“You’re not a loser. Besides, guys are easy to please.”
I want to hook up, but like Levi said, I want to do it in a situation where I feel comfortable. I don’t want a repeat of the thick, juicy steak dinner. Levi would never bring a girl to a room that wasn’t his.
A guy like Levi would take care of me.
Cool gusts of air rustle the trees and blow his scent in my direction. Like me, he always smells of chlorine, but there’s also cinnamon gum and his shampoo. It reminds me of cedar. I look over at him. His head is tipped back as he stares at the sky, lost in a comfortable silence. He really is cute.
That’s when I picture it. Him lying on top of me, kissing my neck.
The thought sets my skin on fire, flushing my body with heat, and it’s not because of the hot tub.
Holy crap, I’ve never thought about him that way before.
The vision switches from Levi kissing my neck to me unbuttoning his jeans, revealing Superman underwear.
Ack! I clench my eyes shut. What the hell is wrong with me? Did I just superimpose Levi’s face over Dylan’s in a weird, sexy daydream? I really must need to relax.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. But my imagination runs back to the idea of Levi pressing his forehead to mine as he teaches me what guys want.
He would whisper, “Touch the Superman logo.”
I squirm uncomfortably in the hot tub. Steamy water splashes over the side onto the porch.
“Oh my God,” I murmur.
His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” My voice cracks.
“Bullshit.”
“Can you just talk to me about something?”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Did you see how Tom Brady was accused of breaking into Aaron Rodgers’s house to steal the Packers’ playbook?”
Levi starts rambling on about the Patriots, and my mind wanders again. This time I imagine rolling around in bed under the covers with him. Naked.
How would it even start? Would I climb in his lap? Would I just ask him?
“Maggie,” he says loudly.
“What?”
“I thought you wanted to talk. You’re ignoring me.”
“Sorry. I was thinking …” If I can’t talk to Levi, who can I talk to? “I want to learn how to fool around.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “It’s not really something you learn. You pick up your own style over time.”
“Like swimming?”
“In a way, I guess. There’s a rhythm to it.” A grin breaks out across his face. “But it’s a lot more fun than swimming laps.”
“Could you give me some pointers?”
“Huh?”
I see now I can’t beat around the bush. “I want you to teach me to hook up.”
The smile disappears. His Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. “What?”
My voice shakes. “You heard me.”
“What do you mean, ‘teach you to hook up’? You want me to draw some diagrams?”
“No…I want you to demonstrate.”
He looks at me. Looks into my eyes. Then his eyes slide to my chest.
“Stop staring at my boobs.”
“It’s your fault.”
“How is it my fault you’re ogling my chest?”
“You’re the one who asked me to be your sexual Jedi Master.”
“Oh my God, you did not say sexual Jedi Master.”
“You can’t fault a guy for getting a little boob action.”
Boob action? What is wrong with him? He’s probably saying silly things to try to distract me while his mind races. That’s how his brain works.
“I didn’t say anything about a sexual Jedi Master,” I say. “I asked you to teach me how to fool around.”
“We can’t. That’s swimcest.”
What Levi means is that Coach Josh would kill us. He is very much against New Wave kids dating. For instance, last year Susannah was dating this older swimmer, Lucas, who wasn’t as serious about swimming as she is. He was always trying to get her to blow off practice, and as a result she swam horribly last year. Ever since they broke up, she’s been at the top of her game. And one time a couple years ago, two swimmers hooked up for a while and they were all over each other in the pool, which nobody wanted to see. Not even pervy Jason. After the couple broke it off, things got very awkward between them at practice, and they refused to share a lane. Which, again, nobody wanted to see.
Still, we have hormones and spend a lot of time together wearing practically no clothes, so Coach understands that people are bound to fool around. But nevertheless, he’d probably kill us.
“I was being serious,” I tell Levi. “I want you to teach me.”
Deep in thought, he runs both hands through his blond hair. “Why?” he finally asks.
“I trust you,” I say. “You’re my best friend.”
“That doesn’t mean we should hook up… You should wait until you’re with a guy you care about.”
“This girl I stayed with at Cal told me that no one in college wants serious relationships.”
“No one?”
“Well…what if I don’t meet anybody? Or don’t have time for a relationship? I want my first time with a guy to be special.”
His eyes flash when I say that. “You think it would be special with me? I think it would be awkward as hell.”
I push his shoulder. “Don’t call me awkward.”
“You’re not awkward. It would be awkward.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because our moms gave us baths together.”
“So we’ve got the nudity part out of the way.” I wink at him, and he scowls. “It would be special because I already care about you as a friend,” I add.
“I don’t think we should,” he says. “You’ll have to find another gigolo to play with.”
“Gigolo!” I splash him. “You are disgusting.”
Smiling, he wipes the water off his face. When he looks back at me, his expression is serious again. He breathes deeply. “Maggie, I want to help you, but I don’t want it to be weird between us.”
I can see the gears working in his head. It occurs to me that being physical with a person isn’t supposed to involve a lot of thought, but that’s all he’s doing: thinking. That’s not so sexy. But I don’t need this to be sexy.
