Learning to Swim(8)

I took a deep breath as I approached Tippecanoe. Even though the parking lot was crowded, I was able to do a quick scan and surmise that Barbie's car wasn't there. The adrenaline surged through my veins and my heart stopped pounding as my indignation grew. I'd begun to march through the parking lot when Snap! the toe thingy popped out of my flip-flop.

Unfortunately, these were no ordinary flip-flops. They were my pride and joy: gold gem-studded Michael Kors sandals; shoes that I had saved for a gazillion months to buy. But even a tragedy as significant as a broken shoe (one that was only a month old, thank you very much) could not deter me from my mission. So, like a true soldier, I tucked my flip-flop under my arm, walked around the enormous stone fountain with the water-spouting statue of Adonis, and stalked through Tippecanoe's heavy oak doors.

It was Tuesday night and the place was unusually packed. As I stood in the entranceway wearing my Save the Bay T-shirt, oversize green shorts (I like my clothes big and comfortable), and only one flip-flop, I was suddenly aware of how much I didn't belong there. Without my polyester suit of invisibility, my true identity was exposed. I made my way through the bevy of polo-shirted men and pearl-clad sundress-wearing women and into the bar, where I found Warthog chatting up a waitress. He didn't look happy to see me, and I had a sneaking suspicion I knew why. For one, I had the feeling that he didn't like us maids hanging around the clubhouse unless we were on the clock and in uniform. For two, no one was allowed in without shoes.

“Is my mom here?” I asked.

“She's not on the schedule tonight,” he said.

“Didn't you call her in to work?”

He shook his head.

“No one is sick?”

“Nope,” he said.

He was wrong about no one being sick. Because I was suddenly pretty certain that I was going to woof on club property for the second time in less than forty-eight hours. I spun around on my one good heel and made a beeline toward the bathroom, running smack into an innocent bystander off-duty lifeguard of my dreams, Keith McKnight.

“Whoa!” he said, catching me and holding me up. He was obviously dressed for dinner, as was apparent by his bright green polo shirt. Mr. McKnight was a highly respected member of Tippecanoe, and therefore Keith usually had evening meals there with the rest of the Jones Island upper crust. I had learned this thirty-eight days before, when I was wiping up a vodka-tonic spill caused by some vapid gossiping socialites who included Mora Cooper's mother.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

My nausea miraculously evaporated when I looked into his dark brown eyes. “I'm fine. I just broke my shoe. The thingy popped out and I can't get it back in.”

“Let's see,” he said, plucking the shoe out of my grasp with his large hands.

Perhaps he was going for another merit badge.

As I watched him attempt to fix my flip-flop and he bit on his lower lip (so hot!), I racked my brain trying to think of something to say. And then it came to me.

“Keith, I'd really like to learn how to swim.”

“Great,” he said, snapping the strap back into place. “All better.” Then he gave me a soft, warm, chin-dimple-expanding smile that made me forget all about the reason why I was there.

I slipped the shoe back on. “Thanks.”

“Keith?” said a shrill voice behind me.

I turned around and found myself staring down Mora Cooper. Honestly, Mora and I couldn't have looked less alike. She was somehow skinny and curvy at the same time, and she had this flawless skin that practically made its own moisturizer. She also had these fabulous hazel eyes and this cute blond bob that flipped up at the ends. I, on the other hand, was a pear girl: much smaller on top than I was on the bottom. I liked that my hair was long, but it was this very one-dimensional color that could be best described as medium brown blah. My eyes? Nothing special. Just blue. My eyelashes? They were quite full, but hey, who was going to notice them when one could stare into the angelic plasticness that was Mora's face?

“Our table is ready,” she said, flashing him an enchanting, yet slightly crooked, smile.

“Mora,” he said. “You know Steffie, right?”

“Um… no,” she said, as if she'd just noticed I was standing there.

Mora was not entirely correct. She might not have known me-known me, but she should've at least recognized me. We'd been in the same chemistry class and had even been assigned as partners until Mora had made it clear that she would rather bath in a vat of acid than use a Bunsen burner with me.

“Oh… wait.” Mora's hazel eyes widened with recognition. “Of course. You're the maid who almost drowned yesterday. I didn't recognize you without your uniform and your… whatever it was you were holding on to.”

“A plunger,” I said.

She wrinkled her nose as if the mere memory was unpleasant. “Speaking of which,” she said, “you might want to check out the ladies’ room. There's a bit of a mess in the first stall.”

“Mora,” Keith said, reprimanding her. “Who are you? The manager?”

She smirked and then shrugged. “It is her job, isn't it?”

He shook his head as if annoyed. Interesting. Keith turned back toward me and right in front of Mora he said, “All right, Stef. Stop by and see me tomorrow. We'll set up a time.”