Double Negative

Chapter One

The towering principal of West Hill High, Mr. DiFrancesco, lumbered onto the auditorium stage. Looking out at the fidgeting student body, he tapped on the microphone, making sure it was live. He paused—pretty much everyone ignored him—so he kept at it, the tapping becoming a background drumbeat to the hundreds of overlapping conversations. 

As I sat and watched, my mind drifted. The tapping, the talking, became part of my usual daydream, the soundtrack for my legs and arms as they locked into a precise rhythm: kick-kick-kick—stroke-stroke-stroke. A brief, familiar pain seared through my left shoulder. My eyes watered and I squeezed them tight. When I reopened them, I was again reminded of my new reality: I was a full-time air breather. 

Shifting on the hard wooden seat, I glanced at my fellow students, noting the mostly average bodies lacking tone and definition, so different from the fit and often ripped bodies at The Elite High School for High Performance Athletes—my old school. 

As you are aware, the results of the spring Student Council Election, Principal DiFran started, then upped the volume, for the positions of president and vice president, have been declared null and void. As if on cue, a chorus of boos rang out.

 The flagrant attempt to undermine democracy was truly shocking. DiFran paused, peering over his reading glasses. "There was substantial rule-breaking, including fake news and campaigning on social media. Voting is exactly one week from today, September 17th. Listen up, people! You are about to hear from the four candidates, running in pairs. First up are Jamie Denning and Dean Diaz.ˮ

Not waiting for DiFran to finish, my brother Jamie took position at the back of the stage, a swath of navy velvet curtain slung over his shoulders, superhero-like. In a flourish of fabric, he emerged with an old-style boombox propped on his shoulder. A familiar hip-hop song filled the air, and Jamie dance-strutted to center stage. 

People started clapping in time as my mouth went slack. I’d wondered why Jamie had worn so many layers to school. Then it hit me. 

He was going to shed those many layers. 

In front of the school. 

Right now. 

Shit.

Seriously? I said to no one in particular.

Wait! What? OMG, Jamie’s so awesome! exclaimed a tall girl sitting on my right, sporting a high bun. She pulled out her phone and flicked on the camera app.

Don’t! I said, leaning in. Remember what DiFran said about social media? He might get disqualified. She gazed at me sideways, then nodded, clicking off the app.

I glanced at the stage where Jamie played peek-a-boo with his baseball hat before turning my attention to a white thread dangling from my shirt sleeve. Some catcalls rang out. I looked up as he tossed the cap. The music changed to a more poppy vibe, and Jamie started slowly unwinding his blue scarf, his hips swaying in time as the audience got noisier.

Wow, this is so, so— the high-bun girl said, biting her lower lip.

Cringy? I offered, crossing then uncrossing my legs.

No way! He’s hot! she declared, turning to me, her eyes widening. 

Uh, I’m his sister— I started.

Ahh? She raised her eyebrows.

Reece, I added, but my words were swallowed up by a chorus of, Take it off!

As a complete unknown at the school, I slowly shook my head, realizing my status at West Hill would likely be tethered to my unaccomplished, outrageously popular brother, who was now sashaying the scarf down his body. 

Will I ever forget this moment? And will DiFran ever stop the strip? It wasn’t like I’d expected a normal election speech, but a striptease was outrageous, even for Jamie. 

Our parents had convinced him that being school president would be his ticket into Cornell. Dad was desperate for both of us to be legacies. But with Jamie, it was more like a Hail Mary. My brother was a good-natured slacker. I was pretty sure he had no clue what a school president was supposed to do, and if for some reason he did know, he’d find any way to offload his duties.

A country song started playing, the sudden change in rhythm drawing a few laughs. Jamie waved his right arm above his head as if holding a lasso. Pretending to ride a horse, he paused long enough to unsnap his side button warm-up pants 

On second thought, maybe you should post that video, I said.

The girl smiled at me like I’d told a good joke. No way, he’d be the best Prez.

