by Maya Gold
On Saturday night, I stand in front of my bedroom mirror in the bikini, frowning at my reflection. Here’s the deal: tall, thin, and fair-skinned is not going to change. What’s the difference between regal, slender, and elegant (think Nicole Kidman or Taylor Swift) and gawky, skinny, and pale (Abby Silva)? Is it posture, self-confidence, star power? Whatever it is, I’ve got till tomorrow at five to channel my version, or I’m going to be too self-conscious to live.
Rem meets me in front of Spiral Visions, and I see that he’s carrying a canvas tote bag and two towels.
“Do you need to change?” he asks, his eyes roaming over my neckline for telltale bikini straps. I wish I could stop myself from blushing again.
“Doesn’t the park beach have dressing rooms?” I ask.
“They’re not open till June twenty-first. Anyway, we’re not swimming there. There’s no lifeguard on duty, and I thought you would want to go someplace more private.”
I swallow. So I can make a fool of myself in front of just you?
Well, I suppose it is better than every dog-walker, Frisbee-tosser, and kid on the swings saying, “What? You can’t swim?”
I can’t wait until this is over.
The first thing I notice when we park next to Rem’s secret cove is the willows. They are the same ones from his painting, their yellow-green fronds dangling into a creek. Willowy, there’s the word I was looking for. I’m not tall and gawky, I’m willowy.
Right.
Rem leads me down a short, packed-dirt trail to the spot where the creek meets salt water. The sand looks like hard-packed brown sugar. There’s a flat rock that’s perfect for sunning or picnicking — all the sane things a person can do near the water. But we’re actually going in.
Rem sets down the tote bag and towels, kicks off his shoes, and wades right into the mouth of the creek, which, I’m relieved to see, only comes up to his ankles. He smiles, wiggling his toes.
“Getting warmer,” he says. “Not bad for Memorial Day.”
He comes back out and shucks off his T-shirt and cargo shorts, tossing them on the flat rock. He looks great in his swim trunks, as I knew he would. The tan wedge of his chest tapers into a lean belly, just washboard enough to turn my cheeks warm. The glow of late-afternoon sun makes his skin look like butterscotch.
My turn. I step out of my sandals, take a deep breath, and pull my dress over my head, exposing my sky blue bikini and pale, skinny — make that willowy — torso. Rem doesn’t look disappointed, which is awfully nice of him. Without taking his eyes off mine, he walks backward into the creek, and holds out his hand.
I can do this, I tell myself. If I can move traffic cones, make candles relight, and mix up a love potion that works, I can stand up with my feet in the water. Especially if I get to hold hands with Rem.
I walk to the edge of the creek. He smiles at me, taking my hand, and I dip one foot into the water. It’s so cold I practically shout.
“This is warmer?” I stutter. “Warmer than what, Glacier Bay?”
“You get used to it.” Rem’s smile is encouraging. He squeezes my hand, taking a step backward into the water. Then he reaches for my other hand. I follow him, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. Soon we’re facing each other in ankle-deep water.
“That’s not so bad, is it?” he asks with a twinkle.
It’s actually not bad at all, except for my feet feeling practically numb. And how much I wish Rem would lean forward and kiss me.
“Aren’t your feet freezing?” I ask him.
“I’m used to cold water. I go kayaking all year long,” he says with a shrug. “You’re just cold because you’re not moving. Stay right there.” He splashes back out to the rock. There, he takes an old portable CD player out of his tote bag, and presses the Play button.
I have to admit the last thing I expected to hear blasting into a secluded cove on the far end of Salem was “Teach Me How to Dougie.” Rem busts a dance move and I burst out laughing.
“Don’t you like to Dougie?” He grins. “I burned you a mix.”
“Of course. But it’s, I don’t know, it’s so goofy to —”
“Don’t think about it. Just warm yourself up.” He steps back into the creek and starts dancing for real, with great style and silliness. Laughing, I join him.
