A Matter of Heart Read Online Free Page A

early.”
    Laney is Delaney Adams, my mom’s college roommate and best friend. She has a family practice, and any time we have amedical question, she gets a call. I don’t think we’ve ever made an appointment like other families.
    “I’m fine, Mom.”
    “Then it’ll be a nice chance to see Laney.”
    “You need to be in bed early tonight,” Dad says.
    The oven timer dings. Mom stands up.
    “You’re going to miss morning practice for the doctor,” Dad goes on, his glasses sliding down another notch. “So take advantage of the extra sleep. It’s all you’ll get before State.”
    “Fine.” I drink down half the milk.
    Mom opens the oven and the smell is amazing. My stomach growls. “How many can I have?”
    “As many—”
    “One.”
    Mom and Dad stop and stare at each other. “David, really. It’s Sunday morning. I thought we agreed to swim-free, trainingfree, competitive-free Sunday mornings.”
    “It’s not about swimming. It’s nutrition.”
    “A couple of low-fat cinnamon rolls aren’t going to kill a sixteen-year-old.”
    His lips pinch like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Mom is small, but she’s mighty. As in she can get mighty pissed, and then it’s mighty unpleasant for everyone around her. Plus, they’ve been over this a million times. Mom thinks Dad drives me too hard, but she doesn’t realize that I drive myself.
    Once, years ago, Mom was taking me to a swim meet in California. It was some invitational Dad heard about and thought would be a good test. Then at the last minute, he had some teacher in-service day and couldn’t take me. Mom and I had toleave the house at three a.m., and on the drive I spilled orange juice all over my favorite blanket. I threw a tantrum in the backseat and cried enough to fill a pool. Mom cried too, which is probably why I remember it. The two of us driving down a freeway as dark and empty as a tunnel—while she cried and told me she was sorry for the blanket, sorry for the early morning, sorry for everything.
    “If he’d been able to compete himself,” she said, “then maybe he wouldn’t pin all his hopes on you.” Her voice hitched, and I could tell by the choking gulp that she already wished she could pull the words back inside.
    But I wasn’t sorry. Her words made me feel good. I
wanted
him to pin all his hopes on me. I was proud to be that good—to know that I was special. How many kids can say that?
    We’ve mostly worked it all out by now. Mom’s realized that swimming isn’t just something I do. It’s who I am. Cut me and I bleed chlorine—it’s that much a part of me. Mom’s a counselor; she worries—that’s her job. But it’s not as if I haven’t had a taste of normal life. I have. I just haven’t found anything that beats the high of a podium.
    The Olympics will be the ultimate high. I want to stand on that podium and hear the “Star-Spangled Banner” play. I want all the cameras on me:
Here is the best the world has to offer
. I want to finally put a medal on The Shelf.
    The Shelf is a dark brown piece of plywood that Dad had from his high school days. He’d hung it for the medal he was going to win. The Shelf is hideous and doesn’t match the maple furniture in his office, but after I won my first regional swim meet, he pulled it out of a closet and hung it above the chart. I’m the one who’s going to fill that shelf now.
    I take two warm rolls, though I really want three—so that’s a compromise between Mom and Dad. With a bite already in my mouth, icing dripping from my lip, I sit at my spot at the table and pull out the movie section. For a few minutes, it’s quiet while we all eat and read. But I can see Dad with a pencil in his hands, circling something in the paper. Swim times for the grid in his office. Charting my future.

6

    L ifeline Fitness is quiet for a Sunday morning, and I’m glad to see the indoor pool area isn’t very crowded. At times, it’s as packed as a high school football