Superman

Sylvia leads me off campus.

Berkeley is quite hilly. I feel like we’re going up and down, up and down. Plenty of people ride skateboards to get from point A to point B, but I can’t see myself doing that.

San Francisco is just across the bay, but I can’t see it through the fog on the brisk walk to the basketball house. Lit up with lights, music blares from inside, and cars line the street. The front door opens and laughter spills out.

My heart races.

We walk inside, and I gaze around the crowded foyer. It’s about a hundred degrees hotter inside than out. A guy comes rushing up to Sylvia, kisses her check, then pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Hey, babe.” He continues on to a couch, where he squeezes in between two other guys and picks up a video game controller.

“Wow, he was cute,” I say.

She smiles. “They all are.”

I think I’m going to like college.

Sylvia goes to the keg and comes back with two very full cups of beer, balanced carefully in her hands. I take mine and sip. It tastes pretty gross, so I decide to simply hold it. Will Roxy be at this party? I scan the room.

Sylvia introduces me to her friends from the dance team, and then a couple guys wander over to us. Sylvia nudges me with her elbow. She introduces me to one named Dylan, a sophomore who plays for the lacrosse team. He shakes my hand, giving me a friendly smile. I like the way his hand feels warm in mine.

He’s so ridiculously cute it’s not even funny. Cuter than the guy on Roxy’s arm earlier today. Blue eyes, buff body, longish blond hair swept back behind his ears. His hair reminds me of Levi’s. Looking at Dylan, I feel a strong tug in my stomach, starting at my belly button and shooting down.

“Maggie’s coming to school here in the fall,” Sylvia tells him.

“I can’t wait,” he says, his smile becoming a full-fledged grin directed at me. Another guy grasps Dylan’s shoulder, speaking quietly to him. They bump fists and do macho handshakes.

Sylvia catches me staring at Dylan and whispers, “He’s single.”

I raise my eyebrows, and a sly smile forms on her face.

“He’s also very nice,” she says. “And I hear he’s great in bed. Come find me if you decide you want to leave. I need a second round with that football player.” She takes off, leaving me alone by the staircase. Crap. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I’m a wallflower at my first college party.

But when I glance up, I find myself looking into Dylan’s eyes. He’s an inch or so taller than me, and the delicious smell of his cologne pulls me into a trance.

I think about what Sylvia said, that once you get to college, most people don’t have relationships. They hook up. I don’t want to leave for college without some experience.

Besides, lately, I’ve been getting these urges. Sometimes I will see this hot actor who plays a werewolf on TV or some sexy musician dancing, moving his hips, and I get all hot and bothered. Sure, I can touch myself, but it never seems to work right. It feels nice, but I don’t think I’ve had an orgasm, and it seems like I’d know. Anyway, I’m always left wanting. I have those urges, and I don’t know how to satisfy them. I think I need a boy to do it. Georgia agrees.

She says there’s nothing like a guy kissing you everywhere.

And god dammit, I want a guy to kiss me everywhere.

I smile at Dylan.

He smiles back.

And then the worst thing ever happens: my stomach rumbles. Loudly. I’m about to die of embarrassment, but he chuckles.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I touch my stomach. “You have no idea. We didn’t get dinner before Sylvia brought me here.”

“C’mon,” he says, taking my hand and tugging me down the hallway. Feeling his skin against mine makes my heart pound even harder. We arrive in a spacious kitchen, complete with an island and a long table that must seat twenty people. Basketball players take up a lot of space. A guy and girl talk quietly next to a set of doors leading to the backyard. Another couple leans against the dishwasher, making out. A group of guys play beer pong on the table.

Dylan opens the fridge and peers in. “We’ve got the makings for a PB and J.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He pulls jelly out of the fridge and takes a loaf of bread from the bread box.

I sit on a barstool as he works. “I thought this was the basketball house.”

“Other athletes live here too. So do you play basketball?”

“No, I swim.”

He pulls a butter knife from a drawer. “I figured basketball ’cause you’re so tall.”

“It’s a curse.”

“A sexy curse. Some of the sexiest women are tall. Like Gisele. Or Taylor Swift.”

“True. I’m not sure why I said that. I love being tall. It helps me in the pool.”

“See? There you go. It’s a sexy curse.”

I let out a shaky, flustered breath. “Enough talk. Get back to my sandwich already.”

He salutes me with the butter knife, then spreads jelly on one side of the bread and peanut butter on the other.

A super tall African American guy appears in the kitchen and peers over Dylan’s shoulder. “Nice, I’ll have ten.”

“Sorry,” Dylan says. “This is for Maggie over there.”

Bonus points for remembering my name!

I recognize the guy from the basketball game earlier today. He’s the team’s star center, Robert Charles. People were saying he’ll be an early pick in the NBA draft.

Robert eyes my sandwich and asks in a deep voice, “Hungry?”

“Always,” I reply, which makes Dylan chuckle. He’s easy to talk to. He makes a girl food. What’s not to like?

