A coming-of-age story about transgender tween Obie, who didn''t think being himself would cause such a splash. For fans of Alex Gino''s Obie knew his transition would have ripple effects. He has to leave his swim coach, his pool, and his best friends. But it’s time for Obie to find where he truly belongs. As Obie dives into a new team, though, things are strange. Obie always felt at home in the water, but now he can’t get his old coach out of his head. Even worse are the bullies that wait in the locker room and on the pool deck. Luckily, Obie has family behind him. And maybe some new friends too, including Charlie, his first crush. Obie is ready to prove he can be one of the fastest boys in the water--to his coach, his critics, and his biggest competition: himself.

Autorentext

Schuyler Bailar is an internationally renowned inspirational speaker, inclusion advocate, and diversity advisor. He holds a degree in cognitive neuroscience and evolutionary psychology from Harvard University, where he was also the first transgender athlete to compete in any sport on an NCAA Division I men's team. He was one of the USA's top 15-year-old breast-strokers. By 17, he set a USA national age-group record. In college, he finished in the top 15% of all collegiate athletes in his event. Schuyler's difficult choice--to transition while potentially giving up the prospect of being a champion swimmer as a female--was historic and timely. His story appeared everywhere from 60 Minutes to The Ellen Show. Schuyler's tireless advocacy of inclusion through public speaking and social media (@pinkmantaray) has earned him numerous notable honors. His corporate clients include Microsoft, Qualcomm, Capital One, American Eagle, Monte Nido & Affiliates, and many more.

Klappentext

**A coming-of-age story about transgender tween Obie, who didn't think being himself would cause such a splash. For fans of Alex Gino's George and Lisa Bunker's Felix Yz.

Obie knew his transition would have ripple effects. He has to leave his swim coach, his pool, and his best friends. But it’s time for Obie to find where he truly belongs.
 
As Obie dives into a new team, though, things are strange. Obie always felt at home in the water, but now he can’t get his old coach out of his head. Even worse are the bullies that wait in the locker room and on the pool deck. Luckily, Obie has family behind him. And maybe some new friends too, including Charlie, his first crush. Obie is ready to prove he can be one of the fastest boys in the water—to his coach, his critics, and his biggest competition: himself.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1
 “Take your mark”—­a pause, and then the whistle blows. The guys dive into the water, splashing me and the others who are standing at the edge of the deck watching. Most of the team are at the other end of the lanes, cheering on the swimmers. Their bodies glow in the artificial light, the winter sun still sleeping.
“His butterfly looks like shit. How is he so fast?” Pooch laughs after the first lap. Pooch isn’t his real name. It took me a little too long to get that. It’s his last name, Puczovich, shortened. There was already a Samuel on the team when Puczovich joined, so everyone calls him Pooch.
“I know, man, I’m not sure,” I reply. “It’s pretty ugly, though.” We both stare at the guy in lane 8—­Jackson. He grew about a foot last summer, no joke, and now his arms are too long for his own good. They drag in the water as he heaves them forward with each stroke. You’d think that with all that friction he wouldn’t go so fast, but he does. He’s already about half a body length ahead of Sammy—­the original Samuel.
“Think he’ll die the last fifty like usual?” Pooch asks. I think about it for a second. Jackson does usually die, but he’s also a good amount ahead so—­
“Why are you over here gossiping about your teammates instead of down there cheering them on? Do you want to be the next for a two hundred fly, Mr. Puczovich?” Coach stands right behind us, just a tad too close. She’s not very tall, but her voice makes us stand straight up.
“Sorry, Coach,” we mumble in unison and then shuffle off toward the other end of the lanes.
—­
It’s been almost six months since I joined Coach Larkin’s group at Manta Ray Aquatics and I still haven’t decided what to make of her. She never yells at anyone for swimming bad races. She doesn’t yell much at all, really. When I didn’t go a best time at the first meet I swam for her, I’d hid in the warm-­down pool for the better part of an hour, expecting her to yell at me like Coach Bolton would have. But she never did. She didn’t even come find me. When I returned to the team area finally, almost sulking, she didn’t even seem to notice.
Also, her practices have So. Many. Drills. And rest! We do rest days here! Coach Bolton would never have done that. I’ve been really worried that I’m not swimming enough yardage to be ready for upcoming meets. But Coach Larkin says everyone must at least start with trusting a coach’s method, especially when switching to a new team. So, I’m trying.
But I miss Coach Bolton. And somehow, unbelievably, I miss the yelling. How am I supposed to beat all of the guys without someone pushing me the way Coach Bolton did?
Jackson and Sammy are nearing the wall and Pooch and I lean down to yell in their faces as they do their flip-­turns.
“Goooo!” we say together.
“Looks like he’s hanging in there,” I say to Pooch, nodding at Jackson. Coach is walking along the edge of the pool, shouting each time their heads break the surface. Every swim coach has a distinctive call, some more than others. Coach Bolton always used to make a big “BOO!” sound, deep and booming, emphasizing the ooo, that would carry his voice across the natatorium. You knew it was him. Everyone else on deck did, too, even the other teams. Coach Larkin’s yell is a higher-­pitched, quick “HUP!”
I know it shouldn’t really matter, but I miss Coach Bolton’s “BOO!”
The whole team cheers as Jackson touches the wall a body length ahead of Sammy. Impressive.
“Obie and Mikey, two hundred IM.” Coach Larkin calls the next race.
“Aw, man, Coach L., why you gotta do me like that?” Mikey groans. “I don’t have energy for one stroke and you want me to do all four?” IM means “individual medley.” The 200 IM is a fifty of each stroke. I know he’s being intentionally dramatic so I don’t say anything aloud, but I definitely agree in my head. Plus, I already went; why do I have to go again? Also, against Mikey? Mikey is one of the fastest guys on this team.
“Miguel Garcia,” Coach Larkin says sternly. I’ve only ever heard Larkin call him that. I suppose his mom probably does, too. When he’s in trouble. “Get up on the blocks, boys,” Coach Larkin insists, a grin on her face. That’s another thing about Coach L., I think. Coaches aren’t supposed to smile.
“Take your mark—­” My body tenses as I get into position. My mind goes blank. I take a deep breath, feeling the expected rush of adrenaline. This is one of the things I love about racing. It doesn’t matter how much you feel like you’ve got or how tired you are. Nothing else matters except this moment.
Two hundred yards. Let’s go. The whistle goes off.
The water crashes over my head as I pierce the surface. The world disappears for a moment beneath the rush of water. Here I am, I think. Here. I. Am.
I take s…