Story No.1: Bird Girl

My heart's racing like a gazillion beats a minute, I swear it might just give up on me. My chest is folding in on itself, but quitting? Not even an option. The finish line seems like it's a million miles away. I know, I might be a tad overdramatic – I mean, I just did a flip-turn and now I've got just one lap left. But seriously, my shoulders are begging for mercy. Hamstrings? Yeah, they're clenching in protest. Calves? Tight as a vise. And air? Well, that's a luxury I can't afford right now.

I hear Coach Hilary’s voice, but it's like she's yelling at me through a bubble-filled megaphone. "NO BREATHING!" she's screeching from the other side of the pool deck. I tilt my head left and see her hustling toward the flags, trying to squeeze past a couple of burly dudes in matching red trunks who're chilling by the lifeguard chair. Suddenly, it's not just me witnessing my struggle; those two hairy legs and the stocky silhouette of Coach Hilary have recruited a few more spectators. Now there are three people watching this drama unfold. Yep, six eyes making me feel like I'm performing in a circus, and to top it off, four of those eyes belong to the dude lifeguards. Talk about pressure.

Lord, could one of those lifeguards save me from drowning? 'Cause that's exactly how I'm feeling – like a fish out of water, gasping for breath. The lanes on either side of me are making waves, and through my goggles that are tinted red by the water, I catch a glimpse of purple. It's Olivia, gliding through the water like she's born to do this. She's rocking that purple Milsaps Swimming cap, her body slicing through the chlorine-scented air of the Randolph YMCA. Meanwhile, I'm just trying not to sink.

My inner monologue's on overdrive: "Just stick with Olivia. She's the only one who wants this as bad as you do." Breaking 1:05 seconds in meters today at practice? That's the key to smashing that 55-second-yard record in a meet. I drown out the doubts, and the anxiety, and let out a primal scream in my head. AAAAAH. It's like my feet are jets ready for takeoff. Engage the core, tuck the chin, and my arms turn into a water-churning windmill. I'm a torpedo headed for that black T marking the pool's bottom. My body rotates, my hand slams the wall, and guess who's there doing the same? Olivia, my partner in chlorine-soaked crime.

Her head whips towards the clock, and I gulp in a lungful of air like it's the first breath I've ever taken. And there it is, in digital glory – "1:02, 1:03, YOU TWO!" Coach Hilary's voice booms like a victory siren. She's up from her lifeguard-chair lean, maneuvering past the bathrooms and dashing toward the glass windows where the grandmas do their thing. She points at us, her star swimmers in lanes 2 and 3. "BOTH 1:04, 1:04!" The pride in her tone is contagious, and I'm hugging that pool edge like it's my lifeline.

But Coach Hilary isn't done, oh no. "1:06! 1:08!" The countdown continues, and she finally hits pause on her watch. My body shifts, giving Yohith, my buddy with a knack for backstroke, some room. Alexa, the secret twelve-year-old powerhouse, is next to him, her breaststroke a damn work of art. Olivia shifts too, and we share a knowing grin as we watch Alexa own the pool.

—

The clock's ticking its way to 9:30 PM, and the glow of that parking lot lamp is seeping in through the exit door right by lane 8. There's a blue kickboard holding the door open, and in the darkness beyond, I can almost taste my bed calling me. After the upcoming half-hour drive to the rural mountains of Budd Lake, New Jersey, I'm so ready to faceplant onto my pillow. At least the drive's a breeze on I-80 – it's a road I know like the back of my hand.

"Time to wash off the chlorine?" I ask Olivia, pulling myself out of the pool and getting ready for the after-swim drill. My neon pink snorkel, the faithful white pull buoy, the trusty yellow narrow paddles, and the lively green fins all go back into my swim mesh bag. Olivia's busy too – cap off, a water-tossing move that's like dunking the back of her head, and then she gives her hair a twist to wring out the excess water.

"Yep, and then we're back on the road. Gotta be back in time for my family's movie night," Olivia says, her cap in her hands. Her hair's damp and unruly, but she's working that post-swim coolness.

I stand up, fasten the bag's drawstrings for security, and ask the burning question, "What's on the movie menu?"

