Learning to Swim(3)

My mother grabbed me and pressed my face into her humongo boobs. (They were a gift from boyfriend number seven. Before that, she hadn't been much bigger than me, a fact that I did not find encouraging.)

“You could've died.” She twisted around and gave Keith an angry look, as if it was his fault that (a) I had been accidentally bumped into the pool and (b) she hadn't been there to capitalize on the significant audience when it happened. But then she turned back to me, and suddenly her eyes were welling up with more tears. She was really, truly upset by this, and given her many neuroses, I could understand why. Still, I had to make an exit—and quick—before she broke out the ugly cry.

I stood up. “I better get back to work,” I mumbled, heading toward the door. Believe it or not, although my undies were still soaking wet, my outfit was almost dry. Viva la polyester.

“We're going to get you home,” Barbie said, composing herself. “You're going to take the rest of the day off. Put on some comfy clothes, curl up on the couch, and watch TV.” Barbie turned back toward Keith. She shrugged and said, “She just loves America's Funniest Home Videos. Whenever she's upset or depressed, she watches that show. She just loves it when guys get hit in the crotch.”

At which point I picked up my pace, anxious to get away from Keith before Barbie could say the word “crotch” again or reveal any more of my secrets, like how old I was when I got my period. Needless to say, my mom definitely had boundary issues, and countless other issues, at that.

Thankfully, Alice had only one issue so far. She wasn't there to rescue me from all the humiliation.

Later that night, while my mom was back at work, I decided to do just what she'd suggested—curl up on the couch in my sweats and watch TV. There were times when I wished I could be like those girls who found solace in a beloved copy of a classic book, but the truth of the matter was that I liked my TV, especially videos of people falling at weddings and cats with their heads stuck in pails. In my defense, it wasn't like Jones Island was a mecca for culture. The island was a craggy piece of land about three miles long and two miles wide. Besides the country club, two overpriced convenience stores, a gas station, a coffee shop, and a lousy restaurant, there really wasn't much to do. In any case, I was in the middle of watching a kid get hit in the head with a softball when the doorbell rang. I straightened my sweats, ran my fingers through my hair, and answered it.

Gulp.

Keith McKnight was standing in front of me. Keith McKnight!

“Hi,” he said, flashing me his famous grin.

“Hi,” I croaked. Thankfully, I had had the common sense to turn off the TV before I answered the door.

“Alice told me where you lived. I just wanted to stop by to see how you were feeling. I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I'm fine, thanks.” I immediately reinstated Alice to flawless status.

A lock of thick brown hair fell over his eye and he swiped it back. He was wearing a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms, and an old, faded pair of jeans. He was the definition of picturesque.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, glancing around nervously. Suddenly I became very aware of my surroundings. Before the bridge was built attaching Jones Island to the rest of the Eastern shore, it was just a bunch of run-down dumpy cottages built by the fishermen who lived there. Although most of the original cottages had since been torn down and replaced with perfectly landscaped McMansions, a few holdouts remained. Alice lived in one of them, and Barbie and I rented a second-floor furnished apartment in another. (Barbie was no Suze Orman, hence she'd hatched the brilliant “Let's work at the country club together” plan.)

Keith walked into the living/dining/TV room and I caught a glimpse of the Lexus he had parked outside our building. I didn't need this piece of evidence to remind me that Keith was, like, seventh-generation dripping-in-diamonds kind of wealthy. Everyone at Tippecanoe gossiped about how much life insurance money he and his dad got when his mother died. And now Keith was staring at our nasty ghetto-fied sofa, probably wondering if it was safe to park his rear end on it.

“Would you like to sit down?” I asked.

“No thanks,” he said. “I can't stay.” He hesitated a beat and then said, “I just wanted to ask if you would like to learn how to swim.”

Everything stopped. It was so quiet I could hear my heart thumping against my chest.

“As a former Boy Scout, I'm qualified to teach you.” He deepened his voice as if to counter the squeaky-clean Boy Scout image. “There'd be no charge or anything.”

This had to be a dream. There was no way Keith McKnight, the hottest guy in a million-mile radius, would be standing in my living/dining/TV room offering to teach me to swim. Alice was never going to believe this one.

“So,” he said, with a hint of a smile. “What do you think?”

Think? I think YES! Yes, I would love you to teach me how to swim. I would love to spend time with you, I would love to do anything at all with you!

I envisioned us in the moonlight, standing in waist-deep water. My hair would be perfectly slicked back, and I would suddenly have breasts and a really great BCBG bikini. His strong arms would be wrapped around me, holding me so close our chests would be pressed together. I would stare into his eyes and he would lean down toward me, pressing his lips against mine.