So after I finish my sandwich—I was in dire need of a snack—I take a deep breath and give Dylan the lamest, but most to-the-point line ever. “Want to get out of here?”

He beams, and his hotness increases tenfold.

Abandoning our dirty plates, he leads me out of the kitchen to the stairs. It’s hard to control my breathing. It’s been two years. Two years since I’ve kissed a guy. I walk faster as he tugs me along. I don’t even care that we’re not talking.

He ushers me to a room on the third floor.

I take in the plush couch, comfortable-looking bed covered with a black comforter, and picture windows overlooking the bay.

“This is nice,” I say.

“Yeah, I love this house.”

He flips a switch, and a bright white glow illuminates the room. I squint. Why do we need lights? He knows I want to make out, right? Not read aloud to each other.

“Can we turn off the lights?” I ask.

“But you’re so beautiful. I want to see you.”

Sigh. A romantic. I always hoped my first time would be with a gentleman.

He steps toward me, gently lowering his mouth to mine. The kiss is warm and sweet. The hard planes of his torso press against my softness. My heart slams against my chest.

“This okay?” he whispers.

“Yes.” It’s very, very okay. I love his smell, the solid warmth of his chest, his kissing style. We relax onto the bed. He deepens the kiss, and I let out a little moan. “Mmmm.”

And suddenly, something inside him snaps.

Everything speeds up.

Speeds up in strange way.

His rips off his shirt. “You like that, baby?”

Is he joking? I barely have time to ponder that before his mouth is at my ear and he’s panting hard, like he just sprinted a mile. He gyrates his hips against mine.

Then he starts making weird groaning noises. “Uhhhhh. Uhhhhh.”

Jesus, what’s wrong with this guy? The good news is my muscles are so strong I could probably bench press him right off me.

“Dylan? Um, what are you doing?”

“I’m pleasing you.” He puffs out his chest. “I’ve been told I’m very good at it.”

Oh my god. Pompous much?

His erection presses against me, but it’s not that enjoyable. God, my life just turned into a really bad porno. Or so I would imagine, you know, if I watched pornos. Did Sylvia really say she heard this guy’s great in bed?

“Uhhhh!” he moans.

Okay, that’s enough. I start to do my bench press move when he kisses my neck, and it feels nice. Really nice. I could get used to this. Maybe this is what Sylvia was talking about?

But then it gets strange again when he extends my arms above my head, twining our fingers together. “You want more, baby? Oh yeah, oh yeah! You’re my little sexy ninja.”

Ninja?!

Grind, grind, grind.

I’m pretty sure this won’t give me my first orgasm.

He suddenly pulls away to kneel above me. His fingers go to the button of his khaki pants. He unzips them to reveal Superman underwear. I am not kidding. He’s wearing briefs emblazoned with a big red S.

“This is moving a little fast… Maybe we should go back to kissing,” I say, because this is truly weird.

“You’re right,” he says, breathing hard. “We should take care of your needs first.”

I flip my hair to the side and give him a small smile. “Well, I guess that would be okay if you want to do something for me.”

He leans over and kisses me again. His tongue gently sweeps inside my mouth. Wow, he’s a good kisser. And I do like his long hair; I run my fingers over his head. But what the hell is up with the rest of him?! Maybe I need to give him a chance. I mean, it’s cool he wants to take care me first.

Then he gets onto all fours like a cat and scoots to the middle of the mattress. “Spank me.”

“What?!”

“Spank me.”

“Dylan, um, thanks, but maybe we could save that for another time?” Like, never.

“I get it,” he says, pausing to peck my lips. He pushes me back onto the bedspread, lowering his body to mine. I enjoy his warmth against me, but how can I take this seriously when he’s full-on grinding me in Superman briefs?

“You want the main course, huh?” he says. “You want a thick—”

Thrust.

“Juicy.”

Thrust.

“Steak.”

Thrust.

“Dinner.”

“Oh my god! That’s enough,” I say, and push him and his overactive pelvis off me. “Sorry, I’m not into this.”

“Okay,” he says, disappointed, raising his hands. “I understand.”

I get up to leave, glad he was respectful of my wishes.

That’s when I hear the noise. Someone’s jiggling a key in the door.

Dylan’s eyes grow wide. He leaps to his feet, grabbing his shirt and pants. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

“What? Why?”

“This isn’t my room.”

“This isn’t your room!”

He shrugs. “I like it better than mine.”

Dylan brought me to a room that’s not his.

I dart out of the bedroom, past a confused Robert Charles standing in the hallway with a girl, and flee down the stairs back to the party.

What.

Just.

Happened?

• • •

“Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight,” Levi says. “He took you to a bedroom that wasn’t his?”

Hunter and Georgia die laughing again.

When I got home from California late Sunday night, I sent my friends a 911 text that said I need to discuss an incident!!!!! and they agreed to blow off first period Monday morning to meet for second breakfast at Foothills Diner.

Hunter and Georgia are sitting on the other side of the table from Levi and me, and they’ve been cracking up for five minutes straight. Jerks. I rip apart my English muffin, stuff a bite in my mouth, and chew angrily.

