Learning to Swim Read online

  “I come here a lot with my dad and stepmother,” he said with his mouth full.

  Even his bad table manners were hot.

  I gulped some Diet Dr Pepper to chase down the taste of iab (I didn't find out until later that it was cottage cheese blended with yogurt.) “Do you get along with your stepmother?”

  “Sort of. She's only fifteen years older than me, so it's not as though she and I have a mother-son relationship or anything like that. She pretty much leaves me alone.”

  Usher's “Yeah!” rang out from Keith's cell phone. “It's my dad,” he said to me, snapping his phone open. “Uh-huh, right. Okay. Well, I'm sorry about that. Look, I…” His voice faded as he looked at me. “I can't talk about this right now. If she calls back, tell her I'll speak to her later. I've got to go,” he said. “That's my other line.” He clicked over. “Hello?”

  The expression on his face changed, and I knew without a doubt that the caller on the other line was none other than Mora. I finished the rest of my Dr Pepper with one mighty swig and let out a tiny burp that thankfully he didn't hear.

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  My lower extremities immediately went numb. I knew that up until, well, yesterday, she had been a big part of his life, but I really resented the intrusion. I wished I could've closed my eyes and gone back in time. I wished that we had moved to Jones Island years ago and that I had got to him first. I wished that I could tear that phone away from his ear and throw it in the restaurant's saltwater aquarium.

  “Yeah, well, okay, calm down,” I heard him say.

  I wondered how many of these one-sided conversations my mom had endured. I wondered how many times she had been filled with the weird jealous feeling that came with realizing that the man you loved still belonged to someone else. Fourteen at least, I supposed. I couldn't imagine feeling this insecure and uncomfortable over and over and over again. Once was enough.

  “I have to go.” His eyes shifted to me. “I'll talk to you later.” He flashed me a kind of sad-looking smile as he turned off his phone. “Sorry about that.”

  “That's okay,” I said, even though it wasn't.

  “No, it's not,” he said. “I wouldn't have picked up if I'd known it was her. I'm sorry to put you in that position.”

  “I already knew that breakups were messy,” I said, reaching across the table and taking his hand.

  He stroked the inside of my wrist with his thumb. “It's just made worse by the fact that Mora's parents and my parents are friends. Everyone feels the need to add their two cents.”

  “That's got to be hard,” I said stiffly. Truth of the matter was, I didn't want to talk about Mora anymore. Nor did I want to talk about how upset Keith's parents were that he'd broken up with her. I just wanted him and me to have a fresh start, where there was no baggage or past lives and there would only be us.

  “Yeah, well, thanks for being so understanding.” He brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed it softly. (Wow!) “Are you ready to get out of here, cutie?”

  Cutie was born ready.

  Keith paid the bill with his very own ultraplatinum credit card (even though I offered to split it—he was such a gentleman) and we climbed back into his Lexus.

  “Where to?” He put his right hand on my knee and then brought it slowly up my thigh.

  “We could go back to my apartment,” I said abruptly. “Barbie's out of town for the weekend.” This wasn't the most subtle of suggestions. But all I knew was that I wanted to do whatever it took to make him forget all about his ex-girlfriend. I wanted to prove to him that Mora was not the girl for him. I was.

  “Okay,” he said, and then he leaned in and kissed me tenderly.

  As we drove, I put my head back and closed my eyes. I attempted to calm the jackhammering in my stomach by taking deep breaths of the musky leather-scented car air. I wasn't sure what was about to happen, but whatever it was, I was ready. I loved Keith, he liked (potentially loved) me. It was all coming together.

  Keith stopped the car. When I opened my eyes, I saw that we weren't at my apartment. We were at the entrance to Crab Beach.

  “What are we doing?” I asked. “I thought we were going back to my place.”

  A mischievous look appeared on Keith's face. “We are. But first, we're going swimming.”

  Swimming? “I don't have my suit,” I said.

  “I know,” he said with a wink.

  My heart slammed against my chest like a crash-test dummy against a brick wall. He wanted to go skinny-dipping? Even though just minutes earlier I had been considering going all the way with him, I was possessed with a panic so intense, it was amazing I was still conscious.

  I made a quick mental list of all thoughts spinning through my mind:

  Holy crap.

  Barbie was right. He's not innocent at all.

  Am I wearing my spanky pants or my good bikinis?

  My panic must have been obvious, because Keith grinned and said, “We can wear underwear if you want, Stef. No pressure.”

  “I think it would be better,” I said. “After all, I don't want any fish…” My voice drifted off. Fish to do what? What exactly was I worried that the “fish” might do? “You know,” I added, as if that summed it up.

  Keith popped open the trunk and pulled out two thick white towels emblazoned with the Tippecanoe Country Club insignia. He took my hand and led me down to the beach. He dropped the towels and wasted no time in yanking off his jacket, shirt, and tie.

  Okay, so we were just going to strip right there. I could handle it. After all, even though I was wearing my matching bikini set (I had peeked, just to make sure), it still covered just as much as a bikini. Right?

