The next morning I’m sluggish as my legs pump the pedals of my bike. Sharing a twin bed with Hattie has turned into a regular occurrence. She’s stopped even bothering to try sleeping in her full-size bed with Tyler. He gets too sweaty, she says, and your room is the first one off the AC vent. It’s true that my room is cooler than my dad’s and Hattie’s, but I keep thinking that’s not the only reason she’s taken up residence in my room.
Having Tyler in our house feels like a stranger’s begun occupying the room next to mine. The thought of him living in our house and eating our food—all free of charge—grates on me more and more every day. I know Dad feels it, too. He’s just too nice to say so.
And truthfully, my head was too full of questions last night for me to ever shut down and fall asleep. The only conclusion I came to was that Freddie and I must do everything we can to stay friends. And friends don’t make a big deal of holding hands—or pinkies?—during movies.
As I fly down the hill to Freddie’s, I kick my legs out and let the pedals spin on their own. The drive home last night was only slightly awkward, and I totally chickened out and asked Freddie to drop me off before Ruth.
When I drop my bike in Freddie’s driveway, Agnes is sitting on the porch, drinking her morning coffee. “Brought your swimsuit?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The front door swings open as Freddie comes walking out with his gym bag hanging from his shoulder.
“All right, kiddies,” says Agnes. “Let’s motor.”
“Shotgun,” I call, trying my best to act normal.
Freddie walks himself to the backseat.
“Not gonna fight me for it?” I ask.
“I think that’d be a losing battle.” He half smiles, but his voice is flat.
A little twinge of disappointment settles in my belly.
We drive with the windows down as Agnes listens to her talk radio show.
At the YMCA, the only car in the parking lot belongs to Carter, the old man who works the front desk in the mornings.
The three of us drop our bags in the locker rooms and change into our suits before heading out to the pool. Agnes takes her usual end lane and Freddie beside her and me beside him. We all dive in and begin to swim our laps, each hitting our rhythm.
I love the way my body reacts to water. I know that I’ll pay for pushing myself as hard as I am this morning, but in this moment I can’t feel my muscles burn. I am weightless, and my brain is on autopilot as my body does exactly what it is supposed to do. I can hardly remember that I’m exhausted and frustrated and confused. I barely let myself blink, though, because every time I do, I see Freddie’s freckles.
I swim back and forth and back and forth. The only thing that stops me is Freddie as I’m about to do a flip-turn to make another lap.
“It’s gettin’ late,” he shouts, his voice muffled as I shake the water out of my ears. “We better hit the showers.”
I nod into my heaving chest. “Right.”
Freddie pulls himself out of the pool and then turns to offer me a hand, but I pull myself up. It takes me a minute to find my balance after swimming so furiously for almost an hour, and he timidly steadies me by my elbow.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
The woman in the black Speedo, who is always coming as we’re going, sits on the bleachers, stretching her arms over her head. “You didn’t look like a mess out there,” she says.
Freddie turns to me, a question in his expression, but I motion for him to go ahead without me and he obliges.
After weeks of unsolicited comments, the woman finally extends a hand to me and says, “Prudence Whitmire.”
I shake her hand. “Ramona.”
“You ever swim on a team?”
“No, ma’am.”
She nods. “Figured as much.”
A dead quiet sinks between us as I realize that’s all she was going to say. “Well, it was nice to meet you.” My voice is too perky, but it’s the best I can do to hide my disappointment at her criticizing my swimming skills.
But she hasn’t dismissed me yet. She stands and walks the two steps down the bleachers to me. Standing on level ground, I can see that she’s quite petite and barely even comes as high as my chest. “Listen,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re some kind of prodigy or anything, but I just retired as head swim coach over at Delgado Community College in Slidell. If you ever decide you want to swim for more than fun, and maybe learn a thing or two while you’re at it, maybe I could help you get a foot in the door there.” She shrugs and walks off toward the diving blocks.
“Thanks?” But she doesn’t hear me over the music from the early-morning water aerobics class.
As I walk to the locker room, I file her offer away in my permanent memory bank. It’s a nice gesture that unfortunately doesn’t mean much to me. I can’t imagine there’s much scholarship money for community college swim teams. Still, there’s a little hiccup in my rib cage from being flattered, even if it was in the most bizarre way.
Steam billows out from the stall where Agnes is already showering.
Thankful for the privacy, I strip out of my swimsuit and hang the towel from my bag on the hook outside my shower stall.
The water heats up quickly and opens my chest, forcing me to breathe clearly. I use the shampoo and conditioner in the dispensers, even though I know Hattie would kill me for not using the color-safe stuff she buys at the beauty shop.
The faucet in Agnes’s stall stops, and a few minutes later she says, “I’ll be waiting in the car, dear.”