Rem is an energetic, playful dancer. Splashing and kicking, we both let loose, working our way backward into the shallow cove. When the song ends, I’m shocked to discover I’m hip-deep in salt water and not even scared.
“Having fun?” Rem asks, and I nod eagerly. Then the next song begins. It’s a ballad, just right for a slow dance, and I feel my breath catch. The sun hovers over Rem’s shoulder, illuminating his thatch of dark hair and catching me full in the face. I can feel myself squinting against the bright light, but before I can turn, Rem raises one hand toward my cheekbone.
“I can see it,” he murmurs. “The fire in your eyes.”
I hold my breath.
He brushes his fingertips over my skin.
“That ought to chase off the chills,” he says, and I realize that he’s right, that a glow like warm honey is spreading all through my veins. Is it Rem’s touch that released it, or something inside me? Our faces are inches apart, and he’s gazing right into my eyes. My lips part. If this were a movie, the sound track would swell for our first kiss.
But that’s not what happens at all. Rem’s eyes flood with sadness, and he takes a sudden step backward. He slowly, reluctantly drops his hands. Is it my newfound confidence that makes me think he doesn’t actually want to let go of me?
“We better head home,” he says.
“Now?” I blurt out before I can cover my deep disappointment. “But what about my swimming lesson?”
Rem smiles. “That was your first lesson.”
All the way home, I keep going over those moments in the water. Rem running hot and cold is nothing new: He’s been like that as long as I’ve known him. Sometimes he seems to be coming on strong, as attracted to me as I am to him. And then there are times when I feel him pull back, as if something inside him is telling him he shouldn’t let himself do this. The question is why.
There’s a lot about Rem that’s mysterious. Does he live by himself on that tugboat? Where is his family? And why do I sometimes feel as if I can hear his voice inside my head, and other times feel I don’t know him at all?
One thing I do know for sure: Rem is a mystery I want to solve. Especially after I find out that he’s tucked the sketch I liked inside my purse — he must have put it there while I was pulling my dress back on over my swimsuit after our lesson.
When I get home, I hang the painting up next to my bedroom mirror. He gave me a present. A present he made with his own hands. That’s got to mean something, right?
Later that night, instead of my usual shower, I light candles all over the bathroom, pour a capful of perfumed soap under the tap, and lower myself into a hot bath in the old claw-foot tub. The water comes up to my chin, and the scent is delicious, like night-blooming jasmine.
I lie there surrounded by bubbles, reviewing the day in my head. I see Rem peel his white T-shirt over his head, exposing his smooth, muscled chest; feel him squeezing my hand as he coaxes me into the water. I see the two of us dancing and splashing, enjoying the music and having a great time together. I feel the warm touch of his finger tracing my face as he tells me that he sees the fire in my eyes. It all feels like a dream, something that would happen to somebody else, not to me. I close my eyes, feeling weightless as I let the water surround my whole body.
Wait. Am I … floating?
Something is definitely changing in me, and it’s happening fast. I notice the way other kids at school look at me now, and it’s not just surprise that I’ve let my wild hair out of its rubber band. It’s as if I’ve moved out of the background and onto center stage; I can’t disappear into the crowd anymore. People know who I am, like they know Samson Hobby and Makayla Graf.
Or Tra
vis.
On Tuesday morning, he comes up behind me when I’m at my locker.
“Hey, Abby,” he says softly. “You look really pretty today. Would you want to go for another drive sometime? I really like talking to you.”
Well, of course you do, I want to say. I’ve won your attention.
“That would be really nice,” I say instead. It still seems surreal to be talking to my secret crush in the clear light of day. It’s like having your daydream come true. But that was also how I felt about my swimming lesson with Rem — and that didn’t involve any spell books or potion-laced cupcakes.
“I’ve got track practice after school,” he says. “Maybe this weekend?”
“I work on the weekends,” I tell him. “But soon.”
Travis smiles. “I’ll look forward to that.” He starts walking away, then turns back, rocking onto his heels. “Maybe you could bake some of those coconut cupcakes. Those were out of this world.”