As we make our way toward the girls' bathroom, we're getting closer to those two hairy lifeguards who managed to give me a mini heart attack just 15 minutes ago – a panic attack they're blissfully unaware of. "I think it's some Nicholas Sparks romance thing, but my brother's whining about it. He's in the mood for a heist movie." I give Olivia a slow nod, but I can't help that weird, lingering thought about the lifeguards. Time to play it cool – mission aborted. "Let me know how that goes. Sounds like a fun night."

Focused on the wooden door near the lifeguard chair, I pick up the pace, totally lost in my tunnel vision. Until an ordinary-looking guy, around 5-foot-11, lunges forward right in our path, putting a wrench in my genius plan. Olivia's footsteps come to a screeching halt, and I twist around to see her brows furrowing and her green eyes registering whatever the heck is happening here.

"Um, excuse me? Can I ask you something?" I mentally applaud Olivia's apparent role in this scene. I take a step back toward the pool's edge, ready to give them space, but Olivia throws me for a loop – she glances at me and shuts her mouth.

And there goes my heart, plummeting to my ass. Oh great, this one's for me.

The lanky blond lifeguard to the right swings his whistle around his neck, all devilish smiles. Me, I'm dragging my swim mesh bag behind me as I glance up at this other dude who's fair-skinned (probably tanner than me, though) and hairier than the average person should be. Seriously, he's got more chest hair strands peeking out of his white lifeguard tank top than I have hair on my entire head. I'm a senior in high school, for crying out loud, and he's sporting more chest hair than I've got boobs.

He rakes his hands through his light brown disconnected undercut. I'm half-surprised – it's the first time I've seen a guy pull off that '20s look, all thanks to his mega-thick brown eyebrows framing his honey-downturned eyes. His face is sort of round, which is deceptive since his upper body is totally sculpted and moderately built. The dude probably lifts.

He takes a quick breath, showcasing the top row of his slightly crooked teeth as he smirks, like a subtle, inviting smile. His shoulders are squared up, his posture's all straight and strong, and my shoulders just droop.

Honestly, I'm feeling uneasy. I'm just not getting this situation. Who is this guy? And why's he coming up to me, a total stranger? Maybe I'm not used to being hit on, given my brilliant track record of two guys I chased in high school. Or maybe it's a prank, especially now that the blond lifeguard's busy snickering at the floor. Heck, it could be both. His confidence is suffocating, though. He's all hurried, like a desperate interaction, but it's also oddly sweet. I've got to give him some answers before my brain catches up. But humor him? That's a maybe. Time's ticking away.

I squint my eyes at him, trying to figure this dude out. He pulls the guard tube that's hanging from a black strap closer to him. "Sure, I guess?"

And then he drops this question bomb: "What's your favorite species of North American bird?" I hear Olivia snorting. The blond lifeguard claps his hands together and spins around, clearly amused.

I shift my weight from one leg to another. He's all eyes on my legs, and I start to feel like a weirdo in this spotlight. "I don't know, maybe a falcon or an eagle?" His eyelashes meet my gaze, and he's nodding so fast it's like he's got a head-spinning habit. "Yeah, cool, cool. Nice choices."

Alright, this guy's officially weird. "So, you're a bird fan or something?"

"Totally. Birds rock."

"What's your favorite North American bir–?"

"Probably a northern cardinal or a blue grosbeak."

I let out a laugh, my mesh bag swaying. He's trying not to crack up too, probably proud he got me to laugh.

Honestly, why did I even ask? I don't even know what a blue grosbeak looks like. But hey, I'm kinda impressed he's ready to chat birds with me. I mean, he's had the entire practice to mull over it.

"Well, that's interesting," I say, stepping toward the girls' locker room, bag dragging behind me.

"Yeah, I was just curious to know yours," he replies, tapping his lifeguard tube like it's a drum. He twirls around, heels clicking, and he's back to pretending to watch the pool with his co-worker. Olivia shuts the locker room door, squeezing my arm as she does.

"Dude, what was that?" she asks.

I grab my purple Speedo swim backpack from a cubby, rushing past the showers. "Olivia, that was just… weird. No one's hit me up with such randomness before." I grab my Redkin shampoo and head for the shower.

That bird question? It's now moved into my head, free of rent, until the next time he lifeguards the Rany Sharks swim team.