But then I remember how we were laughing like crazy at Hunter last week when he got caught in Shelby’s room with his shirt off, and I start giggling along with them.

Levi wipes tears from his eyes. “It wasn’t his room!”

“He asked if you wanted a thick, juicy steak dinner!” Georgia squeals.

“And you think it was Robert Charles’s room?” Hunter asks. “When he’s in the NBA next year, you can tell people you fooled around in his bed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving a hand.

“Was it any good at least?” Hunter says.

“Before or after he started thrusting against me in Superman underwear?”

Their howls of laughter fill the entire café. Truckers at the counter stare at us. The woman at the cash register shakes her head.

After taking a large bite of his bagel with salmon, Levi changes the subject. “How was the pool?”

“I loved it. The coach wasn’t there, but I had a great swim yesterday before I flew home.”

“Pierson’s one of the best coaches in the country,” Levi says. “He’ll help you shave off time.”

“I wish he could help me before conferences next week,” I joke.

Hunter interrupts our swim gossip, “Wait, wait, wait. Can we get back to why you fooled around with that douche canoe?”

My friends start laughing again and can’t seem to stop. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle for them to stop, causing the bushy-bearded truckers to glare at me again.

“I wouldn’t call it fooling around—we didn’t get that far. But I kissed him because I wanted some…you know, experience before college. I love swimming, I really do, but it’s all I do, you know? Like, how is it I’ve never been to a real party until the other night?”

“You want to swim,” Georgia says. “If you wanted to do something else, you’d do it.”

“But what if I’ve never even thought of doing other things because swimming always comes first? I mean, I haven’t even been to a school dance.”

“I’ll take you to Winter Wonderland, but I’m not sure it’ll impress you,” Hunter says, licking powdered sugar from his donut off his thumb. “Last year as a joke, somebody put Crisco on the gym floor and a bunch of people fell down doing the Chicken Dance. That was the most exciting thing that happened.”

Instead of going to that dance, I passed out at eight o’clock.

That’s my life. When I was younger, I only swam three to four times a week for an hour, but when I turned thirteen, my swim coach, Josh, told me I had what it took to make it big, but if I wanted to do that I had to swim all the time. Lap after lap after lap. Up to ten practices a week. Plus weight lifting. This routine exhausts my body, which means I usually need ten hours of sleep a night. My hard work has paid off—I won a spot at one of the best swimming schools in the country—but it leaves little time for anything else.

“I’m about to graduate,” I tell my little group of friends. “And when I look back on high school, sometimes I worry I won’t remember anything but swimming and eating.”

“Two very worthy endeavors,” Levi says, toasting me with his orange juice.

“Maybe you just need to carve out some time for you before college starts,” Hunter suggests. “Skip a few practices here and there.”

“She can’t skip practice,” Levi says. “We have the state championship in a month. And then the big races start.”

I nod. I love swimming. This is my life. I accepted it a long time ago. But then I picture Roxy flirting with that lacrosse player. She manages to be a champion, but still appears to take time for herself too. I mean, she clearly knew how to flirt with that guy.

Hunter says, “If you want to go to a dance so bad, go to a dance.”

“It’s not that I’m obsessed with going to a dance, guys. I just want a little more life experience.”

Levi throws an arm around my shoulders. “But how many people can say they’ve been to the Olympic Trials? Just a couple more months and we’ll be able to say that.”

“If I qualify, you mean.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “You will.”

“I have an idea,” Georgia announces, slapping her hand on the wobbly café table. “You should make a list of things you want to do before you graduate.”

“Like a bucket list?” Hunter asks. “My grandfather has one of those, but when he read it aloud to my family, Gram just about killed him ’cause it included stuff like, ‘Get a lap dance from a Vegas stripper.’”

“Your grandpa rocks,” Levi says, bumping fists with Hunter.

“Boys. Stop,” Georgia says. “I’m being serious. If Mags thinks she’s missing out on high school, we should come up with stuff for her to try.”

I furrow my eyebrows, and Levi gives me an anxious look. “George, let’s not distract her from the pool.”

“Levi’s right,” I say. “It’s not that I want to do lots of stuff.” I just want to make out.

Ignoring me, Hunter reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen. He fishes a napkin out of the dispenser. “I am scribe of the bucket list.”

“The scribe,” Levi mutters, rolling his eyes.

Hunter ignores Levi and starts writing. Steal a car. Get a tattoo. Swim with sharks. Skinny dip. Develop a gambling addiction. Get a lap dance from a Vegas stripper.

Nothing he writes down appeals to me as much as being in the water.

By the time Hunter’s done with his silly list, which makes him crack up big time, I know three things for sure:

1. My friends cheered me up after my Horrible Hookup from Hell

2. There is no way on earth I’m doing Hunter’s list—swimming is much more important to me

3. After what happened with Dylan, I know there’s one thing I need to do

One thing I should accomplish before college.

The one item on my solo bucket list?

Learn to hook up.