Coming Up for Air Page 7

  “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 l
essons are over, but it sure feels that way.

  Daydreams

  I wake up to the sun pouring in through my bedroom windows.

  It’s a nice feeling. A rare feeling. Warm.

  I touch my fingers to my lips. I kissed Levi.

  Holy shit. I kissed Levi.

  Mom pounds on my door. “Tadpole, almost time for church!”

  I groan. I don’t want to get up yet. But get out of bed I do.

  Levi and Hunter don’t go to my church, but Georgia does. We sit next to each other during the service and write notes back and forth on the little envelopes they use to collect offerings, using the tiny pencils, like when you play minigolf, which are in the pews. She tells me about how this guy David has been texting her.

  She writes: He’s not my type!

  Do you like him?

  He’s cute, I guess, but kind of nerdy

  That is true. His glasses always slide down his nose, and he runs track so he’s super skinny. His body never fills out his jeans, but his lopsided smile is appealing, and he’s very smart.

  The last guy Georgia dated was a linebacker named Kevin who definitely filled out his clothes. On the other hand, he cheated on her. David, however, seems like an okay guy. He’s president of the student body and always smiles and says hi to everybody in the hallway.

  Did he ask you out?

  Not yet but I know he wants to and I’m not sure about it. What do you think of him?

  I decide to tell her what I was thinking. Great smile. Very smart. I approve.

  A grin blooms on her face. She likes him. I can tell she does. But the smile quickly fades, and her expression becomes preoccupied. Getting cheated on really affected her. We told her that he was the jerk because he cheated, but she still felt it was a reflection on her, that it may have been partially her fault, that something must have been lacking about her if he felt the need to fool around with another girl.

  I roll the little pencil back and forth between my hands like I’m heating them over a campfire. Part of me wants to tell Georgia about what happened last night with Levi. We’ve never kept secrets from each other, at least as far I know. But this feels very private. Telling her could also make things weird with our circle of friends.

  I put the pencil back in the little holder next to the hymnals and spend most of the pastor’s sermon replaying last night over and over again in my head. If I have a few daydreams about Levi in Superman underwear, does that make me a total sinner? Probably. I concentrate extra hard during the Lord’s Prayer, in case God is offended by my fantasies. Annnd then I go right back to fantasizing.

  After church, I ditch the skirt and change into my swimsuit and sweats, and wait for Levi at the front door. I’m a little nervous about seeing my friend. After we kissed, he wanted to go looking for Martha. Yes. The boy used a snapping turtle as an excuse to stop kissing me.

  I don’t exactly blame him. It was starting to get intense. Part of me even wanted him to take off my shirt, but it was like forty degrees out, and no guy is worth hypothermia.

  He honks his horn. At least that hasn’t changed. After grabbing our chocolate milks and protein bars, I run out to the truck to meet him. He’s already standing outside the passenger door holding it open. I climb inside.

  Once we’re driving down the road, I decide to take the edge off of the silence by being cheeky.

  “So,” I say. “Do anything interesting last night?”

  After a pause, laughter erupts from him. “I found some turtle eggs.”

  “Is that right?”

  Does he have a smug look on his face?

  We argue over the radio on the way to practice. He is on a rap kick and I want rock. We settle by turning off the radio to play Overboard.

  I say, “You’ve got President Obama, Michael Phelps, and David Beckham. Who’s going overboard?”

  Levi moans. “Can’t you give me a girl for once? Okay, let’s see. I’d spend one hot night with David Beckham because even I can admit he’s good looking. I’d spend a year with Michael Phelps learning everything I can from him. That leaves…throwing President Obama overboard. I can’t do that! That’d be an assassination attempt.”

  I crack up. “So what are you gonna do?”

  “Maybe I should throw Michael Phelps overboard. I’d have a better chance of making the Olympic team that way.”

  “And you wouldn’t risk the Secret Service throwing you to the sharks,” I point out.

  “That’s always a positive,” Levi agrees.

  Practice at the pool is pretty routine, but at the end, Coach wants to see me privately again. Twice in one week is weird. I follow him into the office and sit down in the guest chair. I try to avoid looking at the calendar. The big red circles around the dates of upcoming long course meets glare at me.

  “What’s up, Coach?”

  He tosses his tennis ball from one hand to another. “I looked up Roxy’s conference times online.”

