Learning to Swim

by Cheryl Klam

  “Keith!” Mora's mother exclaimed as she saw him. “We were just talking about you.”

  Keith flashed her a quick smile but kept his attention focused on me.

  “Can we make it nine-thirty instead?” he asked me.

  “Um, not really,” I said, stopping. I really didn't want to have this conversation in front of Mrs. Cooper. She would definitely sense something amiss and go running back to Mora, and that would be so not good.

  “All right,” he said with a shrug. “We'll keep it at nine.”

  “No,” I said, looking around for Alice. Where had she gone? “I'm sorry… I can't make it tonight,” I said firmly. And then I turned and headed out as fast as I could in search of Alice. After running around Tippecanoe for a good twenty minutes, I found her in the weirdest place—sitting on a bench between the shower and the sauna in an empty ladies’ locker room.

  “Oh my God, Alice, I just told Keith I couldn't make my lesson tonight.” I plopped down next to her.

  She wiped some sweat off her brow with a towel and heaved another heavy sigh. “Jesus Christ, Steffie. Why'd you do that for?”

  “I know, I'm a moron.” I leaned forward to quell the rampant stomach pain that had come back to haunt me. “I ran into him when I went to get Mora's mom more tea.” Then I realized the glass of iced tea was still in my hand. I really was a moron.

  “Ah, now I understand,” Alice said sarcastically.

  “Well, what can I say? I guess I freaked out about the whole him-marrying-Mora thing. You know, after they both go to college and… like… sing in the glee club together.”

  “Really, Steffie, I wouldn't pay attention to anything that came out of Bitsy Cooper's mouth,” Alice said with a snort. “Honestly, I've known her from the day she was born and I can tell you this much: she doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground.”

  Speaking of asses, I was about to tell Alice about my lame comment to Keith when she started coughing uncontrollably.

  “Alice?” I said. “Are you all right?”

  She managed to stop long enough to smile. “Yeah, must be residue from those thousand packs of cigarettes I smoked in the eighties. It'll pass.”

  I handed her Mora's mother's iced tea. “Here, try drinking this.”

  “You don't think she has herpes, do you?” Alice held the glass up to the fluorescent light, as if she was trying to spot any communicable diseases.

  “I doubt it,” I said, grinning. “She probably has her Spanish-speaking maid dry-clean her lips.”

  Alice downed the iced tea and closed her eyes again as she took some deep breaths. “You know what would make us feel better?” she asked quietly. “A list of how many plastic surgery procedures Bitsy's had.”

  Then she put her arm around me, pulled me in for a hug, and we both sat there for a while, giggling like best friends do.

  I arrived home from work around six-thirty. I heated up a package of minipizzas, yanked open a new bag of M&M's, rummaged through the dirty-clothes hamper for my favorite Hawaiian board shorts and white tank top, and settled in for a long interruption-free night of TV. My night had immediately brightened when I was lucky enough to score an AFHV marathon on ABC Family. After six episodes of hilarity, I had finished the pizza and the package of M&M's and was brushing my teeth when the phone rang.

  I answered the phone with a mouthful of toothpaste. “Yep?” I mumbled in my best annoyed voice.

  “Stef? This is Keith.”

  Still holding the phone to my ear, I ran to the sink and spit out the toothpaste. (Actually, it was more like barfing than spitting.)

  “Hello? Stef?”

  I suddenly realized I hadn't even said hello yet. “Uh… h-hi,” I stammered.

  “I got your number from the employee directory. I hope you don't mind me calling,” he said.

  Keith could have gotten my number from an Internet porn site and I still wouldn't have minded him calling.

  “It's nice to hear from you,” I warbled.

  “Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Okay,” I said nervously, hoping that the next words out of his mouth would be “Will you marry me?” It was a stretch, but somehow at the time anything seemed possible.

  “Are you taking these swim lessons because of me?” he asked.

  It felt as though every particle in my body was about to combust.