  I pulled off my crocheted cardigan as Keith kicked off his khakis. I was happy to see he was a boxer, not a brief guy. I hated watching those reality shows where they had a really cute guy and suddenly they'd show him getting ready for bed and he'd be wearing, like, skanky black bikinis or tightie whities or something. I was supersmitten with Keith, but I would've had a hard time getting over little black bikinis. In any case, I didn't have to worry. Keith wore those white boxer-briefs that were kind of thick and snug, so in reality (I reassured myself), they covered just as much as his suit did.

  I unwrapped the tie on my dress and slipped it off. There I was, standing in front of Keith McKnight in my matching light blue underwear that my mom had tucked into my stocking at Christmas.

  He took my hand and nodded toward the water. “Come on.”

  We walked in together, and when the water was up to our waists, Keith let go of my hand and dove in.

  He popped up a few feet away and held out his hand to me. “Don't be frightened, Stef.”

  The words alone were enough to make me melt. Not to mention the way he was staring at me.

  “Let's see what you remember,” he added, giving me a nod of encouragement.

  And that's where the movie moment ended. Because even though I plunged right in, it was not a graceful move. My swimming was all discombobulated, kind of like the doggy-paddle desperate-to-stay-above-the-water stroke. Not pretty in the least. In fact, highly embarrassing would have been the best way to describe it.

  He caught me under my arms and lifted me out of the water. Holding me tightly against him, he said, “Look up.”

  It was a full moon and the sky was littered with stars. There weren't any clouds either, just a streak of constellations showering us with light. “I used to come here at night as a kid. I would strip down and just float on my back for hours, staring up at the stars.”

  “It sounds… incredible,” I said breathlessly.

  “Just focus on the stars,” he whispered into my ear. “The water will hold you.”

  I stepped away from him. I looked up. I leaned back, resting my head on the top of the water as if it was a pillow. I felt my feet slowly rise toward the surface. But I didn't think about my feet, I didn't think about anything but the stars. And I floated. All by myself. I was vaguely aware of Ke
ith drifting beside me, and every now and then our hands would brush up against each other. But neither of us said a word.

  Suddenly, I realized that Keith was no longer floating. He was standing beside me, looking down at me with this hint of wonder in his eye that made me feel like I was special.

  “Time to go,” he said, and helped me to my feet. He led me back to shore and we wrapped the towels around ourselves and gathered up our clothes. We drove back to my apartment in silence, as if we were both anticipating the possibilities.

  He parked the car and followed me into my apartment. Considering that both of us were in our underwear with nothing but towels wrapped around us, I was more than grateful we had not run into our neighbor Herbert Lewis. That would have been a big buzz kill.

  When we got inside, I turned on the light next to the couch. What was I supposed to do now? I thought back to that lawn mowing day at Alice's. “Do you, um… want something to drink?”

  Keith fidgeted with his towel. “Sure. What have you got?”

  I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The only thing to drink was my mother's grody melon coolers (they tasted remarkably similar to the cough syrup in our medicine cabinet) and three cans of diet Pepsi.

  “I'll just have water,” he said.

  I poured him a glass and handed it to him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, motioning toward my shaking hand.

  “Sure,” I said with half a laugh. But there was nothing funny about this situation. Nothing at all.

  He ran his finger down the side of my face and neck. “Don't be nervous,” he said. And then he gave me a soft, slow, passionate kiss. He stopped and smiled. “Come on.” He took my hand and pulled me onto the couch. Then he put his arm around me and leaned over me, kissing me again and again.

  He started getting more intense and nuzzling my neck. My thoughts were spiraling out of control. This is it. Any minute he's going to be reaching under my towel. And after that, there isn't that much to take off to be completely naked. So when should I break for the condoms? Will he be offended if I ask him to wear one? What if he refuses? Because there is no way I am doing it without one. Not that I am so worried about diseases because, even though maybe I should be, I am more worried about getting pregnant. Because my mom has jinxed me. And I am not about to risk getting pregnant at only seventeen…

  “Stef,” he murmured. “Is there something wrong?”

  I opened my eyes. He was no longer kissing me but looking at me with concern. This would've been a good time to tell him I was afraid. But afraid of what? Love lunacy? He'd never comprehend what any of it meant, and now that Mora wasn't involved with him anymore, love lunacy seemed to be a nonissue. Actually, it became all too evident that what I really was terrified of was, quite simply, love. The idea of making some of it with Keith when Barbie and I were on the brink of a finger move and he was about to go back to college was truly sending me headfirst into a nervous breakdown. I had to put a stop to this, and quick.

  “We're going too fast!” I announced loudly.

  “That's okay.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on my forehead. “I don't want to do anything you don't feel ready for.”

  Instead of easing my troubled mind, this comment touched an exposed nerve. I was so mad at myself for this. I was the one who'd asked Keith back to my apartment, which was pretty much sign language for “Sleep with me, you big hunk of man!” And I'd done that for one reason—to seduce him and make him forget about Mora. But now Keith's ex-girlfriend was in every thought of mine, and in every thought she was in bed with Keith. I was so jealous I could barely see straight.

  “Did you have sex with Mora?” I asked bluntly.

  The words hung in the air, catching us both by surprise.

