I race into the girls' change room with minutes to spare before swim tryouts start. Waking up at five thirty is not easy, but if I make the swim team, I'll have to get used to it.

And I have to make the swim team.

I shove my clothes into a locker and duck into the shower. As the mist from the hot water trails up from the tiled floor, the wisps of a dream tug at the back of my memory. I was here at the gym, talking to someone—Casey?—but they're in trouble, something is wrong—

My skin protests and for a moment I think it's the fear I remember feeling in the dream, but it's just the hot water. I shut off the tap and sigh. I've never been able to remember my dreams; they're always swept away when morning comes, for a moment as clear as the streaks of bronze that light the sky outside my window, and then gone.

I rush out onto the deck, instantly bathed in a blanket of warmth that rolls off the pool and calms my nerves. Swimming. This is where I belong. Dad's smiling face looms into mind.

"Jessie!"

I spot Brian, a fellow first-year student with spiked brown hair, towering above a group of nervous swimmers. The voice comes from the petite blond who squeezes out of the crowd behind him.

"Hey, guys!" Why didn't I spot Rachel in the change room just now? Are there that many girls trying out? My stomach does a nervous flip flop. Save the moves for the water, I urge.

Rachel rushes over as fast as she can without slipping on the deck. "I can't believe how nervous I am!"

Brian follows her, one of his steps as big as two of hers. "I keep telling her that makes two of us," he insists, scanning the competition. He looks abnormally uncomfortable without his effortless grin.

I try to calm the butterflies pummeling my stomach. "You guys are so not alone."

"Swimmers!"

A squat man with a balding head stands by the shallow end of the pool, accompanied by a woman with short hair and a grave expression. The sight of the coaches makes it suddenly difficult to breathe. Rachel, Brian and I make our way over to join the group forming by the shallow end of the pool.

The coach with the short hair folds her hands in front of her. "I'm Coach Jansen, this is Coach Diten. Welcome to the annual swim tryouts," she says, without a trace of anything welcome in her voice. "Only twenty of you will make the team."

Rachel and I look at each other and mouth twenty? There must be at least forty people here trying out.

"Of those twenty, eight will also be on the relay team," Coach Jansen continues, and I start desperately hoping that will be me. "More specifically, one male and one female who excel in front stroke, backstroke, breaststroke and butterfly. So focus on your swimming and don't waste time trying to suck up to us. We'll post the results here tomorrow. Any questions?" Before anyone can ask, she ploughs on.

"We will be competing against other universities for the rest of the year. In addition, one of you will receive the Ellis Scholarship. This very prestigious award is based on a combination of academic and swimming achievements, and grants the recipient one year's tuition at almost any university or college program in the country. Any questions?"

My mind ignites at the mention of a scholarship. Being able to help pay for school...I let myself imagine how good it would feel to surprise Aunt Lindsey and Uncle Kraig like that.

Coach Diten clears his throat over the excited murmurs. "Ready? Front stroke on my signal." He whistles and we all struggle to form some semblance of a line-up.

When it's my turn, I push off the wall and collide with something hard. I'm about to utter an apology when I recognize a thick mop of dark hair.

I groan. This can't be happening. "Hazel." Easily the most anti-social person I've met during frosh week—or ever.

Hazel's frown and narrowed eyes are a perfect indication of the grumpiness she exudes on a regular basis. "Jessie." She says my name like it's a piece of dirt that won't roll off her tongue. She pushes off the floor to swim forward, smacking my side in the process.

Ignoring my throbbing arm, I force myself to concentrate on tryouts rather than the satisfaction I'd get from yelling at Hazel. I can't stay angry even if I try; as I glide through the water, even the edge of the competition fades and I perform stroke after stroke with a fluidity and ease that feel so right.

By the end of the tryouts, I'm panting and exhausted, but I can't keep the smile off my face.

"Results will be posted tomorrow evening," Coach Jansen declares, and just like that butterflies resume formation in the pit of my stomach.

It's chaos in the change room, with everyone trying to get out as fast as possible while avoiding making eye contact with the competition. When Rachel finishes first, I encourage her to go on ahead of me, promising to meet her at the Bull's Horn in a few minutes.

"Someone's out of shape," Hazel calls out.

I zip up my swim bag and turn to face her. "If you're trying to psych me out, it's not working."

Hazel laughs, rubbing her mass of beautiful curls with a towel. "Right. I've been on a swim team for eight years, missy."

