Page 2 of Grown

Mackenzie Miller stuffs her long blond hair into a swim cap.

“Huh?”

“Go ahead, sing,” she says, her pink lips in a sly smirk. “You know you want to.”

“Might as well,” Hannah Tavano says next to her, slipping out of her track pants. “You’re humming loud enough.”

The entire swim team nods in agreement.

“Well, I’m always willing to give the people what they want,” I say, stripping out of my sweats. I step to the edge of the pool, grabbing hold of my invisible mic.

“Where do broken hearts go?

Can they find their way home?

Back to the open arms

of a love that’s waiting there.”

The thing about singing near the pool is the acoustics. My voice carries, notes bouncing off the tiles, the dome roof, then skipping across the water like a pebble before boomeranging back. Every word pulses and echoes through my bloodstream, but then the song ends. The adrenaline leaves me breathless.

Applause shakes me out of a trance, and I glimpse down at my fans, a group of eight pale faces in matching navy swimsuits.

“Wow. It’s like... you can really sing,” Hannah says in disbelief. “You sound just like Beyoncé!”

The other teammates nod in agreement.

My heart deflates a bit. I love Beyoncé, but they use that comparison because that’s the only black singer they know.

“Ladies,” a voice shouts behind us. Coach Wilson leans against the doorframe of her office, pushing her red glasses back up her thin nose.

“If you’re done with your concert, can you kindly get your butts in the water? Now! Ten laps. Let’s go!”

The whistle blows and I dive in, slipping under the surface like sliding into a freshly made bed.

In the lanes to the right and left of me, Mackenzie and Hannah practice their breaststroke. My goggles are tight, but on purpose. I hate when chlorine slips through the crevices and I end up with red eyes like I’ve been smoking a blunt. Not that I’d know what that’s like. But being one of ten black students in the entire school... the stupid assumption would be too easy.

After a warm-up, coach talks us through a few practice drills.

I hit the wall at the end of the pool on my last lap and power back. On land, Coach Wilson clicks her stopwatch, her face unreadable.

“Few seconds off. Not bad. Could be better.”

I sniff, wiping my face dry. “You are full of compliments.”

“Compliments don’t help you improve,” she chuckles. “All right, ladies! Showers. Then class. And I better not hear about any of you being late to homeroom. Jones, a word?”

Dripping wet, I skip into her office. “Yes, Coach?”

She tips her glasses. “You’re spilling out of your uniform there.”

I give myself a once-over. “I... am?”

“Butts and boobs need to be fully covered. Might be time to move up a size.”

The locker room smells of chlorine and musty wet socks as a blow-dryer churns in the background. Glad I don’t have problems like long hair to deal with anymore. In and out the shower, I can be ready for school in less than ten minutes.

Parkwood High School is the only private one in the county that doesn’t have a strict dress code, but the student handbook specifically says no hats, no short skirts, no “distracting” hairstyles.