Skin and Water
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Epilogue: The Deep End
Four years later, the water still feels the same.
It’s the one constant. The cool, liquid embrace that welcomed me as a terrified fourteen-year-old and now cradles me as an eighteen-year-old woman, a state champion, and a scholarship athlete bound for the University of Washington. The Wilson High pool deck is my second home, the tiles worn familiar under my bare feet.
The protest never really ended. It evolved. We became a permanent, powerful fixture—the “Skin Team,” as the national media dubbed us. We won, and kept winning, until our nakedness on the starting blocks was no longer a scandal but a symbol of unbreakable focus. The lawsuits, spearheaded by Allan’s furious parents, eventually forced the district to reinstate funding, but by then, we’d refused it. We had transcended the need for their fabric. We had found our own power.
And through it all, there was Conner.
He never swam for the team after that first year. He said it felt wrong, being suited up while we were exposed. Instead, he became our most steadfast supporter. He was there at every meet, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm of stares. He held my towel before my races, not because I needed to be covered, but because it was a ritual. He’d look me in the eye, his gaze full of a respect so deep it made my breath catch, and say, “Go be magnificent, Diane.”
Our first kiss was sophomore year, behind the school after a home meet. I was still dripping wet, shivering in the cool night air. He cupped my cheek, his hand warm against my skin, and leaned in. It was gentle, certain, and it tasted like chlorine and forever.
He became my long-term everything. My best friend, my confidant, my calm in the chaos. He was the one I practiced my defiant speeches with, the one who held me when the weight of being a symbol became too heavy, the one who never, ever saw me as just a naked body. He saw the swimmer, the scholar, the fiercely loyal friend, the girl who argued with her parents about politics and secretly loved bad romantic comedies.
Now, on the night of our high school graduation, he’s led me back to the one place where our story truly began: the Wilson pool. The natatorium is dark and silent, the water a still, black mirror reflecting the moonlight streaming through the high windows.
“What are we doing here, Conner?” I ask, my voice a whisper in the vast quiet.
He just smiles, that thoughtful, quiet smile I love. He takes my hands. He is warm. Mine are bare, just like the rest of me. I haven’t worn clothes to school or at home in four years. It is simply who I am now.