Swim Lessons

In order to decide who gets to swim at regionals in two weeks, eight middle Tennessee high school teams are competing at conferences today.

While I do not expect this to be a super difficult meet, these races set the tone for regionals and the state championship, not to mention my club’s long course season, which starts next month with Junior Nationals. Long course—what’s used in the Olympics—is measured in meters. The pool is a lot bigger too. Today’s short course meet is measured in yards.

As usual, Levi picks me up for the meet. It’s 7:00 a.m., later than our usual 4:30, but he’s still not in a talkative mood yet. “Hi,” he grunts, opening my door for me. I’m grateful he doesn’t say anything else, because I have no interest in rehashing that mortifying discussion from last night.

Once we get to Hendersonville to the meet, we separate to go to our respective locker rooms. After struggling into my super tight racing suit, I take a shower, put my sweats back on, and go do stretches in the warm hallway leading to the pool, listening to classical music on my iPod to get myself in the zone. I glance around to find Levi. He’s talking with a pretty blond swimmer from another school. She moves closer to him, placing a hand on his chest. Are they making plans to meet under the bleachers during down time?

My face flushes when I remember how I propositioned him last night. Shit. What was I thinking? The blond girl’s hair is so sleek. I run a hand over my bushy hair pulled back in a frizzy brown bun.

I pull my legs to my chest and rest my head on my knees, working to keep my mind on the violin music pouring from my earbuds.

Somebody taps my knee. I look up to find Coach Josh. He’s not in charge of my high school team, but he tries never to miss one of our meets because my high school coach, Mrs. Keller, is more of a sponsor than a coach. She just doesn’t have the same level of expertise.

“You’re up,” Coach says, pulling me to my feet. “Go out there and kill it, understand?”

I nod, and get in line with the other seven swimmers I’m competing against in prelims. I adjust the back of my suit through my warm up pants, making sure I don’t have a wedgie.

As I walk out onto the deck, the announcer says my name. “Maggie King! Maggie holds the Tennessee club swim record for 200-meter backstroke after her win at the Summer Sizzler last year.” Waving to the cheering crowd, I spot my parents sitting with Ms. Lucassen, Oma, and Opa.

I shed my sweats and test the cool water on my arms and legs. With my goggles and cap securely in place, I hop down into the middle lane and get ready to push off. When I look up to the deck, Levi is standing right above me. His silver chain with the Make Waves pendant is swinging back and forth.

“Let’s go, Maggie!” he shouts, already clapping. I give him a nervous smile.

The buzzer sounds. I launch off and start my fluid backstroke. One arm after the other, I keep my body as straight as possible. I spot a girl out of the corner of my eye, so I speed up to go faster than her. I do okay in these short courses, but it’s not like swimming in an Olympic-sized pool. The shorter the pool, the easier the swim is for sprinters because there are more opportunities to push off the wall between laps. But I’m no sprinter. I’m better at long distances because I have great endurance between turns. Still, I swim as fast as I can in this small pool.

Like Coach told me, I kill it. After four laps, I touch the wall, finishing the race, and immediately swivel around to check the score. First place! “Eee!” I scream. This means I’ll be in the final later today.

After hugging the other swimmers, I hop out of the pool to hug Coach Josh and Levi, then jump around and wave at my parents.

As soon as my high starts to wear off, Coach pulls me aside to do what he does best. “You have to stop racing, Maggie.”

“But it’s a race.”

“You know what I mean. You can’t go out so fast like that. You know you don’t have early speed. You have to stay steady or you’re gonna waste all your energy. You need to pace yourself.”

I nod as he pats my back. This is always his main critique. It’s the reason I always lose against Roxy: I go too fast at first and wear myself out. I am faster than all of these girls, but only if I keep a measured tempo. I have strong back half speed. When I saw the girl to my right swimming faster than me, I sped up, even though I knew it would wear me out more quickly. I need to learn patience. Focus.

Coach always says, “Sheer talent only gets you so far. You have to hone it.”

