Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes Read Online Free PDF Page B

year—which was within two-tenths of Brittain’s best, giving us both the same standard. I’m touching ahead of him now, have been since about thirty-five, but not by much. I feel at a disadvantage setting the pace, because he knows I won’t miss. That means I have to think and swim when all he has to do is swim. Mostly I’m just looking for reasons to hate him because he’s such a pompous turd, and the power of that particular emotion will get me through this.
    At ninety, we swim our last fly. There’s no time standard on the flys, but butterfly is butterfly and at this point a slow one is just as hard as a fast one, and the important thing is the recovery time between repeats. Brittain and I finish in a dead heat at about a minute forty—Ellerby beats us by an easy ten seconds—and for the first time I think I might not be there for the final ten; twenty seconds’ rest just might not do it. Ellerby gives me the high sign—he’s alone in his lane by now—indicating he’ll set the pace for this one. If I can hit the next two, I’ll recover.
    We hit the water on the whistle and the surge of power I normally feel through the first lap is absent. I see Ellerby coming out of the turn a half body length ahead of me and know I have to pick it up on two and three to have a chance. Brittain is hanging with me, continuing to let me work the strategy so if I miss, at least he won’t have done any worse than I did. That pisses me off, and I have a good second lap and feel a little power gathering when I flip into number three. At the end of three I’m out of gas and running on the simple knowledge that if I give it up to pain and go all out, I’ll have a minute to catch up, and I grit my teeth and sprint for the finish, touching a tenth of a second under my standard, in a dead heat with Brittain. Ellerby is a half body length ahead.
    Nine more.
    Ninety-two is a carbon copy of ninety-one, and now I know I’ll make it. Only three boys remain; four girls. The rest of the team is revived sufficiently to urge us on loudly, chanting our names on starts and finishes.
    Before the whistle on ninety-five, I look past Brittain to Ellerby and nod, raising my eyebrows. Ellerby nods back. We’re greedy. We want to make it, want Brittain to fold.
    Ellerby holds up two fingers—the number of seconds we’re going to take this one under the standard—and I nod. If we can pull it off, Brittain won’t know what hit him; he expects us to cut the time standard by a razor’s edge.
    When Lemry’s whistle blasts, we hit the water and I reach to the bottom of my reserves for a strong first lap. Ellerby does the same, and of course Brittain goes with us. Ellerby and I wring tenths of a second out on laps two and three, then kick all out on four. Brittain goes with us. We finish a second and a half under our standard.
    Astonished realization passes over Mark’s face when he sees the clock. He’s not a distance man, and for him the jig is up. I smile and gasp, “Good swim.” He misses ninety-six by a full second, and he’s gone. Ellerby and I and two of the remaining girls finish the last three and Pizza Maria is banging on the door.
    Mark Brittain is pissed.
    The devil made us do it.
    The euphoria of our conquest drives me through the subsequent feeding frenzy in high gear, but within minutes of devouring my last slice whole, I begin to slip. Deep heat radiates from every muscle, and as that warmth consumes me I could fall asleep on the baredeck, but I still have to visit Sarah Byrnes, so I slap high fives all around and get Ellerby to shower with me and swing me home low in his sweet chariot.
    â€œGuess we did a dance on Brittain,” Ellerby says, settling behind the wheel.
    â€œGuess so,” I say back, sliding down in the seat.
    â€œIt’s hard to resist. He’s so damn righteous; such a dumb, plastic God Squadder.