Surviving High School

reporter’s perfume made Emily’s eyes water. There was something too neat about the woman that set Emily on edge. Miss St. Claire’s mascara seemed so carefully applied that Emily wondered if she’d done it one lash at a time, and her eyebrows were heavily plucked and redrawn in dark makeup, as if she’d gotten overzealous with a pair of tweezers and had to make up for it later.
    Miss St. Claire whipped out her laptop and began to tap furiously at her keyboard as she asked them questions. The first few were pretty standard: How much time do you spend practicing? How’s your life different from a typical high school student’s? What gives you a leg up on all the other young swimmers out there?
    Emily smiled and gave the same polite answers she’d rehearsed in her head. I practice every day. I’m just a normal high school kid. As far as winning goes, I just want it more.
    “Okay,” said Miss St. Claire. “Now for the juicy stuff. As two of the top swimmers in your age group in the nation, do you ever find the rivalry spilling from the pool into the outside world?”
    Dominique and Emily looked at each other nervously. Uh-oh. This story was no puff piece: Miss St. Claire was here to get some dirt. Emily imagined the headline now: POTENTIAL OLYMPIANS IN THE WATER, SPOILED BRATS ON DRY LAND .
    “Outside the pool—” started Emily.
    “We’re totally friends,” said Dominique. “I mean, not BFFs or anything, but we’re definitely—close.”
    “Is that right?” asked Miss St. Claire, looking doubtful. “Several people I talked to seemed to think that—”
    “I think it’s hard,” interrupted Dominique. “Er, for other people to understand the kind of competitive spirit that gets into you when you swim at the highest level. But if it comes off as anything but an in-the-pool rivalry, that’s just—wrong.”
    Looking disappointed, Miss St. Claire hit the Delete key several times and scrolled down her list of notes, searching for a new line of questioning. As she got to something near the bottom, she looked at Emily and smiled.
    “Dominique,” she said. “Thanks so much for your time. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few more questions for your ‘friend.’ ”
    Dominique got up, a strange mix of emotions on her face. She’s glad to be done with the interview , thought Emily, but worried about what I’ll say once she’s gone .
    “Not a problem,” Dominique said. “Thanks so much for the questions.” She glared at Emily with a look that said Don’t screw this up . “See you later, Em.” She left the room, her blond ponytail swishing behind her.
    As Dominique closed the door, Miss St. Claire turned back to Emily. Her eyes sparkled with something, but was it genuine concern or false sincerity?
    “Emily, it’s clear to me that you’re the real story here.”
    “Huh?”
    “I’m talking about your motivations. Yes, clearly you and Dominique both want to win—but with you it goes deeper.”
    What was Miss St. Claire getting at? Emily’s parents had tried to make her visit a counselor after Sara’s death to talk through her grieving, but she’d hated it and refused to speak during her sessions, and after a couple of unproductive months, they’d given up. She felt like she was back in that therapist’s office now.
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
    “Fine,” said Miss St. Claire. “I should be more direct. Emily, you come from a family of successful swimmers…”
    She trailed off, as if hoping Emily would get the hint. Emily ignored her and looked out the window, where the sun hung low in the sky.
    Miss St. Claire continued. “Your father, Coach Kessler, is of course a former Olympian”—Emily refused to react—“and your sister, Sara, set a Juniors Nationals record at the age of sixteen, before her tragic death last spring. What’s it like trying to live up to such a legacy?”
    Emily felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
    “Emily?” asked Miss St. Claire.
    Emily sat perfectly still, acting as if Miss St. Claire was some horrible dinosaur that could see its prey only when it moved. No such luck.
    “Emily, help me out here. How does it feel to have that kind of fam—”
    “How do you think it feels?”
    “Well, I don’t know, sweetie. That’s why I’m asking you.”
    Emily’s face was getting hot with blood.
    “It’s just—it’s just so stupid. I could sit here and explain how I