I grimaced as Jamie’s pants fell to the floor, revealing red and white floral swim trunks above his cowboy boots. The stage was starting to look like his messy bedroom. DiFran paced nervously on the sidelines. I assumed he was hesitant to interfere with the election re-do, but how far would he let this go? 

I checked my phone. The time was 9:25 AM. At Elite, I’d be finishing up my first class by now, having already spent two hours in the pool. There would be none of this election nonsense. I was pretty sure Elite didn’t even have a student council. I imagined the bright hallways bustling with students clad in athletic wear, moving quickly past shiny steel lockers, their running shoes squeaking on the tile floor. I could practically see my teammates in their red and blue warm-up jackets, joking as they slurped green smoothies, the clean, tangy smell wafting in the air as they passed. 

A loud whoop from the crowd forced me out of my head. Jamie was now doing a two-step thing, flipping off his right boot, then the left. I gave him points for not beaning anyone. Once again, the music switched, this time to the classic strip soundtrack. Duh na na na.

I sank lower, the wooden back pressing uncomfortably against my shoulder blades. DiFran stopped pacing, and like a bull waiting for the pen to open, stood to attention. 

Jamie slowly wiggled off his white t-shirt, not taking himself too seriously. I squinted. What’s up with the rock-hard abs? Whoa! said the high-bun girl, her eyes fluttering as I rolled mine. 

They’re not real, I said softly, watching Jamie slowly turn around. 

On the back of the flesh-colored muscle shirt was a hand-drawn picture: a gorgeous, artsy rendition of Jamie and his best friend Dean Diaz eating ice cream cones and lazing in the sun. Silk-screened to look like an elaborate tattoo, the design was executed in signature Jamie-style with lots of gilded, glowy bits. Other than natural charm, Jamie’s only real talent was art. And lately, it was all about the silkscreen. 

The atmosphere in the auditorium was near electric. The students were gobbling up the performance, knowing Jamie’s speech could be stopped at any second. As he started to lower his swimsuit, DiFran suddenly—finally—stomped onstage. I momentarily covered my eyes with my good hand, and when I peeked through my fingers, I exhaled in relief. His flesh-colored t-shirt was part of a unitard. No frontal nudity today, folks. 

Fists and jaw tightly clenched, DiFran leaned in and whispered insistently into Jamie’s ear. But like a pole dancer resisting the grand finale, Jamie shook him off. 

High-bun girl leaned forward as my brother turned ass backward to the audience. Large black letters were written across his butt—Free on the left cheek, Ice Cream on the right. High-bun girl—and pretty much the entire student body—went insane as the dance music morphed into a conga drumbeat. 

As Jamie thrust out one butt cheek, everyone yelled, Free! He pulsed out the other one to a refrain of, Ice cream! Even my gym teacher Ms. Walker started shouting along, while Jamie wiggled one cheek and then the other. Free ice cream! I gripped the armrest with my good hand. Very presidential.

Moving to the speed of Jamie’s bum, the chanting accelerated to a fevered pitch. Riding an ice cream vendor bike, Dean blasted through the backstage curtain, skidding to a stop. He opened the cooler, pulled out a few boxes of cones, and lifted them up high like a trophy.

DiFran took center stage, waving his arms furiously, trying but failing to halt the deafening noise. Are you quite done? he huffed into the mic. Jamie, who was suddenly in his trunks and at his side, shook his head. Wrap this up pronto, DiFran spat. 

Jamie tilted the microphone toward his mouth as the auditorium quieted down. Here comes the big speech. Despite all the shenanigans, or maybe because of them, everyone seemed ready to listen. It was almost a dead silence when Jamie leaned in and spoke his first words, slowly emphasizing each letter.

For free ice cream, vote Jamie and Dean. He paused. Everyone sat quietly, waiting for more. But instead, Dean ripped open boxes as Jamie reached over and started firing ice cream cones at the audience. Even though I was way out of range, I ducked. A mad scramble ensued. The bull had been released.

 Wait! Stop, stop… Halt! screamed DiFran into the microphone. Do not throw those things, you might hurt someone. They better not be—nutty cones? Are you insane?