I snort, though my stomach drops at the thought of competing with her. Eight years? "Which swim team is that—Amateurs United?"

Hazel freezes me with an icy glare. "I attended Hawthorne Memorial."

Something in my brain clicks. I remember reading an article about an exceptionally talented swimmer from that high school. If Hazel's good enough to make it into the newspaper...

My face falls. "That was you?"

Hazel turns her back to me, toweling off her midriff, not missing an opportunity to look over her shoulder and gloat. "Glad to hear you've heard of me."

I find it hard to imagine Hazel feeling "glad" about anything. I grab my stainless steel water bottle, swing my bag onto my shoulder and head for the exit.

Hazel's voice grips me, like a claw sinking into my shoulders. "Oh, by the way, those without professional experience rarely make the team."

I freeze, imagining Hazel's malevolent grin screwed back into place as she says this. I'm tempted to tell her that even though my high school didn't have a team to try out for, I swam almost daily for the past two years in preparation for this, but I resist. My nerves tingle like crazy as I continue out of the room and down the hall to the Bull's Horn, reminding myself that Hazel's purpose in life seems to be to make others miserable.

The Bull's Horn is packed with students fresh from tryouts, their hair dripping as they line up for food. The sun has risen and is casting a warm glow through the long windows set in the outside walls. I scan the crowds for a shock of blond hair that belongs to my best friend Casey, feeling instantly lighter when I spot her making her way towards me.

"How were the tryouts?" she asks, stopping in front of me. "Brian says he's impressed by you." She laughs. "By your swimming, I mean. But it wouldn't be so bad if he meant in other ways, would it?"

Leave it to Casey to make everything about guys. "To answer your first question—" I think back to tryouts, a smile growing on my face—"I think it went really well."

Casey's face lights up. "That's fantastic!" she gushes, wrapping me in her signature supportive hug. "You waited a long time for this, to try out for an actual team. I'm excited for you!"

I hug Casey back, laughing out the nerves and the excitement, and then take a few moments to really soak in the fact that I'm on the other side of the tryout now. It feels hard to believe.

I talk around Casey's hair. "Thanks for waiting for me. I hope it wasn't boring?"

"Boring? No. I feel almost as invested in this tryout as you are." She tightens the hug, and the side of my body that took Hazel's kick responds by starting to ache. My mood dampens a bit at the memory of our conversation.

"I almost forgot—Hazel was her usual grumpy self this morning."

Casey pulls back, looking disgusted. "Ew, Hazel was there? Let's hope she doesn't make the team—it would suck to have to put up with her, let alone have to be her teammate." She brightens. "Or maybe you could kick her and make it look like an accident." She savours this thought for a few moments. "On a lighter note, wait till you meet the cute guy Brian met at the swim tryout."

I laugh and shake my head. "Does Brian know everyone?"

"This guy's a real winner. Come on."

Casey leads the way through the throngs of tables to the back, on the diner's second level. I shift my swim bag further up my shoulder. This is another one of Casey's antics to match me up with a guy, isn't it? Throughout high school, she often introduced me to various guys, hoping we'd hit it off—which, of course, we didn't. I never shared Casey's passion for actively searching for romance.

Approaching our table now, I realize that Casey is probably more concerned about pairing herself with this guy if he's such a "real winner."

Casey moves aside, revealing Brian and Rachel, who both give me a small wave. I'm about to return the gesture when something catches my eye. There's a third person at the table, his back to me. He has short, reddish-brown hair that is achingly familiar.

Casey slides into a seat and gestures to me. "This is my best friend—"

The guy twists in his seat, his lean frame ending a few inches above mine. He looks at me and an obvious change roams over his face. "Jessie," he blurts.

I feel like I'm falling. My vision swims and a kaleidoscope of images flashes in front of me. All I can take in is a whir of shape and sound and colour as I teeter, grounding my feet into the floor, waiting until my head clears and I'm focused on the bistro again. I look into his friendly brown eyes and a warm feeling settles in my stomach.

Casey gasps, obviously deterred by this turn of events. "Jessie, this is—"

"Chris." The name falls from my lips before I can even think it.

Casey puts her hands on her hips. "You've already met! We've only been here a week and you're making friends without me."

Rachel pats the seat beside her and I sink into it as my knees buckle.

Yes, we've already met, but for the life of me I cannot remember where.