Later Levi will swim both 100 and 200 breaststroke, and me 200-yard free, which isn’t my favorite, but I’m pretty good at it. Since we’re still so young, Coach makes us race in all the strokes to see if we might break out and win, but Levi and I are set in the strokes we like. We have some time before those races, so he and I go sit in the stands to cheer on kids from school and New Wave.

Between events, Levi plays Candy Crush on his phone.

I lean closer to see his screen—well, as close as I can. His copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is on the bench between our thighs. “What level are you on now?”

He doesn’t reply as he continues to tap his phone screen.

“Levi?”

“What?” he snaps.

“I asked what level you’re on.”

“You know I’m on two-oh-nine.”

“Who was that girl you were talking to earlier?” Shit. That just popped out. I probably sound desperate. I wait for an answer, but he shrugs and grunts like a caveman.

I should come up with a name for that rude gesture. Shrunts? Grugs? Whatever it is, it’s unlike Levi to blatantly ignore me. He’s usually over his morning grumpies by now.

Jason from our club team comes and sits down on the other side of Levi, and they bump fists. “I fucked up my turn,” Jason complains. “I lost half a second.”

“I saw that, man,” Levi replies. “That’s rough.”

“My dad’s gonna kill me,” Jason says. “He’ll compare me to you again.”

Coach Josh sometimes accuses Jason of slacking off in the pool. His dad is CEO at a healthcare company. I bet he’d work twenty-three hours a day if he could, and he thinks Jason should too. Jason’s a wonderful swimmer—dead fast in the pool—but I’m not sure he likes swimming as much as Levi and I do, and he might be a little burned out.

Levi tells him, “Remind your dad how I messed up last year when my goggles fogged up and I had to swim with my eyes closed.”

They do a guy handshake. “Good idea. Thanks, man.”

“I remember that,” I say to Levi. “I still can’t believe you came in second, even with your eyes closed.”

Levi grunts.

He has no problem talking to another guy but is cool toward me? This has to be about last night.

Awkward. Instead of trying to engage in further conversation, I pretend to pay extra careful attention to the races, so Levi won’t know I’m freaking out inside. Asking him to hook up was so stupid.

In the evening, I win the 200 back final, making sure to keep a measured pace. This means I’m going to regionals for backstroke. One step closer to state.

I do horribly in butterfly and breaststroke, but I come in second place for 200 free, which I was not expecting! Coach comments that my times are getting better and better in free.

Later, Levi swims 100 breaststroke, winning it in fifty-four seconds flat. He seems to forget he was weird with me earlier because he gives me a big bear hug and we celebrate together. I love it when he wins because his smile is so huge, and it’s always directed at me.

But when we head to the locker rooms, I find the blond girl from earlier waiting for him.

“Congratulations!” she says, flinging herself into his arms. He glances at me over her shoulder.

I take a deep breath, avoid his eyes, and go grab a cold shower.

• • •

Well, I’m exhausted.

Exhausted, and weirded out.

When Levi dropped me off after the meet, both of his hands iron-gripped the steering wheel as he said, “Have a good evening.” Normally he says bye and speeds off. But he sat there awkwardly. Have a good evening?

I can’t blame him. I did proposition him to teach me how to fool around. We’ve always been so open and honest with each other, I figured it would be fine. He would say yes or no, and then we would move on. But instead he said, “I’ll think about it” and was silent most of the day. Well, except for telling me to choose the music in his truck.

But even that was hard. I couldn’t pick Taylor Swift, because what if he thought I was trying to get him in a romantic mood? Or what if I chose Nicki Minaj with her sex lyrics and he thought I was trying to seduce him? So we ended up driving in silence, which was even more awkward than if “I Wanna Sex You Up” had come on the radio.

“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow,” he said. We swim on Sunday afternoons because Coach would never make us practice in the morning because of church.

“I’ll see you then,” I told Levi, and he nodded once, clenching that steering wheel. My heart panicked because he looked everywhere but at me today.

Once I was safely out of the truck, Levi drove off, leaving me standing alone in my driveway.

And here I am. God, why did I proposition him? Did I inhale glue and not know it?