  He glanced away and stood up. “Why don't you get dressed,” he said. But it wasn't really a question. It was more like a command.

  I walked into the bedroom, feeling devastated. Why had I ruined a perfectly wonderful moment with my big fat mouth?

  When I came out (wearing my SAVE THE BAY T-shirt and running shorts), he was sitting on the couch reading Barbie's In Touch magazine. He looked really puzzled, but I doubted it had anything to do with Brangelina's love child.

  “Regarding Mora,” he said softly. “Do you really want to know?”

  The truth was I didn't really want to know. What I wanted to hear was that they hadn't been together and he hadn't seen her naked and he hadn't experienced any earth-shattering sex with her. But I had a feeling that they had.

  Keith took my silence as an affirmation. “Look, Mora and I were friends for a long time. Neither one of us was seeing anyone last summer and, well, things just happened.”

  And just like that, I became enraged. Not upset or sad, but enraged. It was completely irrational and I knew I was wrong to feel that way, but I couldn't help it. Which is why I took my anger out on him.

  “So what you're telling me is just because you were bored and needed a partner for Parcheesi, you decided to go over and de-virginize Mora?”

  His cheek muscles tightened. I had definitely crossed a line with him. “De-virginize?”

  “That's what Doris said,” I added with a shrug. I figured if I was going down, I might as well drag one of my friends with me.

  “This isn't about Mora, is it?”

  “What else would this be about?” My voice was filled with contempt, and I could tell by Keith's stiff posture that he wasn't pleased with me at all.

  “I have no idea, Stef. You're not really being forthcoming right now,” he replied tersely.

  “Well, how's this for forthcoming? I don't like being poor.”

  This was turning into a nightmare. I wanted to press Stop and Rewind, but the remote for my brain was obviously on the fritz.

  “What are you talking about?” He was looking at me like I had suddenly started speaking Swahili.

  “You said that I was like Alice. That I didn't care about money. Well, that's not true. Money makes the world go round, Keith. You should know. You've got so much of it, you can do whatever you want.”

  Keith stared at me. “Okay.”

  Okay? That was it? If this was Barbie, I totally would have baited her into a fight by now. But Keith wasn't going to sink to my extremely pathetic level. That didn't stop me from carrying on, though.

  “And I don't like bugs either!” There. Take that.

  “What are you doing, Stef?” He looked so sad, like I had hurt his feelings and attacked his dog with a weed whacker.

  “I just…,” I began. Then I sighed. “I don't know.”

  Keith stood up. “I don't know either. But whatever it is, I don't like it.”

  I couldn't have agreed with him more.

  He made his way toward the door. “I thought that once I cleared up this whole Mora thing we'd be fine.”

  I couldn't speak. I was still in shock from the fact that we had gone from getting together to breaking up in one day. And it was all my fault.

  “Looks like I was wrong,” he said sternly. Then he left without saying goodbye.

  16

  Steffie Rogers's advice on how not to get over the loss of a love:

  Immediately after breaking up, go out for some “fresh air” and end up at the convenience store, where you purchase a six-pack of Jolt cola, a Snickers bar, and a quart of strawberry ice cream.

  Go home and eat the ice cream right out of the container and then realize too late that you've just consumed the entire quart by yourself.

  Wash the ice cream down with that six-pack of Jolt cola.

  Pound your pillow.

  Watch a gross TV show about plastic surgery that is sure to give you nightmares (if only you could sleep), and then eat the Snickers bar.

  Repeatedly check your machine for messages even though you've been sitting beside it the whole time (except for the ten minutes it took you to go to the convenience store).

  Pick up the phone to call your ex. Dial his/her num
ber. Hang up before anybody answers. Repeat.

  Go to bed, where you toss and turn and wonder if anyone has ever died from consuming too much caffeine and sugar.

  Go over every single line of dialogue you and your never-had-a-chance-to-be-boyfriend/girlfriend had, just so you can remember exactly how dumb you sounded.

  Remember all the fun times you and he/she had (as well as the fun times you might have had, if you had only possessed enough common sense to keep your mouth shut).

  The next morning I showed up at Tippecanoe not only miserable but also tired, bloated, and a little bit shaky. But I didn't care. I was anxious to be with Alice. I knew I'd feel better as soon as I told her what had happened.

  I had just punched in my time card when the staff room door flew open. My heart lifted a little when I thought it might be Alice, but it sank once I realized it was Doris. And the second I looked at her puffy tear-stained face, I knew she was about to tell me the worst news I'd ever heard in my life.

  “Steffie!” Doris cried. “Alice is in the hospital.”

  I had just read in the morning edition of the Jones Island paper about how when tragedy struck, people always said, “The day began like any other day…” But today hadn't begun just like any other day—at least, not for me. Therefore, according to the laws of the universe, nothing really horrible should have happened to me.

  But it had. I dashed to Warthog's office and told him the news, and surprisingly the jerk let me take a personal day. Doris and I hopped into her car and she began updating me on the situation. I was so upset that I heard only every other sentence. Thelma had taken Alice to the hospital when she complained of being short of breath… Alice was scheduled for heart surgery tomorrow… She hadn't been feeling well for a long time.