“No way. It can’t be time to go already!”
The fools should come for me last. But they never listened. Half the time, I rushed so much that my skirt was tucked in my knickers. Not the look I was going for.
Their silly fault anyway, because swimming sucked.
Mum bellowed, “They’re here, Bronte!”
“You don’t say.” I muttered. As if I’d slept through Ted knocking on our front door, like he did every other morning, except Sundays.
So I grabbed my coat and threw my bags down the stairs, where Mum tut-tutted, before passing them to Ted.
“I’m coming, keep your hair on!” I shouted.
From the forehead wavy line, mum was not that impressed. Neither was I! Expecting me to bounce out into the black hole she called ‘morning’, as if it was natural. I caught sight of my awful reflection in the hall mirror. A gross, red spot blinked back at me.
Training lately was exhausting, but instead of making a fuss, I plugged into my iPod. Once on the bus, I got back to day-dreaming, my absolute favourite thing.
Dreaming of a cool, photo shoot and shiny hair with sparkly make-up. In these designer clothes, posing in a massive limo! That daydream wasn’t mine, though, it was Emma’s. She insisted on sharing.
My dream was far more doable. It was to qualify for the Paralympics. And win my race.
I put up with annoying Emma because she was a team mate. Shivering now, feeling my calf muscles plank up, I yelled, “Give us a blast with that heater will you, Ted?” He needed to listen, or Ken would be his problem. Ken was my coach.
I put up with annoying Emma because she was a team mate. Shivering now, feeling my calf muscles plank up, I yelled, “Give us a blast with that heater will you, Ted?” He needed to listen, or Ken would be his problem. Ken was my coach.
Emma was flicking through a fashion mag. “Want one like that one,” she said, pointing randomly.
Wondering whether she meant the clothes or the body, I told her, “You should win your races, Em. That’s how to earn respect."
Emma was angry. “Whatever! I wouldn’t mind a piece of the action. What I can’t get my head round, Bron, is that Dad thinks I’ve actually got a chance of bringing home a medal. Why can’t he do it, if it’s so important?
“I know! It’s real abuse, this World Cup training schedule,” I said. “But we’re the ones with pure talent.” I laughed, giving her a high five.
Wondering whether she meant the clothes or the body, I told her, “You should win your races, Em. That’s how to earn respect."
Emma was angry. “Whatever! I wouldn’t mind a piece of the action. What I can’t get my head round, Bron, is that Dad thinks I’ve actually got a chance of bringing home a medal. Why can’t he do it, if it’s so important?
“I know! It’s real abuse, this World Cup training schedule,” I said. “But we’re the ones with pure talent.” I laughed, giving her a high five.
Actually, at nearly sixteen… All I got was, ‘Do this, do that, more training, bla, bla!’ What I really wanted was a normal life. This constant hard work got in the way.
Reality check. The minibus bumped up a curb. After the forty-minute drive, we had arrived at the sports centre.
“You know what my mum said about the Leeds Music festival, last night?” Emma blurted, as we got out of the minibus.
“Let me guess. Was it 'no', by any chance? I told you she wouldn’t let you go,” I smirked.
“She went on about it being too tricky in a chair. She suggested watching it on the TV! Get real! I told her I’ll suss it out for myself. No probs!”
We continued up the ramp towards the Olympic-sized Loughborough Uni pool. Going through the double doors, Emma said, “It’ll be fantastic, camping.” Then she went scooting off ahead.
“Whatever!” I shouted after her. “The music might be okay, too!”
Her issues were nothing, compared to my kid bro Shane. I knew that he kept skipping school and was sure that he was hiding things in his room. He needed proper sorting.
Then undressing was crap. I was alright getting into the pool, diving down into freedom. The water was the place I could move easily, with no rules.
Muffled instructions came from Ken as I loosened off with some dolphin impressions. Not the fastest. He made me feel guilty, bitching about 'giving a damn about the Paralympics'.
My mate Dominic was watching. He had already been chosen for the GB medley team. He encouraged me to do laps, after the boring warm-ups. Thirty laps on my front, thirty on my back and then a good hour alternating. In the best lane, at the edge of the pool, humming ‘Simply the Best', I was winning. Emma, struggling in the next lane, had her physio working on her bad leg. Looked painful, judging by her face.
My mate Dominic was watching. He had already been chosen for the GB medley team. He encouraged me to do laps, after the boring warm-ups. Thirty laps on my front, thirty on my back and then a good hour alternating. In the best lane, at the edge of the pool, humming ‘Simply the Best', I was winning. Emma, struggling in the next lane, had her physio working on her bad leg. Looked painful, judging by her face.
“Go for the cross on the tile,” Ken shouted. Timing, using passing points, kept me focused on a medal. Needing to stay in the ‘can do’, avoiding getting panicky, because that set off pain.
It was alright me planning adventures, when I had a date coming up I’d rather miss - going back to the dreaded Botox ward. Me, having Botox, next to big-headed girls waiting for boob jobs. Wounded, mine was free! But mine was going in my legs, to make them sturdier.
My coach said that the session went okay, despite my chilled muscles. Although my legs felt well heavy, my physio, Laura, didn’t need to do much. I heard the words ‘personal best’, making me happy. I did okay today. Ken was trying to thrill me with talk of World Cup qualifiers - meaning tighter training schedules.