I trudge inside for a snack of peanut butter and an apple. I should start on my homework, but I decide to veg in front of the TV. I’m glad I have something to concentrate on besides how I made an ass of myself in front of my best friend.

It doesn’t distract me for long. The memory of propositioning him keeps popping into my head. I cover my face with a throw pillow and groan into it. What was I thinking?

That’s when I feel my phone buzzing under my butt. I scramble to look at the screen. Levi texted.

Can you come over? Need to show you something.

• • •

I don’t want to seem eager to see him, so I wait a bit before walking down the street to the office to ask Mom for a ride to his house. I spend half an hour fidgeting, trying to avoid imagining Levi in Superman boxer briefs.

Seriously, what is wrong with me?

When I get there, he’s out on the wraparound front porch with Pepper. I fully expect him to say something like, “Hello, Margaret. Welcome to my home,” in a ridiculous butler-esque voice, like have a good evening, so I’m happy to discover he’s excited and acting normal.

“You have to see this,” Levi says, hurrying me toward the lake, shining his flashlight to lead the way. The dog trots beside me on her leash.

A stone wall separates Levi’s land from the small beach abutting Normandy Lake. We’ve always enjoyed sitting on the wall and throwing rocks into the water, with Pepper running back and forth along the bank.

“Over here.” Keeping a firm grip on the dog’s leash, he leads me to a sunken area near the stone wall. Looks like Pepper’s been digging in the sand. I peer down into the hole, finding dozens of leathery beige eggs.

“Those better not be from a snake,” I exclaim.

“I think Martha laid them.”

We laugh. This enormous snapping turtle we call Martha has been terrorizing Normandy Lake for longer than we’ve been alive. More than once, when Martha’s gotten ornery with Pepper, Levi’s had to chase her off with a rake handle.

“Turtles bury their eggs in the sand,” Levi explains. “I guess Pepper could smell them and started digging.” He pulls out his phone and shows me a website he’d been looking at. Together we read about snapping turtles.

“When will they hatch?” I ask.

“Not sure. It says about three to four months, so it depends on when she laid them. It’s unusual that she laid eggs this early in the year, but it’s been warmer than normal, and it says a turtle can hold on to sperm for years until she’s ready to have babies.”

“Ew. She went to the turtle sperm bank, huh? Where is Martha?” I ask, looking around the swampy reeds. “Shouldn’t she be watching her eggs?”

Levi shakes his head. “I looked it up. Apparently snapping turtles don’t do anything for their young.”

“Jerks.”

We smile at each other, then he smooths his hair back. He goes quiet, like early-morning Levi.

“I came out here to think,” he says finally. “That’s when Pepper found the eggs.”

“What were you thinking about?”

His eyes find mine. “You. What you asked last night.”

I worry on my lower lip. “And?”

He lets Pepper off her leash, and she immediately begins to streak toward the eggs again. “Pepper, no!” Levi snaps his fingers and points toward the lake.

The dog barks, then darts down the bank, her gray and white hair flopping around like a mop. While she’s distracted, Levi and I scoop sand back on top of the eggs, reburying them. Then we sit down on the stone wall and stare at the black expanse of water, moonlight streaking across its surface. He flicks his flashlight off. Pepper’s barking mixes with the lapping water, punctuating the silence between us.

Finally he says, “You know I hook up with girls at meets.”

My voice is quiet. “Yeah.”

“Sometimes I need to relax. To take the edge off.”

“You’ve mentioned that before.”

“It’s not because I want a girlfriend or anything.”

“Okay…”

“What I’m saying is, I can understand why you are interested in fooling around with somebody.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, I’ve been having these urges—”

“Oh my God,”—he shifts his weight as if uncomfortable—“please don’t tell me about your urges right now. I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

I can’t help but snort, which gets him laughing too. Then he quiets.

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked, and I was going to suggest maybe you talk to a guy from another team when we’re at regionals next weekend,” Levi says. “But then I realized… I don’t want you asking any of those assholes to hook up.”

“You don’t?”

“No. You’re my best friend, and I don’t want anyone to use you.”

I pull my knee to my chest and wrap my arms around it. “So now what? I stay celibate forever?”

“Yup.”