Firing one more for good measure, Jamie then took a quick bow before walking offstage, with Dean biking behind. Typical Jamie, he left clothes scattered everywhere.

Anyone with a nut allergy do not, I repeat, do not touch the cones! We’re not a nut-free school, but still, it’s just common sense! DiFran yelled. And do not forget how these candidates have acted so cavalierly with your health. Free ice cream, seriously? For 1,800 students? Unless one of your families owns an ice cream factory we don’t know about, I have no idea how you’re going to make good on that promise. I’m smelling more fake news here.

The crowd started jeering and I chimed right in. DiFran didn’t stop the striptease, but now he interfered? It went without saying that DiFran was only helping Jamie and Dean. Talk about undemocratic. 

It was all too much. I mentally plunged myself underwater, the noises of the auditorium morphing into the sound of splashing. I hated that my life was on hold. I felt completely unanchored, like I was floating between places.

While DiFran tried to regain control, the other two guy candidates for Prez and Veep stood off to the side. I wondered if West Hill elections were always such a sausage fest. Jamie remained nearby, talking with his other sidekick, his beautiful, untouchable girlfriend, Jae Lee. I saw Jae nod as Jamie returned to the stage. The booing turned quickly to cheering. 

With a shake of his head and a grim-set mouth, DiFran slowly moved left, ceding the mic to Jamie. You want to stick it to the man, right? asked Jamie, as series of loud whistles pierced the air. 

The thing is we need to respect all the candidates. Hear out our worthy opponents, Philip Sanjay and Derek Phun. Guys? he said, backing up.

He’s all cl-ass, said the high-bun girl reverently, drawing out the last three letters. I smiled as I nodded. Ass. That was about right. 

Philip and Derek—wearing matching yellow shirts with black lettering that said, Phil your year with Phun—took a few steps forward but stopped. A dark-skinned guy with prominent square glasses walked out in front of the candidates. He swayed slightly, as if he had a sore hip, or maybe it was just a strut.

Zain here, he said in a low, commanding voice. He seemed to look everyone in the eye. This guy was intense.

So yeah, Jamie. What’s not to like? But so what? It’s not a popularity contest. I’m Prez of the Athletic Council. I’ve got a big stake in this election’s outcome, and you’ve got two good candidates here, Phil and D. Phun. Solid guys, both on the Athletic Council with me last year. Basketball brothers. They’ll shoot three-pointers for you. Zain paused, jutting out his chin as a low hum of conversation started up. He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable, and fixed another stare at the audience. 

We don’t have time to waste with free ice cream. I’ve seen Phil and D. Phun work hard on the court, and they’ll work hard on council. They aren’t making any, like, promises. It’s what the shirt says: a fun-filled year. That’s all I’ve got. With that, Zain looked out on the audience, unsmiling. He fist-bumped the candidates and walked off the stage, the hop strut of his hip screaming attitude.

I assumed it was Phil who took the mic. He awkwardly tried to lower it, then kind of pulled it back and leaned in. Enough said, he muttered. Derek nodded in agreement while Phil made a peace sign. A small smattering of polite applause marked their exit from the stage, I sighed loudly.

Seriously? One of these pairs was supposed to lead the school? While Jamie and Dean were joke candidates, at least they were their own people. Having never witnessed a student council election before, it was even lamer than I’d imagined. 

Why would anyone bother voting? It likely didn’t matter. DiFran might let Jamie and Dean run amok onstage, but at my intake meeting, he strongly suggested color-coded binders and committing the locations of the girls’ washrooms to memory. I grinned. DiFran must be regretting this election re-do.

Free ice cream’s going to take it, high-bun girl pronounced, standing to leave. 

Shocking but likely true, I replied. 

The crowd started moving like a school of fish, and I was swept along. My shoulder was draped in a white sling resembling a surrender flag and you’d think people would steer clear of me, but I swore it was like a target. As I started down the stairs, some idiot bumped into me.

Ow! I glared at the sharp-elbowed offender who merely blinked back at me, as if I were invisible.

Having surgery and getting stuck at the lame West Hill High was like a double negative. I had no choice but to suck it up for the next few months until I got back to my happy place, in the water.

