Skin and Water
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 8: The State of Skin
The bus ride to Seattle was a world unto itself. A bubble of exposed skin and shared resolve, hurtling down the I-5. We had done it. For two days, we had gone to school, eaten dinner, done homework, all without a single stitch of clothing. The initial shock from students and teachers had been palpable, but the unwavering presence of the varsity girls—a united front of casual nudity in the hallways—had given us a shield. Their normalcy was our armor.
Now, on the bus, the mood was a volatile mix of terror and fierce determination. We were wrapped in towels for the journey, a small concession to the outside world, but we all knew what lay beneath. The fabric felt strange and restrictive against my skin, which had grown accustomed to the air.
Symone sat beside me, her knee bouncing nervously. “What if they laugh?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the engine.
“Let them,” Allan said from the seat behind us, her voice hard. “Their suits will slow them down.”
I said nothing. I just stared out the window at the blur of green and gray, trying to find the calm center I felt in the water. The medal from Districts was in my bag, a reminder of a simpler time.
When we pulled into the massive parking lot of the King County Aquatic Center, my stomach dropped. It was huge. Flags flew. Crowds streamed towards the entrance. This wasn’t a local meet. This was the big time.
Inside, the noise was a physical force—a roar of thousands of voices, the blare of the PA system, the shrill of whistles. The air was thick with the smell of chlorine and popcorn. And everywhere, there were swimmers. In team sweats, in parkas, in a kaleidoscope of colorful, high-tech racing suits.
We walked through them, a silent, towel-clad procession, and every head turned. The whispers started like a rustling of leaves, building into a wave of stunned silence and then a cacophony of pointed comments and gasps. I felt the heat of a thousand eyes on my back, through the towel. My skin prickled.
In the locker room, it was finally time. We found a corner, away from the other teams who were chattering and pulling on their caps and goggles. We stood in a tight circle, our team. Coach Evans was with us, her face grim but proud.
“Remember who you are,” she said, her voice low and intense. “You are not victims. You are not a spectacle. You are the fastest, bravest swimmers from our district. The water doesn’t care what you wear. All it cares about is how you move through it. Now, let’s go show them what moving looks like.”
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