I pinch his bicep.

“Ow. Maggie, I told you I want to help you, but I don’t want things to get weird between us.”

Wind blows through the trees, rustling the branches gently. “So let’s make a pact that things won’t get weird.”

“We can say those words, but what if it happens anyway?”

I get what he means. People can promise a relationship won’t change all they want, but that’s part of life. Things always change, no matter how hard we hold on tight.

“What if we make a pact to stay open with each other?” I ask. “Like, if things are getting weird for you, you tell me how you feel and we’ll talk.”

He nods. “Okay. Um, how far do you want this to go? I mean, you’re a virgin, right? And I’m not—”

“I’m not sure how far we should go,” I say. The temperature of my blood jumps from 98.6 degrees to volcanic lava.

I want this. I want to make out. All of a sudden I have the opportunity, but it’s with my best friend, and oh my god, am I out of my mind for wanting this? I want control. I want to feel safe. Am I overthinking it? I have a nice, cute guy in front of me, and he’s agreed to fool around.

I look up into his eyes, and they’re patient and kind. The same eyes that belong to the guy who splits his bagels with me and opens my car door every morning.

So I just do it. I lean forward and press my mouth to his. Once, twice, three times I peck his lips.

We pull away and look at each other. Then he threads a hand through my hair and edges closer to me, bumping my hip with his.

“Where do I put my hands?” I ask shakily.

He smirks. “Anywhere.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“Hooking up isn’t supposed to be specific. You do whatever feels right.”

I kiss him again. It’s warm, soft, and slow moving; his lips feel like sunshine.

Does he think I’m an okay kisser? Does he think this is weird? Will he stop this before we even get started? My shoulders tense.

He gently squeezes them. “Stop thinking so much.”

I open my mouth. His tongue sweeps out to meet mine. My hands feel his arms, his strong muscles. I slip my hands inside his puffy coat to grasp his back through the cotton of his long-sleeved tee and trace his spine, because it’s a straight line to follow. I’ve touched him thousands of times as we glide past each other in the pool, but when his hands firmly grip my hips, goose bumps break out across my skin. A shiver ripples through my body.

He breaks the kiss, breathing deeply, our lips a heartbeat apart. A lock of hair falls across his forehead as his eyes gaze deeply into mine. His stare makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“Hunter was right,” he says, wrapping his arms more securely around me. “You’re a terrible kisser.”

I playfully slap his chest in response.

Still sitting down on the rock wall, he pulls me to a standing position in front of him. I always dreamed of kissing a guy under the moonlight. I just never pictured Levi as the guy. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I feel plenty fine about his warm kisses though. Speaking of, he slips a hand behind my neck to bring my mouth back to his.

I’m flattered, obviously, that he’s continuing to kiss me. And that he’s out of breath. But what happens when the kissing stops? Even though this was my idea, I don’t want our friendship to be awkward. How can I want two very different things so badly?

“Maggie,” he says quietly, touching his forehead to mine. “You’re clenching up again.”

“I thought guys were easy to please.”

“Oh, I am. It’s just, if you’re doing this with a guy, it’ll make him nervous if you’re nervous. He’ll worry you aren’t into him. Relax with me.”

And it shocks the bejesus out of me when he grabs my waist and pulls my hips to his, and I discover the hardness of his body. I guess he is easy to please.

We’ve been kissing maybe two minutes at the most—not nearly long enough—when he suddenly pulls back. Again, he won’t look directly at me as he works to catch his breath.

“C’mon,” he says, standing up to his full six foot five. He towers above me.

“Why’d we stop?” I whine. “I was getting into it.”

He kisses my forehead. “Magpie, you don’t need lessons. You know what you’re doing just fine.”

“But I don’t know nearly enough. How do I know when it’s okay to make a move on a guy?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know when to take off his shirt?”

“Yes.”

He thinks it’s so simple? Time to pull out the big guns. “If I’m giving him a hand job, how hard do I squeeze?”

“Yes.” Levi whistles for Pepper to join us. “Let’s see if we can find Martha.”

He doesn’t say explicitly that my lessons are over, but it sure feels that way.