18
ANDREW FUKUDA
“Coach!” Poser yells, his right arm motioning. “Something’s wrong with him.” Coach’s head snaps around, his body half a beat behind. The assistant coach is already moving toward us. I raise my hands, up to the wrists. “I’m okay,” I assure them, but my voice trembles. “Just fine, let’s swim.” A girl in front of me studies me closely. “Why is his voice doing that? Shaking like that?” Fear ices my spine. A soupy sensation steals into my stomach, churning it upside down. Do whatever it takes to survive, my father would tell me, his hand smoothing down my hair. Whatever it takes. And in that moment with the coaches coming toward me and everyone staring at me, I find a way to survive. I vomit into the pool, a heaving green yellow mess filled with sticky spittle and gooey saliva. It’s not a lot, and most of it just floats on the surface like an oil spill. A few colorless chunks drift downward. “That’s so disgusting!” the girl shrills, splashing vomit away as she jumps backward. The other swimmers also move away, arms and hands slapping at the water. The green slick of vomit floats haphazardly back toward me. “You get out of the water now!” Coach yells at me. I do. Most people are too distracted by the vomit in the pool to notice my body. It’s ridden with goose bumps. And shaking. Coach and his assistant are making their way to me. I hold up my arm, pretend I’m about to upchuck again. They stop in their tracks. I run into the locker room, bent over. Inside, I make retching sounds as I towel off and throw my clothes on. I don’t have much time before they come in. Even with the clothes on, I’m still shivering. I hear them getting closer now. I jump down onto the floor and start doing push-ups. Anything to get my body warmer.
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10/24/12 2:23 PM