Chapter Two

Did you hear me, Reece? said Mom. You are going to drive Jamie to school early tomorrow. He needs to hang up those campaign posters. 

No way, I said, shaking my head slowly. With my right hand, I isolated chunks of tofu from the chicken and broccoli. The campaign is a complete joke. 

 Really? Because Cornell is no joke. And who pays for your gas? said Mom, flipping her thick, highlighted bangs to the side and looking directly at me. Until you’re using your own money, you will help Jamie out.

I held her gaze. Even though I was fifteen months younger than Jamie, I was the kid with the car. It wasn’t some sort of favoritism. It was a way to attend early swim practice without my parents getting out of bed before dawn. They could hardly wait for my sixteenth birthday last February. I became the proud owner of a boring but reliable second-hand black sedan, although the red interior was nice. I named the car Jenny after Jenny Thompson, the most decorated American Olympic female swimmer.

Besides, you have lots of free time now, said Mom, her light-brown pupils expanding.

Kick me when I’m down! I gestured to the sling.

Maybe you need a kick, Reece, said Mom.

My eyes narrowed. It was a likely true but insulting statement.

My shoulder issue had appeared suddenly during an early morning practice. The coach wasn’t panicked. Neither was I. Despite some occasional pinch-like pain, I generally slept well. Every swimmer has shoulder issues, he’d told me. 

But I wasn’t every swimmer. I was special. Or so I’d thought. We made a plan. It started with physios and chiros, but after a few weeks, the pain became more throbby and intense. The next step was to get scans: ultrasounds, X-rays, and then an MRI. Pretty soon, it was like I was riding on a rollercoaster, up one day, down the next, always accompanied by a nauseating swirling sensation. Turned out I was special. Rotator cuff problems rarely happened to the young. I started waking up in the middle of the night, my denial wearing off with the Advil.

Dad forked over extra cash for some experimental injections, and I lulled myself into believing the issue was behind me. But it wasn’t. We seriously discussed the pros and cons of stem cells versus surgery. After lots of appointments, heated debates, and at least one major meltdown, I went under the knife for a rotator repair. While the doctor said that a full recovery was not a slam dunk, I knew in my very core that it just had to be.

I needed those sparks that fired around my body as I crouched on the diving platform, waiting for the whistle and for every cell in my body to ignite. And the adrenaline rush that followed as my torso and limbs exploded through the water in precise rhythm. I craved that burst of magic when, after leaving everything in the water, I hit the wall first, my spirits soaring right through the atrium roof, along with the whoop from the crowd. There was just no comparison to that feeling of being on top of the world as I climbed to the top of the podium. Swimming was it for me. There was no plan B.

I had mentally mapped it all out. I’d be ready for the late spring swim season, hit my state race times again by next fall, and then snag an athletic scholarship to Cornell. In the meantime, I was a literal fish out of water. It felt like an evolutionary mistake that I wasn’t born aquatic or, at the very least, an amphibian.

As I contemplated the blandness of the dinner, I knew I needed a jolt of something. I went to the fridge, scanning the condiments on the door for the distinctive tall, red siracha sauce.

Don’t use it all up! said Jamie, as I started dousing the stir fry. We joked that ever since Mom started volunteering at Meals on Wheels, her cooking had gotten even worse.

You’re going to get heartburn, Mom said, pursing her lips.

I shook on more sauce.

I know it sucks to be out of swimming, but it’s just temporary. In the meantime, you need to figure out how to keep busy.

Help me hang the posters and you can have your pick of committee, even Homecoming, said Jamie, raising his eyebrows before grabbing the siracha and dumping the rest on his plate. It has to be all old school—posters, speeches, handshaking, kissing babies. DiFran has banned all social media campaigning.

You mean babes? Girls at the assembly were practically swooning. I took a bite. A fiery heat lit up my mouth, and I blinked back moisture in my eyes as endorphins started pinging around my brain.

Really? said Mom, setting down her fork. I reached for my water glass.

