“My swim didn’t even count,” she pointed out.

Colette shook her head. “Nine times out of ten, that early entry doesn’t get called, and maybe we win that relay and you’re the hero of the day. Next time you will be. I know it.”

And even though Annabelle’s timing was all messed up now, there was something about the way Colette said it that made it seem true.

They would race South Shore again in August. If they did well between now and then and beat them next time, the Invitational was still a possibility. Maybe it wasn’t realistic to think they could win the medley at that giant tournament, but getting there could be enough for her first year on the team.

Colette clapped her on the shoulder. “Go finish your lunch, and don’t let your dad get you too freaked out about your entry into the water, all right?”

It usually made Annabelle happy when somebody thought Mitch was her dad. She and Mitch looked like they could be related—they both had fair skin and dark blond hair and eyes somewhere between blue and green.

But now, thinking of that unanswered letter buried under her school stuff on her desk, it felt disrespectful to her dad, or something, to let people think Mitch was her father. And unlucky—as if something terrible might happen to him if she pretended he didn’t exist.

“Mitch is my stepdad, actually,” she said.

“Oh. Sorry,” Colette said, even though it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know.

It would have been easier if Mitch really was Annabelle’s biological dad. He always showed up when he was supposed to. He made her feel safe and loved and taken care of, like her own dad should have. Like he had, at some point. She was sure for a long time he had. But then everything had gotten so messed up.

She hadn’t thought about that awful day for ages. But as she walked back to the table where Mitch was finishing another phone call and Jeremy was polishing off his last mozzarella stick, the memory came flooding back.

It was at the end of fourth grade, and her dad was picking her up from practice. She hadn’t seen him in a while—he was supposed to see her every Saturday, but sometimes he didn’t call and didn’t show up. She was excited he was coming that day. She’d perfected her flip turn and she wanted him to see. But then everything was wrong when he showed up.

“Annie!” he shouted, too loud for how close he was. “I’ve missed you, peanut. How’s my girl?”

He was talking funny, as if he had marshmallows inside his cheeks. She’d heard him talk like that a few times before he’d moved out of the house, when she woke up in the middle of the night and found him sitting on the couch with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. But it was scarier now, under the fluorescent lights of the hallway at the Y, than it had been at home in the almost-dark when no one else was there to see. Here, it was impossible to ignore how wrong he sounded, and he was sort of swaying, too.