Parallel

from my astronomy class to kiss me. Running inside barefoot to give him another shot. As if a guy like that would ever make the first move. How could my parallel not have seen that? Even I can see that, and I’ve only got a handful of memories of him. I mean, c’mon. The boy wore pleats.
    “Ugh. You reek,” the gorilla of a girl sitting in the seat closest to me grunts between strokes. “Next time you decide to come to practice hungover, do us all a favor and take a shower first.”
    I stare at her. “Excuse me?”
    She ignores me. Rattled, I pull up on the little handle thingy and the boat jerks to the right. I yank the rope in the other direction, trying to correct the error. The boat rocks violently, prompting a string of profanity from a girl resembling a stalk of celery (no hips, greenish complexion, lots of unruly hair). The beast in front of her gives me a death stare.
    “Barnes!” Coach booms, shouting through his megaphone from the dock. “Is there someplace else you’d rather be? Get it together or get off the water!” he bellows.
    And there we go. The novelty of this little adventure has officially worn off.
    It’s cold. It’s wet. My legs and back feel like they’ve been stuffed in the overhead compartment of an airplane, and I’ve been staring at a girl’s camel toe for over an hour.
    Instantly, my mood sours. If my parallel wants to spend what little free time she has crouched in a tiny space, shouting commands at unnervingly tall women, then by all means, she should. I, however, can think of several ways I’d rather spend my Sunday mornings, and none of them involve a hoarse voice or frozen fingers.
    If she and I are so freaking similar, then how did she end up on a path I never would have taken? If I’d had a crush on the new kid, I wouldn’t have invited him to a party I didn’t want to go to just to spend time with him. And if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have suggested we tour a construction site barefoot. If she’s supposed to be my genetic equivalent, then shouldn’t she possess at least a modicum of my common sense?
    Okay, so there was that one incident a few years ago. Caitlin and I were in Florida with her parents for spring break, and we’d ditched them for a bonfire on the beach. A boy named Roy with buck teeth and a peach-fuzz mustache was handing out hot dogs. The “night hiking” was his idea, but going barefoot was mine. I didn’t see the broken bottle lying in the sand until after I’d stepped on it. The cut wasn’t very deep, but Redneck Roy disappeared when Caitlin’s parents showed up, leaving me with a bloody big toe and an overwhelming sense of relief.
    Fine. I may have had my own lapses in judgment when it comes to boys and bare feet. So perhaps it’s possible that I would’ve been as careless as my parallel was that night. But if I’d stepped on those nails, eight stitches and a tetanus shot wouldn’t have been a game changer for me. I busted my ass for three years, staying late after practice every single day, doing everything I could to prove to Coach P that I was captain material. How could she have given up so easily on the goal she’d worked so hard for? Didn’t she know better?
    Like you knew better than to pursue an acting career you didn’t even want?
    I don’t know if that voice belongs to me, or Caitlin, or God. Either way, I’m ignoring it.
    Back on dry land, Coach rattles through administrative details while we wipe down the boats. I stay busy, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
    “Next week’s practice schedule,” Coach tells us, holding up a stack of papers. “Take one before you leave. Two-a-days start tomorrow, with a breather on Friday afternoon. Bus leaves at six for Providence.” He clips the papers to his clipboard and sets it on the wooden railing.
    “What’s in Providence?” I whisper to Celery Girl. She gives me a funny look.
    “Our regatta.”
    “Oh, he meant Providence, Rhode Island ,” I say casually. “I thought he was using the word metaphorically.”
    Celery Girl narrows her eyes. “Are you on drugs?”
    “What? No!” I reply, forgetting to whisper. Everyone looks at me. “Sorry,” I mumble, to no one in particular.
    Coach shoots me a look and keeps talking. “I’ll make final boat assignments by Thursday morning. If you want me to consider you for the A boat, you better bring your A game to practice this week.” He pauses for dramatic effect, as though he’s just said something