I tell him, “I want to learn how to hook up, but I need it to be personal and something I won’t regret.”
His eyes don’t meet mine when he responds. “I’ll think about it.”
Swim Lessons
In order to decide who gets to swim at regionals in two weeks, eight middle Tennessee high school teams are competing at conferences today.
While I do not expect this to be a super difficult meet, these races set the tone for regionals and the state championship, not to mention my club’s long course season, which starts next month with Junior Nationals. Long course—what’s used in the Olympics—is measured in meters. The pool is a lot bigger too. Today’s short course meet is measured in yards.
As usual, Levi picks me up for the meet. It’s 7:00 a.m., later than our usual 4:30, but he’s still not in a talkative mood yet. “Hi,” he grunts, opening my door for me. I’m grateful he doesn’t say anything else, because I have no interest in rehashing that mortifying discussion from last night.
Once we get to Hendersonville to the meet, we separate to go to our respective locker rooms. After struggling into my super tight racing suit, I take a shower, put my sweats back on, and go do stretches in the warm hallway leading to the pool, listening to classical music on my iPod to get myself in the zone. I glance around to find Levi. He’s talking with a pretty blond swimmer from another school. She moves closer to him, placing a hand
on his chest. Are they making plans to meet under the bleachers during down time?
My face flushes when I remember how I propositioned him last night. Shit. What was I thinking? The blond girl’s hair is so sleek. I run a hand over my bushy hair pulled back in a frizzy brown bun.
I pull my legs to my chest and rest my head on my knees, working to keep my mind on the violin music pouring from my earbuds.
Somebody taps my knee. I look up to find Coach Josh. He’s not in charge of my high school team, but he tries never to miss one of our meets because my high school coach, Mrs. Keller, is more of a sponsor than a coach. She just doesn’t have the same level of expertise.
“You’re up,” Coach says, pulling me to my feet. “Go out there and kill it, understand?”
I nod, and get in line with the other seven swimmers I’m competing against in prelims. I adjust the back of my suit through my warm up pants, making sure I don’t have a wedgie.
As I walk out onto the deck, the announcer says my name. “Maggie King! Maggie holds the Tennessee club swim record for 200-meter backstroke after her win at the Summer Sizzler last year.” Waving to the cheering crowd, I spot my parents sitting with Ms. Lucassen, Oma, and Opa.
I shed my sweats and test the cool water on my arms and legs. With my goggles and cap securely in place, I hop down into the middle lane and get ready to push off. When I look up to the deck, Levi is standing right above me. His silver chain with the Make Waves pendant is swinging back and forth.
“Let’s go, Maggie!” he shouts, already clapping. I give him a nervous smile.
The buzzer sounds. I launch off and start my fluid backstroke. One arm after the other, I keep my body as straight as possible. I spot a girl out of the corner of my eye, so I speed up to go faster than her. I do okay in these short courses, but it’s not like swimming in an Olympic-sized pool. The shorter the pool, the easier the swim is for sprinters because there are more opportunities to push off the wall between laps. But I’m no sprinter. I’m better at long distances because I have great endurance between turns. Still, I swim as fast as I can in this small pool.
Like Coach told me, I kill it. After four laps, I touch the wall, finishing the race, and immediately swivel around to check the score. First place! “Eee!” I scream. This means I’ll be in the final later today.
After hugging the other swimmers, I hop out of the pool to hug Coach Josh and Levi, then jump around and wave at my parents.
As soon as my high starts to wear off, Coach pulls me aside to do what he does best. “You have to stop racing, Maggie.”
“But it’s a race.”
“You know what I mean. You can’t go out so fast like that. You know you don’t have early speed. You have to stay steady or you’re gonna waste all your energy. You need to pace yourself.”
I nod as he pats my back. This is always his main critique. It’s the reason I always lose against Roxy: I go too fast at first and wear myself out. I am faster than all of these girls, but only if I keep a measured tempo. I have strong back half speed. When I saw the girl to my right swimming faster than me, I sped up, even though I knew it would wear me out more quickly. I need to learn patience. Focus.
Coach always says, “Sheer talent only gets you so far. You have to hone it.”
Later Levi will swim both 100 and 200 breaststroke, and me 200-yard free, which isn’t my favorite, but I’m pretty good at it. Since we’re still so young, Coach makes us race in all the strokes to see if we might break out and win, but Levi and I are set in the strokes we like. We have some time before those races, so he and I go sit in the stands to cheer on kids from school and New Wave.
Between events, Levi plays Candy Crush on his phone.
I lean closer to see his screen—well, as close as I can. His copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is on the bench between our thighs. “What level are you on now?”
He doesn’t reply as he continues to tap his phone screen.
“Levi?”
“What?” he snaps.
“I asked what level you’re on.”
“You know I’m on two-oh-nine.”
“Who was that girl you were talking to earlier?” Shit. That just popped out. I probably sound desperate. I wait for an answer, but he shrugs and grunts like a caveman.
