Skin and Water
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 2: The Weight of Water
The high lasted exactly thirty-six hours.
By Monday morning, the gold medal was tucked away in my top drawer, a secret talisman. The cheers had faded, replaced by the mundane cacophony of Wilson Junior High—the slamming of lockers, the shrill of the bell, the gossip flowing through the hallways like a second current. But the air was different. It was charged, thick with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with pop quizzes or who-likes-who.
The Vote was all anyone could talk about.
I found my usual group huddled by my locker before the first period. Symone, her brow furrowed, was dissecting the situation with the intensity of a prosecutor. “It’s a test,” she declared, her voice a low, fierce whisper. “They want to see how much we’ll take. My dad said it’s a political stunt.”
Ann Acosta hugged her textbooks to her chest like a shield. “My mom just keeps crying. She said we can’t afford it, but she can’t bear the thought of...” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing a deep, mortified red. She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The third option hung between us, a grotesque, unspoken ghost.
Allan Silva leaned against the lockers, her arms crossed. Her usual competitive fire was banked, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “The ‘male-only’ option is the one that makes me want to puke. It’s like they’re saying their bodies are worth protecting and ours are ... what? Expendable? It’s 2024, for God’s sake.”
I just listened, my stomach churning. My own parents had been quiet, speaking in hushed tones after I went to bed. The joy of my win had been shelved, replaced by a grim, adult worry I felt ill-equipped to handle.
In the cafeteria at lunch, the divide became even clearer. The boys’ swim team, including Conner Snyder, sat at their usual table. The atmosphere around them was lighter, punctuated with laughter. They were worried too, of course—their team was being torn apart—but their own skins weren’t literally on the line. Not like ours.
I watched Conner from across the room. He was quiet, staring into his carton of chocolate milk. He had a good face, Conner. Not classically handsome, but thoughtful. His focus in the pool was absolute, a quality I admired. I saw him glance over at our table, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second. There was no smile, just a look of shared, complicated worry before he quickly looked away. My heart did a stupid, little flutter, immediately followed by a wave of shame. How could I be thinking about a crush at a time like this?
The week dragged, each day slower than the last. The sealed ballot was a specter in every classroom, at every dinner table. The local newspaper ran a small, cryptic article about “school district budget austerity measures,” but it didn’t mention the swim teams. It felt like a secret shame we were all forced to carry.
At Thursday night’s dinner, the tension in our own home finally snapped.
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