Good choice of words, I think, smiling and nodding. I almost feel sorry for him as I watch him bounce off down the hall, stretching up to tap his fingers on a lighting fixture as if it’s a basketball rim. He really is awfully cute.
At lunch the next day, I watch several girls from the Social Committee taping up posters for senior prom. It’s happening on June 21, and tickets are on sale now. The whole cafeteria’s buzzing with gossip about who’s going with whom. I can’t help remembering the way Megan waltzed into Spiral Visions and shelled out for that crystal necklace. I’m glad she’s got a heart made of quartz, because she certainly doesn’t seem to have Travis’s heart anymore.
In the cafeteria, he’s sitting with some of his track team buddies, and keeps looking longingly at the table where I’m eating with Kate, Rachel, and Rachel’s friend Vijay Sahasrabudhe, a tall, skinny math whiz with Buddy Holly–style glasses. I’ve always suspected that Vijay likes Rachel, but she blushes and waves me off whenever I bring up the topic.
“Travis totally likes you,” Kate tells me now. “He’s been grinning at you ever since that day at the bake sale.”
“The question is whether our Abby reciprocates,” Rachel says. “I’d like to think she has better taste.”
“Have you ever hung out with him?” Kate asks. “He’s a really sweet guy. He does all these charity fund-raiser runs for cancer research and stuff like that. It’s not his fault he looks like a Hollister ad. I think you should go for it, Abby.”
“Isn’t he still dating Megan Kardashian?” Vijay asks, and Rachel and Kate snort with laughter.
“Yes,” Rachel says. “So how sweet can he be?”
I laugh, enjoying the fact that nobody at this table is a fan of Megan. It’s funny how someone can get to be popular when most people don’t seem to like them at all. Vijay isn’t the first guy I’ve heard who shares my opinion of Megan: In history class the other day, Samson Hobby called her Toxic Barbie, and nicknamed her sidekicks Clamber and Clone. “I can’t wait till they graduate,” he’d added, a welcome reminder that in less than a month, Megan Keith will be out of my life.
But not yet. In fact, there she is now, coming off the hot lunch line with Amber and Sloane. She’s heading toward Travis’s table, but as soon as she sees that he’s smiling at me, and I’m laughing, she swivels and starts walking straight toward me. Amber and Sloane follow in wedge formation, like a couple of very short bodyguards. I can hear their heels click-clacking on the linoleum.
Megan stops right in front of me. She’s wearing a hot-pink V-neck T-shirt and a white skirt the approximate texture and size of a washcloth.
“What’s so funny?” she asks me.
“Private joke,” I say, which is sort of the truth.
Not the answer she wanted, though. She leans into my face, her eyes flashing with spite. “If I ever hear that you set foot in Travis’s car again, I will ruin your life. He’s my boyfriend. Not yours.”
A couple of weeks ago, Megan’s threats filled me with dread. But now I just look at this spiteful and jealous girl, who’s secretly terrified she’s not the superstar that she wants everybody to think she is.
You can’t ruin my life, I tell her silently. You don’t have that power.
And right behind that is a scarier thought: I do have that power.
I watch as Megan stalks off with Clamber and Clone, clearly disappointed she hasn’t rattled me. Travis is still watching me from across the room with a smile.
I’ve dethroned the queen of the monkeys. But here’s the ironic thing: Now that her boyfriend, my lifelong secret crush and the boy of my dreams, is getting obsessed with me, my heart’s drifting elsewhere. To Rem Anders, who won’t ever give me a straight yes or no, and is always just out of my reach.
What is the cruel kink in our wiring that always seems to make the person you can’t have glow so much brighter than someone who actually wants you? If I had a potion to unravel that age-old mystery, it would be worth more than gold.
As the week goes on, Travis continues to dote on me, waiting for me at my locker and complimenting whatever I’m wearing. He keeps asking me if I’ll bake something for him. It gets to the point where I actually try to avoid seeing him in the halls. I can’t wait to get back to Salem and my next swimming lesson with Rem. Maybe we’ll actually make it all the way into the water this time. And maybe he’ll finally kiss me. It’s hard to say which would be more unbelievable.