I should come up with a name for that rude gesture. Shrunts? Grugs? Whatever it is, it’s unlike Levi to blatantly ignore me. He’s usually over his morning grumpies by now.
Jason from our club team comes and sits down on the other side of Levi, and they bump fists. “I fucked up my turn,” Jason complains. “I lost half a second.”
“I saw that, man,” Levi replies. “That’s rough.”
“My dad’s gonna kill me,” Jason says. “He’ll compare me to you again.”
Coach Josh sometimes accuses Jason of slacking off in the pool. His dad is CEO at a healthcare company. I bet he’d work twenty-three hours a day if he could, and he thinks Jason should too. Jason’s a wonderful swimmer—dead fast in the pool—but I’m not sure he likes swimming as much as Levi and I do, and he might be a little burned out.
Levi tells him, “Remind your dad how I messed up last year when my goggles fogged up and I had to swim with my eyes closed.”
They do a guy handshake. “Good idea. Thanks, man.”
“I remember that,” I say to Levi. “I still can’t believe you came in second, even with your eyes closed.”
Levi grunts.
He has no problem talking to another guy but is cool toward me? This has to be about last night.
Awkward. Instead of trying to engage in further conversation, I pretend to pay extra careful attention to the races, so Levi won’t know I’m freaking out inside. Asking him to hook up was so stupid.
In the evening, I win the 200 back final, making sure to keep a measured pace. This means I’m going to regionals for backstroke. One step closer to state.
I do horribly in butterfly and breaststroke, but I come in second place for 200 free, which I was not expecting! Coach comments that my times are getting better and better in free.
Later, Levi swims 100 breaststroke, winning it in fifty-four seconds flat. He seems to forget he was weird with me earlier because he gives me a big bear hug and we celebrate together. I love it when he wins because his smile is so huge, and it’s always directed at me.
But when we head to the locker rooms, I find the blond girl from earlier waiting for him.
“Congratulations!” she says, flinging herself into his arms. He glances at me over her shoulder.
I take a deep breath, avoid his eyes, and go grab a cold shower.
• • •
Well, I’m exhausted.
Exhausted, and weirded out.
When Levi dropped me off after the meet, both of his hands iron-gripped the steering wheel as he said, “Have a good evening.” Normally he says bye and speeds off. But he sat there awkwardly. Have a good evening?
I can’t blame him. I did proposition him to teach me how to fool around. We’ve always been so open and honest with each other, I figured it would be fine. He would say yes or no, and then we would move on. But instead he said, “I’ll think about it” and was silent most of the day. Well, except for telling me to choose the music in his truck.
But even that was hard. I couldn’t pick Taylor Swift, because what if he thought I was trying to get him in a romantic mood? Or what if I chose Nicki Minaj with her sex lyrics and he thought I was trying to seduce him? So we ended up driving in silence, which was even more awkward than if “I Wanna Sex You Up” had come on the radio.
“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow,” he said. We swim on Sunday afternoons because Coach would never make us practice in the morning because of church.
“I’ll see you then,” I told Levi, and he nodded once, clenching that steering wheel. My heart panicked
because he looked everywhere but at me today.
Once I was safely out of the truck, Levi drove off, leaving me standing alone in my driveway.
And here I am. God, why did I proposition him? Did I inhale glue and not know it?
I trudge inside for a snack of peanut butter and an apple. I should start on my homework, but I decide to veg in front of the TV. I’m glad I have something to concentrate on besides how I made an ass of myself in front of my best friend.
It doesn’t distract me for long. The memory of propositioning him keeps popping into my head. I cover my face with a throw pillow and groan into it. What was I thinking?
That’s when I feel my phone buzzing under my butt. I scramble to look at the screen. Levi texted.
Can you come over? Need to show you something.
• • •
I don’t want to seem eager to see him, so I wait a bit before walking down the street to the office to ask Mom for a ride to his house. I spend half an hour fidgeting, trying to avoid imagining Levi in Superman boxer briefs.
Seriously, what is wrong with me?
When I get there, he’s out on the wraparound front porch with Pepper. I fully expect him to say something like, “Hello, Margaret. Welcome to my home,” in a ridiculous butler-esque voice, like have a good evening, so I’m happy to discover he’s excited and acting normal.
“You have to see this,” Levi says, hurrying me toward the lake, shining his flashlight to lead the way. The dog trots beside me on her leash.
A stone wall separates Levi’s land from the small beach abutting Normandy Lake. We’ve always enjoyed sitting on the wall and throwing rocks into the water, with Pepper running back and forth along the bank.
“Over here.” Keeping a firm grip on the dog’s leash, he leads me to a sunken area near the stone wall. Looks like Pepper’s been digging in the sand. I peer down into the hole, finding dozens of leathery beige eggs.
“Those better not be from a snake,” I exclaim.
“I think Martha laid them.”
We laugh. This enormous snapping turtle we call Martha has been terrorizing Normandy Lake for longer than we’ve been alive. More than once, when Martha’s gotten ornery with Pepper, Levi’s had to chase her off with a rake handle.