  Since she lives in Memphis, she competes in different conferences and regionals, but we’re sure to meet at state. “And?”

  “She swam a tenth of a second faster than you in 200 back.”

  I let out a heavy breath. “Shit.”

  “No reason to worry yet.” Coach throws his tennis ball against the wall and catches it on the bounce back. “No matter what happens at state, you know you’re better at long course, and you’re more likely to get your cut for the Olympic trials than she is. She gets her strength from pushing off the side of the pool. You’re naturally stronger and don’t rely on your turns.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  He nods. “We have to keep talking through these things. You’re the best.”

  I walk out of the office to find Levi waiting. The second he sees me, he slides his headphones off his ears and drapes them around his neck.

  “You good?” he asks.

  No matter what Coach says about me being better than Roxy, it won’t be true until I beat her. My eyes start watering. “Can we go?”

  My best friend throws an arm around my shoulders, and we walk to his truck.

  • • •

  So this is the week from hell.

  First, Coach told me about Roxy beating my time.

  Second, Levi has an interview with the Tennessean on Friday. The newspaper is doing a big story on how great of a swimmer he is, highlighting how he’s going to the trials in Omaha this summer. He won’t stop complaining about it because he hates attention and loathes having his picture taken.

  “I just want to swim! I don’t want to do interviews!” he whines, shaking his fists at his first world problems.

  “C’mon, Leaves,” I say. “You should be proud. No one asked to interview me.”

  “So I’ll tell them to interview you instead,” he snaps.

  I love my best friend, but we sure can get on each other’s nerves sometimes. I’m happy for him, but also jealous the paper isn’t doing a story on me. Can’t Levi see this upsets me?

  Third, it appears to be safe sex week in health class.

  My teacher, Coach Woods, is very down to earth and cool. Every day she wears a Hundred Oaks football shirt of some kind. If it’s not a jersey, it’s a sweatshirt or a long-sleeved tee and jeans. Never khakis and polos, like other coaches at school. I don’t know how she gets away with it. The Jordan Woods probably wouldn’t let someone give her a dress code.

  I love Coach Woods, but I don’t want to put a condom on a banana in front of the entire class. On top of that, she’s timing us using a stopwatch! I mean, who makes their students race against each other to see who can put a condom on the fastest?

  “All right, Maggie,” she says, hovering above me with that stopwatch. “You’re up. Grab your banana.”

  “Bananas are for eating,” I reply.

  She ignores me. “Th
e time to beat is seven and a half seconds. Remember, you can’t tear the condom, and you have to make sure it’s securely in place. If it’s not, you’re disqualified. Ready?”

  I’m poised with an unopened condom and my banana. “Let’s do it.”

  “Three, two, one…go!” She scrutinizes me as I fumble with the wrapper.

  “I don’t know why I’m even bothering,” I announce, freeing the condom from the foil. “I will never have time for sex.”

  The room full of girls chuckles. I make terrible jokes when I get nervous, which is now, as I’m trying to stretch this condom over a banana that’s pretending to be a penis. I pull too hard and the latex breaks. The class cracks up.

  “Arg!” Coach Woods shouts, as if she’s a safe sex pirate. “You’ll get it next time.”

  I sit back in my seat and sigh. I hate losing. Even if it’s only a condom race.

  The bell rings. All the girls stand and gather their bags and notebooks. I go to peel my banana because I’m starving. Who cares if lunch starts in five minutes?

  “Nobody eat the bananas!” Coach Woods says. “I need them for my next class.”

  Sadly, I put my banana back on the desk.

  Coach Woods calls out, “Maggie, can you I see you for a minute?”

  I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and walk to the front of the room. She’s one of the few women I’ve ever met who is taller than me. Her dad played football and her brother is quarterback of the Tennessee Titans, and Coach Woods herself was a player in high school. She coaches the team here now. Condom races aside, I really like her because she talks to us like we’re adults.

  “I don’t have to do the condom test again, do I?”

  “No.” She sits on top of her desk. “I wanted to ask you about what you said about never having time for a boy.”

  I shrug. “It’s true. I don’t even have time to dry my hair.”

  “I know how you feel. When I was a senior, I had to spend all my time training. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was watching game film or in the weight room. It was tough working toward a college scholarship, so I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you.” She shakes her head, and her face goes from sad to one of wonder. “You’re working toward the Olympics!”