Getting dressed, again, without totally freezing, I thought about easier options. As we counted down to big events, the training went crazy. That explained why my constantly frizzy hair smelled of steaming chlorine.
Getting dressed, again, without totally freezing, I thought about easier options. As we counted down to big events, the training went crazy. That explained why my constantly frizzy hair smelled of steaming chlorine.
I asked my mate Joe how his session went. Going past a group of giggly, high-pitched girls made me glad it was my legs that struggled, not my brain. Unfortunately, my brain didn’t turn my legs on instantly, like those lucky dolls.
I tried to persuade waves of feeling to go further, down to my feet. Laura helped by showing me how to build up those muscles. Clever really, programming my body by stimulating my brain to increase its signalling response.
I scribbled a note to buy more hair gel. All before eight in the morning. As I arrived at school, most of my mates had just started on their day!
As I rushed to my lessons, some lads asked how it went in the elite squad. I didn’t tell them much. One of Shane’s mates shouted, “Where is he then, your bro?” I just shrugged. He had done several dodgy things lately. Sister’s duty though, wouldn’t tell.
As I rushed to my lessons, some lads asked how it went in the elite squad. I didn’t tell them much. One of Shane’s mates shouted, “Where is he then, your bro?” I just shrugged. He had done several dodgy things lately. Sister’s duty though, wouldn’t tell.
Lovely Simon met me for lunch, asking how the session went. “Average,” I said, looking for appreciation. Then, “My backstroke’s getting stronger.”
He nodded, trying to have a clue, and said, “Good!”
“Freestyle’s my best chance,” I told him. Explaining the drill Laura always gave me. Being the best that I could be, educating my muscles. 'Then you’re using them, not losing `em!’
Simon, creeping, said, “You’re perfect to me.”
As we arrived at my house, Shane dared me to an arm wrestle, having all that surplus energy. “Give us a break, I’ll only win!” I said. Si gave off negative waves. Shane slammed his door.
Recently, his den had weird foul pongs oozing out. Also, he’d gone loner-ish… Twenty-four seven attached to his Playstation ‘Call of Duty’ games and then out cold, all day. His curtains never opened.
“He’ll grow out of it,” Si said.
I hoped so, missing the old bro. “Good luck, Metal Muscles,” he shouted.
Maybe if I won a trophy, it would cheer him up.
So I kept pushing my body until it hurt, then Laura fixed me when I was broken. Not so easy for Shane, who needed his head fixing.
When I got back from the next final heats, Dad answered the phone, smiling. From where I was crashed, I heard ‘qualifiers,’ so I knew it was Ken.
I heard my dad say, “We were due some good news!” Then, he shouted, “So Bron, when were you going to tell us about making the G.B. squad?”
Mum had the same grin. “I knew you could do it, love,” she said. “That’ll mean some better funding.” Then she got on the mobile to Gran.
“You make it sound amazing,” I said.
Dad was dancing around our lounge. “You’re on the way to London 2012, young lady! We'd better get those tickets,”
But I was still thinking about Shane. I bashed his bedroom door, shouting, "You need to help me to get to the Paralympics Freestyle, Shane. I CAN’T DO IT WITHOUT YOU!”
Mum had the same grin. “I knew you could do it, love,” she said. “That’ll mean some better funding.” Then she got on the mobile to Gran.
“You make it sound amazing,” I said.
Dad was dancing around our lounge. “You’re on the way to London 2012, young lady! We'd better get those tickets,”
But I was still thinking about Shane. I bashed his bedroom door, shouting, "You need to help me to get to the Paralympics Freestyle, Shane. I CAN’T DO IT WITHOUT YOU!”
***
Fiona Linday - Biography
After nearly 20 years supporting pupils with physical and other additional needs, I decided to write 'Still First', to try to empathise with the tremendous sporting efforts of young Paralympians.
A few years ago, I embarked up a Certificate in Creative Writing at Lancaster Uni. After volunteering in a day hospice and child bereavement centre, I’ve written a young adult novel covering the issue of family bereavement, called, ‘Get Over It!’ The novel has been published as a short run with Onwards and Upwards Publishers.
This follows publication at www.therecusant.org.uk of a short piece called ‘Off the Beaten Track.’ This story raises awareness of the plight of teens suffering abuse in Eastern Europe and is aimed at 14+ age group, challenging attitudes to gypsies. This year, I performed 'Off the Beaten Track' at the Arts 4 Human Rights TransEuropa Festival in Shoreditch.
I wrote an article for the summer 2010 issue of Writing in Education magazine, detailing my successes in primary school encouraging creative writing during lunchtime sessions.
At present, I’m busy writing a second YA novel, again set in a contemporary setting, called Back and Beyond.
See my website www.fionalinday.co.uk and tweet me @ukfl.
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If you have a YA story you would like The Red Telephone to consider for publication, contact Ollie - admin [at] theredtelephone [dot] co [dot] uk.
If you have written a YA novel, or have one in progress, our 2011 YA novel competition is now open. More details can be found at http://theredtelephone.co.uk/2011YANovelCompetition.aspx.
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