I was always the Blue Lips Kid at swim practice, my face bloodless and flushed at the same time, lips a deep shade of indigo. My mom would call me Esther Williams when I came out of the locker room, hair slicked to my head, fuzzy sweater sticking to the humidity of my cold skin. I was a Tomato; the pool was built on the burial grounds of a tomato field and my swimming cap had an anthropomorphic tomato on it.
I was only supposed to do freestyle and backstroke at my first meet, my two best strokes if I pointed my toes. However, a dark surprise waited for me as I sucked my lima bean body into my scarlet swimsuit. Someone had signed me up for the IM by mistake, a race consisting of four laps–one of every stroke. I knew I physically couldn’t complete the race, and yet I also knew there was no option to stop in the middle. How would I exist in the space in between?
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