Learning to Swim(10)

I searched for the right words as I listened to more of Alice's loud chewing. “I just stopped dead in my tracks.”

“What happened?” Alice couldn't hold back a heavy sigh.

I finally looked up from my pudding. “Keith smiled at me.”

Alice paused for a moment as if waiting for the clincher. “And?” she said finally.

“And that's it.”

“You didn't set up a time for swimming lessons because he smiled at you?”

Truth be told, it was more than just a smile. It was a happy smile, like an “I'm so glad to see you” smile. And that threw me for a loop. Because then it wasn't just about swimming anymore. It was about him and me. Or me wanting to be with him. In fact, wanting it so bad, I felt my breath catch in my throat, and for one whole second my white plastic shoes melted into the pavement and I couldn't move. And then Keith got down from his chair and headed in my direction. So I did the only not-so-logical thing I could think of. I got out of there. Fast.

“Oh, Steffie,” Alice said sadly. But she wasn't half as sad as I was. I had acted like a looney. And why? Because I obviously had some sort of chemical imbalance.

Right as I was about to spoon the entire contents of my pudding cup into my mouth, Warthog came bursting into the employee lounge and informed the staff that there was an “emergency” in the men's pool bathroom and someone needed to take care of it. Unsurprisingly, not one person volunteered.

And then I heard Alice say, “Steffie will do it.”

I immediately kicked her foot. I knew exactly what she was up to.

“Great,” Warthog said in relief, and then handed me a trusty plunger.

I gave Alice an evil eye as I stood up. Then I walked out of the room, plotting to spike my best friend's Mountain Dew with a huge dose of Metamucil. After all, she was sixty-something and desperately needed the fiber.

I made my way outside and down to the pool. Fortunately, it had rained that morning so the pool was pretty empty. The only lifeguard I recognized was the skinny brown-haired one who was attempting to prove his masculinity and hipness by sporting a soul patch.

I knocked on the men's bathroom door and said, “Anyone in here?”

The door opened and Keith poked his perfectly shaped head out. “Hey,” he said, as if he'd been expecting me.

“Hey,” I said, as my heart catapulted into my throat. “I heard there was a mess.” And then I held up my plunger as if to prove my point and reassure him that I wasn't a psycho stalker or merely someone who had adored him for exactly forty-four days and watched him through binoculars on a regular basis.

He held open the door for me gallantly and allowed me to enter. We walked inside the smelly men's room, and I followed Keith to the middle stall. In my quick, expert assessment I could tell the problem was confined to the toilet itself (thank God).

Keith took the plunger out of my hands and began plunging the toilet for me. How nice was that? I could see his triceps flexing with each plunge. How sexy was that? I couldn't stop my knees from nervously knocking together. How pathetic was that?

“So,” he said. “When do you want to begin your swimming lessons?”

“Um, I don't know,” I heard myself mumble.

He plunged the toilet a couple more times and then flushed it. “You haven't changed your mind, have you?” he asked, handing me back the plunger and plucking me out of my trance. His hand accidentally touched mine and I honest to God quivered.

“No,” I managed to blurt out.

He smiled again. It was that same lopsided smile he had given me earlier that day.

“How about tonight after the pool closes,” he said. “Nine o'clock?”

“Are you sure we won't get in trouble?” I asked, hoping Keith didn't get the double meaning.

“I wouldn't worry about it,” Keith replied. He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at me. “I've snuck into the pool plenty of times.”

I wanted to say, “That's pretty dangerous for a Boy Scout,” and wink at him.

But what I actually did say was “Okay,” and then darted out of the bathroom.

As I walked back to the clubhouse, I tried to ignore the sense of doom that had settled in my chest. Most girls would've been ecstatic to be in my position. Unfortunately for me, I was paying attention to this stupid thing called a conscience. And as much as I had wanted to take swimming lessons without my mother's permission, a little voice in my head was saying: Just because Barbie is being deceitful doesn't mean you have to be that way too… Two wrongs don't make a right… You're not responsible for Barbie's behavior but you are responsible for your own… blah, blah, blah.

Therefore, for the sake of my sanity, I had no choice but to come clean. I was going to inform Barbie of my intention to take swim lessons, and hope for the best. But that evening, the minute I walked in the door from work, Barbie greeted me with open arms, which was weird, because we Rogerses had never been keen on PDA. Still, there Barbie was, all dressed up with arms outstretched.

“Guess what?” she said, giving me a big squeeze. “My friend just called and said they had an extra ticket to the Washington symphony and wanted me to come along. Isn't that sweet?”

Apparently this mysterious friend didn't have a gender. He had become the proverbial “they” because my mother felt too guilty to lie outright and say “she” when it was really a very married “he.”