  “Um… no,” I replied unconvincingly.

  “I don't want you to feel pressured, though. Just because I think you should learn how to swim doesn't mean that you have to. And honestly, if your heart isn't in it and you'd rather be doing something else, like hanging out with your boyfriend or whatever, then it will just be a big waste of your time.”

  I couldn't wipe the grin off my face. For one, Keith was being so sweet that I could barely stand it. Up until then, I'd only daydreamt about talking to him on the phone, and suddenly, it was happening and he was even nicer than I had imagined. For two, he had the TV blaring so loudly in the background, it was actually a little hard to hear him—how great was that? For three, he thought I was good enough to have a boyfriend, which I was, only the boy in question should have been him.

  “I really want to learn how to swim, Keith. I was just busy tonight.” My voice cracked a bit, and I winced.

  Keith kind of chuckled, which seemed odd. I hadn't said anything funny. “That's cool. What were you up to?”

  I walked out into the messy living/dining/TV room and eyed the TV. This was my idea of busy? But before I could make up a good story, I realized something. The sound coming from Keith's end of the line was completely matching up with the visual from my TV.

  Holy crap.

  We were both watching America's Funniest Home Videos!

  I heard Keith stifle another chuckle. Oh my God, this was unbelievable.

  “Sorry, Stef. There's this marathon on ABC Family,” Keith said through his charming laugh.

  “I know. I'm watching it too!” I chimed in, unable to hide my enthusiasm.

  “Really?”

  I couldn't believe what I was about to say. “This is my favorite show of all time.”

  “I'm totally with you,” he agreed. “Which host do you like better? That dude from Full House or Daisy Fuentes and her dorky male sidekick?”

  I pinched myself really hard, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. “There's no comparison. Bob Saget is God.”

  Had I just said Bob Saget was God?

  Apparently Keith thought my remark was off-the-wall too, because he laughed again. “You know what? I'm having a party tomorrow night. You should come and hang out.”

  My particles finally combusted. “Tomorrow night?”

  “Yeah. My dad and his wife are going out of town so I'm having some friends over.”

  “Okay,” I said through a gigantic grin.

  “Great,” he replied. “Mora and her crew aren't going to be around either, so I hope you don't mind being in the girl minority.”

  Whoa. No Mora.

  “I live at 715 Tulare Stre—”

  “I know where you live,” I interrupted. “Across the creek from Alice.”

  The thought of Mora not being around to chaperone Keith had obviously affected my common sense, or else I wouldn't have said something that made me sound like a psychopath.

  “Right,” he said after a brief hesitation. “So I'll see you tomorrow. Around seven?”

  I caught a glimmer of my reflection in the TV. I may not have looked anything like my mother, but I had her plastic smile on my face.

  “See you then,” I answered.

  After I hung up the phone, I turned off the TV. Only then did I notice that I was humming.

  6

  The first thought that entered my mind when my head hit the pillow was this: Telling Keith that I would come over to his house when Mora wasn't around to act as a buffer had been a colossal mistake. It was like I had agreed to walk into the lion's den of love lunacy holding a rack of lamb. Was I completely
out of my mind?

  On the other hand, I couldn't get rid of this series of thoughts either: Did Keith invite me to this party because he liked me-liked me (girlfriend potential) or just liked me (only wanted to be friends)? Even though I knew that chances were overwhelmingly good that he just liked me, what would I do if it turned out that he actually liked me-liked me?

  After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I finally followed Alice's advice and made a list of all the scenarios that were floating inside my head:

  Possibilities:

  I walk into Keith's house only to discover I am the party. It is just the two of us. He has planned a romantic evening to confess his love.

  There are other people there, all of whom suddenly treat me with a great amount of respect. He takes me by the hand and introduces me before whisking me away to a private room where we make out.

  Keith French-kisses me and then he confesses his love.

  Ugh. I was hopeless.

