Learning to Swim(13)

“Why don't you come back on Friday,” he said. “Same time.”

Then he took a piece of my hair and brushed it out of my eyes. I was almost sure it was something a boyfriend would do.

But when Keith leapt out of the pool, dripping wet and still full of energy, I remembered there was someone in his life who would definitely know for sure.

That was why I raced to the ladies’ locker room and threw up my dinner.





5


Up until then, my love life could have been summed up in one word: nada.

As in nothing. As in no action at all. Except for the time I went to second base. But I didn't really count that because:

It wasn't like I was really dating the guy—I just met him at a party and he asked if I wanted to make out and I said yes.



The makeout session lasted about one minute and consisted of him sticking his tongue in my mouth and swirling it around like a sonic toothbrush while giving my boob a quick honk (which caused me to laugh so hard that he got all insulted and left).



The next day when I saw him in school, he didn't even acknowledge me.





I'd never experienced a tender moment when someone cared enough about me to brush the hair out of my eyes. Not that Keith brushing the hair out of my eyes actually meant anything.

“Alice, when I get married, will you be my maid of honor?”

It was late Friday afternoon and she and I were cleaning the tile grout in one of the ballroom lavatories. She put down her Tilex. “Steffie. He brushed your hair back. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

“This has nothing to do with Keith,” I said, throwing my scrub brush back into Alice's bucket and dashing out to the ballroom. I mean really. What had inspired Alice to bring up Keith? Especially considering the fact that, since I had arrived at work, I had done everything but talk about Keith. (I had already called Alice when I got home from my swimming lesson and described everything in detail.)

In fact, I had purposely kept the conversation light and non-Keith related. So far, we had talked about whether or not love at first sight existed (Alice didn't think so but I knew otherwise), whether it was better to marry a rich man or a poor man (no-brainer), and whether it was better to have a big wedding or small (Alice had small but I voted big). So I really didn't know what in the world Alice was talking about.

She followed me out onto the freshly waxed dance floor and stood behind me as I gazed into the wall of mirrors. Suddenly, there were twenty polyester pear girls and twenty tiny black-haired old ladies.

“I was just curious,” I said, obviously annoyed.

Twenty Alices raised their eyebrows.

“Just curious,” I repeated.

“Okay, then,” she said finally. “I would be delighted to be your maid of honor.”

“Traditional cake or nontraditional?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer to that. Barbie and I had discussed wedding cakes in detail (we always discussed wedding stuff when Barbie was in Barbie bliss), and we agreed that weddings and anything associated with them should be traditional. Otherwise, why bother? I always thought that it was sad that Barbie never got a wedding of her own, though. I was sure she and my dad would have gotten hitched if he hadn't been already married!

Alice sat down on one of the regal-looking ballroom chairs. “I'll have to think about that one.”

“All weddings should have white cake.” I emphasized this statement by twirling in front of the mirrors.

Alice just put her hands over her face in defeat.

A half hour later, we moved on to the dining room. The staff was prepping for the dinner rush, so the place had been closed off to Tippecanoe members a few minutes before we arrived on the scene. All the tables were empty—except for one. That was the table where Mora's mother was holding court with all her obnoxiously dressed we're-just-as-good-as-the-Hiltons (yeah right!) friends.

Since Warthog had this dumb rule about us maids not talking in the dining room while club patrons were there, I was determined to wipe the baseboards as quickly as possible so that Alice and I could continue our fascinating bridal discussion.

She and I split up, each taking a side of the room. I was speeding along, almost to the halfway point, when I heard Mrs. Cooper's friend in the big-brimmed yellow sun hat say, “How's Mora? Is she still dating Ed's son?” (Ed was short for Edward McKnight, Keith's dad.)

My hand froze in midair—damp dirty cloth and all.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Cooper said while playing with her peach-colored Yves Saint Laurent neck scarf. (Mora was truly the spitting image of her mom.) “I have the feeling that in five years I might be planning a wedding.”

Obviously Alice was aware of my distress and frozen hand, because she came over and whispered, “Why don't you start doing the club room? I'll finish in here.”

But I couldn't move. My eyes were still fixed on Mora's mother as she gazed at her perfectly manicured nails.

“Five years? Mora will just be out of college,” the sun-hat friend said. “Isn't that a little young to be getting married?”

“So?” Mora's mom replied. “Rick and I were college sweethearts. And Keith is a wonderful, responsible boy.”

Even though Alice was tugging on my frozen hand and I knew I should leave ASAP, I still couldn't move.