and queen of mealtime misery, and all we can really hope is that neither of us tries to behead the other and gets blood all over the floor. (Or our grilled chicken, roasted broccoli, and sweet corn, which is delicious.)
These dinners do have a few foreseeable perks, though. I glance toward the hallway that leads to the little bathroom I know Sidney uses. I’m sure there’s more than one way I can use this time in enemy territory to my advantage.
At the very least I can have some fun. I catch Sidney’s eye and hold her gaze. Even when I spear a piece of broccoli, I keep my eyes on her, daring her to look away. Yes, we can do this. Nothing makes time fly like harassing one another. Sidney’s eyes narrow in annoyance, but she doesn’t take them off of me. I reach for the salt shaker and blindly shake it over the blurry yellow blob that is my corn cob. Sidney reaches for her water glass, and her fingers tap against the glass as she gets a hold on it. I fumble with a roll when my mom holds the basket out to me, and Sidney clumsily spoons rice onto her plate, a chunk of it falling onto the table. In my mental tally, I give myself a point. She gets one when I pick my spoon up by accident and try to gouge a piece of chicken with it.
When I tip over my glass of water, both of us break our gaze at the same time, looking to our parents, who are all laughing. At my clumsiness or our little game, I’m not sure, but when I crawl under the table with a rag thrown at me by my mom, the game is officially over.
Sidney
As Asher hoists himself off of the floor, I realize for the first time since we started our little staring game that the area around my plate looks like it should be adorned with a paper placemat and crayons. There is a heap of rice that never made it onto my plate, three pieces of broccoli I must have knocked off while blindly cutting my chicken, and a blob of melted butter. Way to keep it classy, Sid. You’ll fit right in on campus in a few months. Thoughts of school always bring back what I’m really focused on this summer—not food fights with myself, or staring games with Asher. Sitting to my right is the reigning queen of the Division II 1,650-yard freestyle, and if I have anything to say about it, by the end of my freshman season, she’ll be abdicating her throne. I’ve promised her since I was nine and wearing my first team Speedo that I’d do it. Back then it was a pipe dream, the kind of thing you say when you’re too young to know what it even means. But now, it’s in my sights.
“Set your alarm,” I say, and my dad groans. I roll my eyes. He’s not the one swimming two thousand yards across the lake before breakfast; I’m not sure he has any room to be grumbly and cranky. I, on the other hand, have to sit across from Asher and try not to laugh at him spilling food all over himself while I’m trying to eat a meal.
Asher clears his throat and sets his fork on his plate. “I can spot her,” he says, looking at my dad and not me. A whole new kind of staring game is happening, and I will my dad to look at me, but his eyes are fixed on Asher.
I’m not sure if I’m laughing or choking, but there’s a strangled noise sliding out of me, making everyone look my way. As if my dad is going to put my safety in Asher’s hands?
“Are you sure?” My dad’s voice is hopeful, and it makes my stomach sink.
Please please please, no.
“It’s no problem.” Asher stabs a piece of chicken with his fork, and meets my eye. “I can’t sleep past six thirty anyway.” A side effect of the early morning swims Asher probably does all year. I suspect the only person I know who trains harder than me is Asher. He makes the guys on my team look flubby and soft. One more reason I need to stay on track this summer—college will be a whole different level of competition, and half of the team will be female versions of Asher.