  It was two a.m. I had just finished making my list and switched off the light when I heard Barbie's key turn in the lock. Even though most of the time Barbie was a model of instability, she still showed some elements of traditional maternal instinct. And her bedtime ritual was an example of this. Every night before she went to bed, she came into my room and kissed me goodnight. Usually I pretended to be asleep (even if I wasn't). But this time, when she leaned over to give me a peck on the forehead, my eyes were wide open.

  “Oh, Jesus!” She jumped back and put her hand on her heart. “You scared me. I didn't expect you to be awake.”

  “I can't sleep,” I announced.

  “Anything going on, or are you just not tired?”

  “I was invited to a party.” I couldn't get this out of my mind so I figured I might as well share it with Barbie. Besides, she hadn't been this interested in me in days.

  “Really?” she asked, excited. She hesitated as the hope faded from her eyes. “A young persons’ party?” she asked suspiciously.

  “It's the whole Mora Cooper crowd,” I said. I couldn't tell her exactly who because she might recognize Keith's name. And then she might just wonder about those swimming lessons. And then I'd be screwed.

  My mother's eyes lit up. “No wonder you can't sleep,” she said.

  I knew what she was thinking. This was my big break, the one she'd been waiting for. Her daughter would finally be popular. “It's not Mora herself,” I said. “Just one of her friends from school.” I was proud that I had managed to muster up a fraction of honesty.

  “We'll have to get you something to wear!” she exclaimed.

  My mother thought in terms of practicality. And no one could dispute that the woman had style. She always said her fashion sense was a remnant from her college days at UCLA, when she was getting her business degree while taking fashion design classes on the side. (That's what she was doing when she met my dad.) When my mom got pregnant, my dad left his wife, but he died (heart attack) before his divorce was final (i.e., no moolah for Barbie or me). So, like a heroine in one of those sappy Lifetime Movie Network flicks she loved so much, Barbie had to drop out of UCLA and give up her dream of helming her own fashion empire.

  In any case, I was determined to take advantage of her expertise and forget (temporarily) my grievances with her so I could enjoy our rare mother-daughter outing. And I could tell that Barbie was equally determined because she gave me a kiss and a quick nod as if confirming the deal. The knowledge that my mom was going to be involved in the preparations for my potential big night provided enough comfort that I eventually fell asleep.

  The next morning my mother and I awoke and began our journey with tight smiles and curt politeness. We both did our best to veer away from any subject that might cause trouble, which meant that we spent half the thirty-minute drive to St. Michaels saying things like “There sure is lots of traffic for a Saturday!” and “Wonder when this heat is supposed to break?” We arrived at this quaint little boutique called Zip, and Barbie whizzed through the sale rack as if she'd just downed twelve cans of Red Bull. We walked out of the store twenty minutes later with a microminiskirt and an asymmetrical off-the-shoulder top—both for Barbie.

  About ten specialty shops later, we finally found an outfit that I could deal with—a fancy black tank with a little ruffle around the edges, and long lean white pants. My mother shelled out the money for the clothes and we walked to Barbie's favorite restaurant, called Lila's, a cozy little coffee shop in the center of town. I ordered the California chicken sandwich. (That's what I always ordered, except for the one time when I ordered the Mediterranean chicken salad. Big mistake.)

  “So I wonder which boys will be at the party,” Barbie said, after she had placed her order for a Cobb salad (minus bacon, minus cheese, extra chicken, dressing on side) and we had settled into a table near the window. She and I loved watching passersby and making up stories about who they were and where they were going. Too bad Barbie was homed in on me instead of the tall guy at the parking meter out front. He was seriously H-O-T. “Who's hosting this again? A friend of Mora's?”

  Uh-oh. This was bad news. As I said before, I'd never been much of a liar. And I didn't really want to mention Keith, because that would be a major red flag. “One of the lifeguards,” I said, avoiding her eyes.

  “Oh—so that's why the Mora Cooper crowd will be there.”