After she leaves, I rinse the conditioner from my hair. I turn off the water and dry off for a moment before wrapping my towel around my chest. I get as far as putting on my underwear when I hear a loud crack and then the power goes out. It’s not until this moment that I realize that I am in a windowless interior room. I hold my hand up in front of my face but see nothing. Total darkness. Panic bubbles up from my chest and into my throat. I reach out frantically and find the lockers to my left.
“Ramona?” a voice calls.
It’s Freddie. In the women’s locker room.
“I’m in here,” I say. “But I can’t see anything.”
“Carter’s looking for flashlights out front, but he’s not having much luck.”
“Okay, so what does that mean for me?”
“I guess they were working on some lines and a generator blew.”
I turn to grab my T-shirt, but instead trip over the corner of a bench.
“Are you okay?” calls Freddie.
“Just kind of disoriented.”
“Do you want me to come in? I can try to use my cell phone for light.”
I pull my towel tighter around my chest. “Um, yeah. Go ahead.”
“Marco?” His voice is playful, and it eases my anxiety. Logically, I know that there’s no one in this locker room except for Freddie and me. But the dark makes me feel claustrophobic.
“Polo,” I answer. We would play Marco Polo on the beach with Hattie all the time when we were kids. Freddie always wanted to play on dry land, and Hattie and I would sneak off into the ocean, because we knew he’d never try to find us there.
“Marco?”
“Polo.”
We go back and forth a few times as he follows my voice to the far corner of the expansive room. And then I see the light from his phone as he rounds the corner.
“Here,” I say. “I’m right here.”
He lifts his phone so that it’s shining on me.
I squint and block my eyes with my hand.
“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.” His words are clipped, and I don’t have to see him to know he’s blushing.
“I couldn’t see,” I tell him.
He holds his phone out to me. “Here. Take this. I’ll turn around and wait for you down there.”
“Thanks.”
Quickly, I tug my jeans up my still damp legs and put my bra and T-shirt on. After shoving my wet swimsuit into my duffel, I turn to see Freddie still standing with his back to me a few lockers down. His shoulders rise up and down evenly, like he’s taking meditative breaths.
It makes me want to comfort him. To give him the same calm he gives me.
I step forward lightly and put his phone down on the bench with the light still shining upward and gently trace the line of his shoulder with the tips of my fingers. Because just like out in Agnes’s backyard and in Adam’s movie room, the world is dark and it’s hard to remember that we exist outside of this moment.
He goes still.
“Ramona.” There’s no question in his voice.
He turns to me and my fingers rake across his shoulder blade around to the broad expanse of his chest.
When I was in fifth grade, Rebekah Paulson sat in front of me. She had waist-length jet-black hair that moved like a beaded curtain concealing her face. I would have to sit on my hands just to stop myself from my running my fingers through her hair.
And that’s how I feel now, here with Freddie. I’ve never wanted to touch a boy in the way I want to touch him. It makes me feel uncomfortable, but I’m starting to think that maybe the gist of life is learning how to be comfortable with being uncomfortable.
“Ramona.” He says my name again, but this time it sounds like a plea. “I want to kiss you.”
I bite down hard on my lip. “I want that, too.”
If our first kiss was a polite introduction, this one is a shouting match.
With his head tilted upward and one hand cupped behind my neck, he uses his free hand to pull me flush against him. Our feet twist together until I’m pressed against the lockers with a handle digging into my back, but I don’t care.
My hands run across his upper body and over the top of his scalp, begging my fingerprints to leave their mark and to memorize every bit of him.
Kissing him is different, yes. But it’s not. Kissing Freddie doesn’t feel different because he’s a boy, it feels different because he’s Freddie. Kissing him varies in the same way that kissing Grace was different from kissing CarrieAnn or any other girl.
Freddie presses his hips tighter against mine, and then I feel the real difference. I gasp.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. He pulls himself back and almost falls over the bench behind him, but I catch him by his arm.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” I say without hesitation. “I wanted it on Thanksgiving, too.”
He inhales and exhales deeply as if to get his own body back under control.
“We better get going,” I tell him, because if we don’t, I feel like my clothes might not stay on much longer. Adrenaline pumps through my body, and I either have to move or touch him.
Freddie nods quickly, his eyes still wide. He takes my bag from where it sits on the bench and holds a hand out for me. Barefoot, I follow him as he uses his cell phone to guide us back out to the hallway.
The corridor is lit only with faint natural light, making it easier on our eyes as we emerge from the dark locker room.
We hold hands for a moment longer until we reach the end of the empty, partially lit hallway.
In the car, Agnes is shaking her head. “Bet you got a little scare in there, huh?”
I settle into the front seat. “So dark I couldn’t see my own hand in front of me.”
She glances up at her rearview mirror. “Well, Freddie, what’d you think of your first venture into a women’s locker room?”
“Enlightening,” he says. “Very enlightening.”