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wasn’t that good.
    “Isabel!” one of the other swim coaches shouted. She came toward me, clutching a piece of paper in her hand. She held it out to me when she arrived, and took a moment to catch her breath. “Your times at the last meet. I wanted to tell you how surprised – and impressed – I was at your performance. You’ve improved so much over the season, and we’re all quite … proud of you.” Her voice caught on the last phrase, and I knew that it bothered her to have to say it. The two female coaches had made it clear that they didn’t like me from the start, and my fast times were forcing them to do exactly what they didn’t want to do – acknowledge my progress.
    Normally I would have stayed with her, reveling in this praise, and asking for more of it. There was a dark Isabel, deep inside, that liked to see this particular coach squirm, and I loved to take advantage of situations like this. Today, though, I was in a hurry. I knew that Mr. Stevens was probably already at his truck waiting for me, and felt both anxious and excited about what he would say to me. I mumbled a quick thanks to the coach’s blank face, then turned and left her standing there.
    Ahead of me, I could see that Mr. Stevens was indeed at his truck, with a group of other students already packed into the back seat. I heaved a sigh of relief and regret; I wouldn’t be riding alone with him, then. I knew he’d done this to protect my reputation, and his, but felt slightly disappointed. I was looking forward to getting him alone, though I didn’t have a clue what I’d say or do if that were to happen. Instead of an intimate conversation, though, we would have a rowdy, crowded ride. I slid into the front seat and scooted toward him on the bench so that two other students could fit into the seat next to me. This put my knee right up against his, and I gulped. The truck was filled with incessant chatter and laughter, but all I could feel was the gentle pressure of his knee against mine. I could hear only the beating of my own heart.
    The other students disappeared one by one, as we drove past houses and through neighborhoods to take them home. The drone of teenage chatter diminished with each drop off, and the air began to fill with a different kind of tension. We finally came to the last house, and the girl who sat to my right – the last swimmer in the truck – opened the door and hopped out.
    “Thanks, Coach!” she shouted. She waved at us both and sprinted toward the house, leaving us alone in the truck.
    We drove toward Liz’ house, and it finally occurred to me that he had zigzagged through town at least three times, taking the most direct route to the houses of the other swimmers, but purposely choosing to drop me off last. I gulped down my excitement and nervousness, and wondered fleetingly if I should move away from Mr. Stevens, toward the other end of the bench seat, next to the passenger window. The truck was empty, and there was no need for me to be sitting so close to him. He seemed to hear my thought, though, and spoke before I could move.
    “I’d like it if you just stayed where you are,” he murmured quietly, anticipating my move. I swallowed and nodded without answering.
    We drove in silence for several long moments. Mr. Stevens appeared to be thinking about something; he wore an intense expression, and focused closely on the road as we drove toward Liz’s house. The silence finally became too much for me, and I spoke.
    “So,” I began, hoping that my nerves didn’t show in my voice, “what exactly do you want me to write in this letter you’ve requested?”
    I had half expected to hear a snicker in response, or at the very least a quiet chuckle, but his face grew more serious. At the next light, he stopped and turned toward me. His hazel eyes were gentle but intense in his face, and he pursed his lips before speaking.
    “Isabel, I think that there are a lot of things you want to say to me, but maybe