’vealwaysloved this. Ever since I first stepped into a pool. At seven, I joined my first team and learnt the strokes. By nine, I was faster than anyone in my age group. By ten, I was faster than anyone in the club.
And for the first time, a hush fell over the noise in my head. The pool has always felt like home.
Two hours later, I meet Mum, hair once again damp.
“I think we should invite your friend over this weekend,” she says, reversing out of the parking space.
She definitely isn’t going to give up on this.
“Friday or Saturday work. I looked her parents up in the address book they sent us for your class, and they only live a short walk from our house. I could give them a call if you like.”
“Mum! Stop meddling. It would besoembarrassing if you called her parents to arrange some sort of play date like we’re five or something. And it’s literally the first day of school. Can we at least give it a bit of time?”
“It wouldn’t be embarrassing,” she tells me absentmindedly, indicating to turn left and sliding into the lane. “I’m sure other parents do it all the time.”
“They don’t,” I assure her. “At least let me text her instead.”
I pull out my phone and spend a few minutes working out what to say. I’ve never texted a girl before, even as a friend. I went to an all-boys school. I train with guys. Girls are strange and mysterious. And I don’t want to freak her out by inviting her over on day one of term.
“You look like you’re drafting a Nobel Prize winning speech over there,” Mum teases me. “Come on, love, it’s just a text. Otherwise, I can call her mum.”
“Nope! I’m doing it now.”
Nothing like time pressure. A minute later, I’m staring at a sent text feeling slightly panicked.
Me:hope u had a good evening. my mum wants to know if u want to come for dinner this weekend?
Oh god. I didn’t say who it was. It could be from anyone.
Me:It’s sam btw. sorry. just realised I don’t think u have my number.
By the time we get home I still don’t have a reply and I’ve now read the two texts over a dozen times. I cringe further into my seat each time I read them. Who brings their mum up in their first text?
Apparently me. That’s who.
It’s nearly 8 p.m. by the time I get a response. I frantically flip over my phone when I hear it beep.
Kath:Hey Sam! I guessed it was you. Sounds great! I’ll check with my parents. Mum’s working tonight. What day?
I wonder what her mum does.
Me:LOL. saturday? does that work for u?
The moment I press send I start to worry again. Does she think I’m laughing at her? Why am I analysing this text more than my homework? The phone beeps almost immediately and I stop panicking.
Kath:Should be fine. I play netball in the park in the mornings but free after that. Will ask Mum tomorrow.
Me:Coolcool