  My mom took a bite of her salad before dropping the bombshell. “She's dating that lifeguard who offered you the swimming lessons. Keith McKnight, right?”

  I felt my stomach lurch. The server set my sandwich in front of me, but I wasn't hungry anymore.

  Just then my mom's cell phone rang. She glanced at the number, and her face lit up. She looked at me and said quickly, “I'll be right back.”

  After Barbie went in search of a private place with good reception to talk to her married man, I looked at her empty seat and felt the same horror any daughter would feel watching her mother purposely lie down in front of an oncoming train or stick her tongue on a frozen monkey bar at the school playground. Even though I wasn't one to wallow in self-pity, I figured I was due. In an effort to cheer myself up, I decided to take a tip from Alice and make a list. I grabbed a red crayon off a nearby table and wrote on my napkin:

  Things that are crappy:

  Great tank top, but no boobs

  Barbie/love lunacy

  Keith/Mora

  Me/love lunacy?

  But there was one thing missing. And so I added:

  Dad

  Even though he'd died before I was born, I still thought about him at times like this, times when I felt like everything just sucked. If he hadn't died, I think my life would have been extremely different. Not that I thought that Barbie would've actually married him and gotten a house in the suburbs and stuff, but I was pretty sure I would've had a much more normal life. He and Barbie would have been divorced and I would have been shuttled back and forth between the two of them. He never would have condoned Barbie's moving me across the state every year, nor would he have condoned her parading around with married boyfriends. If he had lived, I would have had a sane, stable person (besides Alice) that I could have talked to about all the important things in my life.

  I glanced up just as Barbie came back into the dining room. I tossed the napkin with my list back onto my lap as she took her seat.

  “You didn't have to wait for me,” she said, motioning toward my untouched food.

  “Oh,” I said, realizing I had forgotten all about my lunch. I took a bite of my sandwich and set it back down on my plate. “Was my dad Hispanic?” I asked, between chews.

  “What?” she said, visibly startled. “Why in the world would you ask a thing like that?”

  “Just wondering,” I said with a shrug. I swallowed. “Mora's mother thought I looked Hispanic or Spanish or something.”

  “I, well, no. He wasn't.”

  “What was he?”

  Barbie started to gaze around the room. “He was… Ameri
can.”

  “I mean, what was his background? You know, his ethnicity.”

  “I honestly don't know,” she said with a huff. “We never discussed it.”

  I focused back on my sandwich, annoyed. Not that I had expected Barbie to suddenly be a wealth of information, but I hadn't thought she would be this evasive. She couldn't throw me a little bone and give me some background info on my heritage?

  As if reading my reaction, Barbie said, “I told you, Steffie, we were only together for about three months when I found out I was pregnant. He died shortly thereafter.” She shrugged. “He wasn't in my life that long.”

  “Was he rich?” I asked.

  “What's going on?” Barbie asked. “Why all the questions?”

  “I'm just curious, that's all. You never talk about him.”

  She sighed long and deep as if pondering my request. Finally she said, “He was very… well off, yes.”

  “How rich? Like, Jones Island rich? Or movie-star rich?”

  “Steffie, what's the point of this?”

  “I'm just curious as to what kind of house we'd have if he was alive.”

  “Who knows?” she replied. “Maybe we'd be living right where we are.” But I could tell from the look on her face that she didn't really believe what she'd said.

  “Maybe your store would've taken off and we'd be millionaires,” I muttered.

  She forced a smile. “You know what I just decided? I'm going to rearrange my schedule so I can be home tonight and help you get ready. That way I can drive you to the party.”

  This was Barbie's way of distracting me. “Okay,” I said.

  There was an awkward silence as we both focused on our food.

  “I like spending time together,” Barbie said suddenly, as if half trying to convince herself. “In no time at all, you'll be graduating from high school. And then you'll be leaving me.”

  Then she got really quiet and she said, “I can't imagine my life without you, Steffie.”