Westlake Academyy's hallways buzz with the particular energy of privilege. A hum that dims noticeably when Desiree passes. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Glances slide away. The swim team travels in packs.
Heather and Blake at the center. their laughter a little too loud whenever Desiree appears. Did you hear? A whisper not meant to be quiet. Phillips finally had the guts to do it. My dad says those scholarship spots should go to people who actually fit in.
The words follow her like ripples spreading outward, impossible to catch or confront. The sound burns in her ears as she opens her locker, finding it plastered with swim team photos with her face carefully cut out of each one. Chemistry passes in a blur. Then math. Then physics, where Dr.
Winters, a sharpeyed woman with graying braids, calls on Blake after he snickers at something on his phone. Mr. Peterson, since you find fluid dynamics so amusing, perhaps you'd like to solve this equation on the board. Blake falters, glancing at Desiree with unexpected venom, as if his embarrassment is somehow her fault. Dr.
Winters follows his gaze, her expression softening slightly when she looks at Desiree. After class, Dr. Winters calls her aside. I'm assigning a special project on applied physics in competitive swimming. I thought you might be interested.
I'm not on the team anymore, Desiree says flatly. I know. Dr. Winter's eyes are knowing. That's why I'm offering the independent study.
Later in the library, heat crawls up Desire's neck as she scrolls through her phone. Someone has added her to a private Instagram group titled West Lake Real Swim Team. The latest post shows her face photoshopped onto a drowning cartoon character captioned, "When you realize chlorine doesn't wash off everything." 26 likes, including Coach Phillips. That's messed up. Desiree startles, quickly, hiding her phone.
A girl with a camera around her neck slides into the seat across from her. Taylor Kim, editor of the school newspaper. They've never spoken before. Sorry, Taylor says, not sounding particularly sorry. I was looking over your shoulder.
Photography habit. Always framing shots. It's fine, Desiree mumbles, though it's not. It's not, Taylor counters as if reading her mind. And neither is what Phillips did.
You qualified fair and square. Desiree looks up, surprised. How do you I cover sports for the paper. I record all the trials. Taylor leans forward, including the part where your butterfly time was actually better than Heather's before Phillips adjusted the official record.