Jamie just laughed it off. He always had lots of friends, but the only girl that ever seemed to matter was Jae. Jamie and Jae have always been super tight. I’d never been able to figure them out until I accepted the idea of attraction by opposites.

Any more sauce? asked Jamie, shaking the empty bottle.

No, said Mom.

Dad’s working late? I asked before inhaling another fire-lit mouthful.

Yup. Another big file, said Mom. I grabbed my napkin and dabbed at my now runny nose.

Mom frowned at me. I’ve been meaning to ask. How is Alexandre?

I felt a twinge in my chest, and it wasn’t the siracha. Alexandre and I had been a couple for the past eleven months. We were always busy but always together, at school and swimming. And when we weren’t busy, it was like an invisible magnet existed between our bodies. It didn’t hurt that most of our time was spent in tight, wet bathing suits.

Alexandre had come over and hung out with me a couple of times after the surgery, but I hadn’t seen him much lately. The last time we were together, a black cloud spiraled around my brain as pain pulsed through my shoulder with practically every breath. There were some uncomfortable pauses, and it was like he was dancing around the subject of swimming when all I could smell was the scent of chlorine on his skin. And hair. It was maddening, like being next to open water and not being able to dive in.

Alexandre hadn’t been very responsive to my snaps. I knew he was super busy, but I couldn’t help resent him a little for it.

What’s Mareeka up to these days? Mom asked about my bestie and swimming buddy.

I blinked hard to erase an image of her pushing me off the top of the podium. Probably the usual. Swimming, the gym, swimming, school, sleeping, swimming, I said, looking away from Mom’s look of concern. For the past few weeks, we’d had a text-only friendship.

I haven’t seen her or Alexandre, in a while— Mom put a disgusting beige blob on her fork.

The first meet is this weekend, so…’ I shifted around in my chair, as if it could dislodge the feeling of a stone slowly sinking to the bottom of my stomach.

Mm. The tofu is good, said Mom, smiling.

Meals on Wheels, I muttered as Jamie spewed out some rice.

Mom’s mouth turned downward for a second before she quickly locked eyes with me and said in a quiet voice, And for that, you are going to drive Jamie early and help hang the posters tomorrow!

The way Jamie’s eyes sparkled made me almost want to argue. But I knew from experience that I’d likely get a heavier sentence, delivered in a near whisper.

I sighed loudly. It wasn’t my fault that Jamie was such a notoriously bad driver that he pretty much owned shotgun. And on principle, I didn’t want anything to do with the stupid election. It hurt my head that Jamie could merely strip on stage, not even bothering with a speech, to reach the highest student office in the school. I briefly toyed with the idea of writing-in Jae Lee’s name. She had successfully run Jamie’s life, which meant she was up for big challenges. But I worried she might find out and be pissed at me for not voting for my own brother.

Chapter Three

Let’s go, dumbass! I called upstairs the next morning. Holding my backpack and smoothie, I counted to ten and went out to Jenny. Squinting into the bright sun, I opened the driver’s door, wincing slightly as I sat down.

Wait! Jamie came running down the front porch, clutching posters and masking tape. He managed to get inside Jenny before I could properly shift into reverse. The dang sling always slowed me down.

Didn’t you hear me pounding? You used up all the hot water, again! he huffed, dumping the posters in the back and putting on his seatbelt. I took a slurp of the smoothie and shrugged.

Once I was given the go-ahead to get my shoulder incision wet, I had taken up residence in the shower, luxuriating in the sensation of water droplets racing down from my scalp all the way to my toes, with my entire body encircled by a steamy fog. It was a poor substitute to being fully submerged, but it was a substitute, nonetheless. The heat helped dull the pain, although Jamie’s incessant door pounding sometimes ruined the vibe. In another week, I’d be allowed in the tub.

Despite the bathroom drama, Jamie settled into his usual good humor, becoming as sunny as the day. A big smile soon adorned his face, right up to his large, hazel eyes. His light-brown, wavy hair was still damp, and I noted a small sprinkling of summer freckles still populating his nose. Mom and Dad’s DNA seemed to replicate the same way as we shared similar features. But while I envied his long eyelashes, I