My classes float past in a careless blur. I can’t focus on anything my teachers are saying. I’m barely keeping up with my homework, much less cramming for final exams, but somehow I still get straight A’s on every review sheet and prep quiz. The less effort I put into studying, the better I do. I’m starting to suspect that my witchy talents extend beyond potions and over to test-taking. Somehow I always intuit the right way to solve a trigonometry problem or which one of the multiple choice circles I should fill in. The right answer seems to glow under my fingers, the way certain stones did in Dyami’s bins. Maybe I should sign up to retake my SATs. Do magical powers count as cheating, or just as good luck?
Rachel has no patience with my new attitude. “You can’t keep on slacking like this,” she says when I meet her at her locker to tell her I’m going to skip our next tutoring session in the library. “You’re a junior. This is the transcript year colleges look at. It’s when everything matters the most. And your trig final’s coming up soon.”
“My grades are just fine,” I retort, annoyed.
“But you’re not even doing your homework. Sooner or later, it’s going to come back to bite you.”
I shrug. Why is she riding me like this? She sounds like a nagging parent. “When there’s a problem, I’ll fix it, okay?”
“You know what, Abby? There is a problem,” says Rachel. I swallow hard, feeling a pit in my stomach as she plows on. “You never have time for me anymore. I can’t remember when we last hung out together. Oh, yes, I can. I do remember. The day I helped you get your license, and instead of going to Chinatown afterward, like we’d been planning for weeks, you insisted on going to Salem. And signed up for a job in that wacko gift shop, and turned into someone I don’t even recognize.”
Wow. She’s really been storing this up.
Rachel’s waiting for me to say something. I don’t know what to tell her. It’s true that I’m changing, a lot, but I can’t tell her why. I just can’t.
And I guess my big secret has blasted a hole in our friendship, because she gives a bitter nod, and says, “Fine. You want me to leave you alone? I can do that.” She packs up her books and storms away from me, down the hall.
I stand with my heart beating hard, watching her go. My closest friend is clearly furious at me. That hurts, but it also makes me mad at her. I feel really judged. Rachel’s neat little world of overachieving and honors and high SAT scores seems like another old skin that I’ve shed. There’s more to life than being the valedictorian. I think even Rachel knows that.
So maybe she’s not really mad at me. Maybe she’s envious. Ma
ybe deep down in her heart of hearts, Rachel Mendoza is wishing that someone like Travis or Rem would start looking at her.
I could mix her a potion for that, but I don’t think she’d let me.
SATURDAY FINALLY COMES, AND WITH IT my next swimming lesson. The sun’s dipping low as Rem brings me back to the sheltered cove. This time we don’t dance, but walk hand in hand into the water.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he says, twining his fingers through mine. “You tell me when.”
I nod. The water does seem a little bit warmer this time, or maybe it’s me. With each step, it rises a little bit higher, and so does my anxiety level. When the water comes up to my hips, I hesitate.
Rem stops at once. “Little pause?”
“You must think I’m such a wimp.”
“I think you’re great,” he says, and my heart skips a beat. Rem turns to face me, resting his free hand on my side, just above my waist. “This is where we need to get you. So here’s my proposal. For every step we take, we’ll tell each other something about ourselves.”
What is this, some kind of truth or dare? As if I don’t feel exposed enough wearing a bikini and — hello! — learning to swim.
“Like what?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Anything,” Rem says. “My favorite flavor of ice cream is butter pecan.”
“Wow, that’s revealing,” I say with a smile. “Mine is rocky road.”
“Cool,” says Rem, taking a tiny step backward and bringing me with him, as if we were dancing a waltz. “I used to play the trombone in the middle school band.”
“Clarinet,” I say. “But I really stunk.”
Now it’s Rem’s turn to smile. “So did I.” He takes a step backward, and I feel the water slide up past the hem of my bikini bottom.
“I was the tallest kid in my class every year till ninth grade,” I say.