She nodded, her eyes on Hank. “You got it, baby!”
Each time Hank moved up a couple of feet, Gloria pulled taut the rope between herself and the thing at the top of the wall. A loop? A pulley? Erin couldn’t tell from the floor and hadn’t looked while she was climbing. With Hank’s every shift, Gloria went through three motions: pull down with left, grab, pull down with right. Pull, grab, pull.
Belaying wasn’t complicated.
Gloria grinned as Hank returned to the mat. “Took long enough,” she said.
Erin said, “I thought that was pretty fast.”
“I’ve has been trying that 27 for two weeks,” Hank said. “In my defense, it was set by a tiny contortionist woman who does not design routes for human climbers.”
Gloria unhooked her belay device. “I didn’t have a problem with it.”
“I didn’t say superhuman.”
Erin said, “Can I try?”
Hank and Gloria wore matched expressions of surprise.
“Maybe we should try you on something a little easier,” Gloria said. “There’s a really nice 14 over there.”
So Gloria was a 30, Marama and Hank were 27s, and she was a 14? No way.
“I’m pretty strong. A month ago, I was the best swimmer in New Zealand.” She couldn’t believe she’d brought that up.
“Sure, go for it,” Gloria said.
And, of course, they were right. Erin couldn’t even stabilize herself on the starting holds. The barrette-shaped handhold was barely a nubbin sticking out of the wall. And that was the better handhold. The other one was reachable only after opening stance was established, and she couldn’t even do that.
Hank kept the rope taut, but he and Gloria were quiet as Erin worked. Her face sweat as she moved her fingers around that stupid little nubbin, trying to find purchase where there was no friction. She chalked up her hands like Hank had taught her. She chalked the hold. She chalked the wall.
It wasn’t happening.
At eye level, Erin read the route key. Erin’s stripe-y route was rated a 27. She also could try Gloria’s 30, another 27, a 19, or a 13.
The starting holds for the 19 felt reasonable. Without looking at them, Erin said, “I’ll try the 19. Climbing.”
“Climb on,” Hank said.
She followed Gloria’s instructions: two whole seconds on the starting holds before climbing. And, finally, she could move upward. She made quick work of the first four feet but wasn’t even out of bouldering range before she was stumped.
Gloria called, “You have a right foot inside your right knee.”
What the hell?
“If you feel around near your right knee, you’ll find a foothold for your right foot.”
She felt around and found it.
“Not that one. Up a little.”
Her shoes were starting to hurt again. She tapped another with her right toe.
“That’s it. Turn your right knee in and lean back.”
Erin reached up with her right hand, but the hold was out of reach.
Gloria would not shut up. “Look up and to your left.”
Erin found it. They continued this way—Erin trying holds just out of reach and Gloria helping her work up the wall—until she reached the top.
“Falling,” she said.
Gloria said, “I got some pics of you up there. Nice work.”
“Not as nice as that 30,” Erin said.
“Been climbing since I could walk. Did you have fun?”
Had she? Climbing was a puzzle. A physical puzzle. And it was a lot different than managing her air and maximizing her strokes. “It was fun. And a damn sight harder than bouldering.”
“View’s not as good, either: We’re heading up to Payne’s Ford over the summer holidays,” Gloria said. “Limestone, with climbing for all sorts of abilities. You should come.”
Even weak-ass people like Erin could climb there. “Maybe. I am supposed to go back to the States when term 4 ends. That’s in December.”
“I am keenly aware of when I graduate!” Gloria said.
“You’re in school?”
“Christchurch Girls. That’s how I met Hank. His sister, Meg, was in year 13 when I was in year 9.”
“She taught you to climb?”
“I taught her, more like.”
Hank smiled. “In our age bracket, Gloria is the seventeenth best climber in the world.”
Gloria rolled her eyes. “It’s not about the title. Competing gives you access to the most challenging and gorgeous terrain on Earth. I do it for the views.”
Erin had only ever competed to win.
Quigleys.
Erin heard the whispers before she saw them. Three lean swimmers, walking in file, approached her swim team.
Erin’s summer team coach, Waterson, pushed out of the crowd, falling over himself to present them, though introductions weren’t required. Claudia, Ruth, and Hillary Quigley were three of the best swimmers in the nation; everyone anticipated an Olympic berth for the whole family. The littlest sister—the sophomore—had won the 100-yard fly at Nationals, but all of them had raced in finals.
Something funky was going on in their gene pool, for sure: one was blonde with brown eyes, one brunette with blue eyes, and the third brown on brown with olive skin. The oldest Quigley, Ruth, was shorter by an inch, but with extra years of muscle.
Waterson asked everyone to give their names and strokes.
Lalitha grinned so hard she had dimples, but Erin could hardly smile. “Erin Cerise. Hundred-yard-fly and relay.”
Claudia Quigley said, “We swim fly, too.”
No fucking kidding.
Losing her relay team for the summer season wasn’t dire. And, if she trained with the Quigleys all summer, Erin might learn a few things.
Her future was still bright.
Waterson, grinning in full veneers, said “Erin, Lalitha, Sam, Jamie—these ladies are transferring to Wheaton, so they’ll join your team next autumn. Be sure to show them around.”
And just like that, Erin’s future slipped through her fingers.
FIFTY-TWO
At ten past six, Hank hugged Gloria and Marama good-bye and loaded Felicity’s bike onto his rack.
He closed his door and turned to Erin. “That’s an amazing facsimile of Felicity’s helmet.”
After hearing the whole story, Hank said, “I assumed you’d scoped all the bike racks.”
“Next time, I will.”
“So you’re up shit creek in leaky gumboots.”
“Oh, I
