Then, one day, a thunderous splash distracted her. She looked up, startled, to see a slender, muscular body coursing its way through the water, a head occasionally rising above the surface, sucking in air. Every 20 lengths, he paused at the end of the pool, gasping, inaudible over the crashing of the water, but his guttural movements convinced her of his desperation. Eventually he emerged, shaking off droplets, wrapping his lithe, tall form in a towel. He walked right past her, his deep grey eyes fixed firmly on the changerooms. His name was Rhys Northwood, and he was in Anna King’s English class. Like her, he was quiet in class. He hung around with the boys’ swim team, but never seemed to contribute much to their rowdy conversations and boasting about times beaten, weights lifted, girls screwed over. Sitting at the back of the room, analysing Hamlet’s inner struggles, Anna slowly became acutely aware of the physical distance between her and Rhys. The measurements seemed to pulse. I went to my room, put on the radio, and pulled out my history book to review for Monday’s test. It was tough at first, but history was my favorite subject. I started with that for a reason. I got lost in the post-civil war period, reviewing Presidential elections, Indian policy, and the run-up to the Spanish-American War.By Monday I had calmed down and had my emotions in check enough that I knew the exams would go well. At lunch, Birgit and Larry joined me, along with Susan (my 7th-grade girlfriend) and Danny Baer, her new boyfriend. We all chatted comfortably as we were all pretty good students and didn’t have much to worry about with exams.Susan had it the toughest, being in the concert band and having to play a solo piece as part of her final exam. We talked about the class party that was happening on Friday night at Chris Jones’ house. Chris’ family lived in an old, rehabilitated farmhouse and they had a barn where they could host the entire 8th-grade class, even if everyone.
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