Swim the Fly (10 page)

“Fine. Whatever.” I shrug. “I’ll go get my Funyuns right now, then.”

Sean shakes his head. “You don’t understand, dude. You’re not swimming the freestyle relay, but you
are
swimming on my medley squad.”

“That’s stupid. Why would Ms. Luntz do that? Sid always anchors the medley.”

“He still
is
anchoring it,” Cooper says.

“And Gregg’s still doing the backstroke and I’m still doing the breaststroke,” Sean says.

“Which leaves only one stroke for you, buddy.” Coop is struggling not to smile.

My chest constricts. “No way. I’m swimming the butterfly at championships. Not today. You guys are just screwing with me.”

Sean and Coop both stare at me, and I can tell by the pity in their eyes that they’re not lying.

“I can’t swim the fly. I’m not ready. I only volunteered for championships.”

“Apparently not,” Sean says.

“No.” I shoot to my feet. “This is a mistake. I have to talk to Ms. Luntz.”

I march across the grass toward Ms. Luntz, who’s over by the bleachers, laughing at something Mr. Shanker, the Barracudas’ coach, has just whispered to her. She smacks at him playfully with her clipboard. Mr. Shanker has this bushy-ass mustache that he’s probably had since the seventies, and you can tell that he dyes it to match his hair plugs, because it kind of looks plastic. He wears his Hawaiian-print shirts completely unbuttoned, showing off his tanned, freckled chest and round belly.

“Ms. Luntz?” I say when I’ve reached the bleachers.

Ms. Luntz’s expression shifts like blinds flicked shut on a sunny day. “What?” She scowls at me.

“Can I talk to you a minute?”

Mr. Shanker flashes a milk-white smile. “We’ll catch up later, Darlene.” He turns and walks away.

“Couldn’t you see,” Ms. Luntz hisses through clenched teeth, “that I was having a conversation?”

“Sorry. But I, umm . . . I just heard I was swimming the butterfly? In the medley relay?”

“Yeah,” she says, like I’d just asked if I should wear a bathing suit.

“But I thought I was going to swim it at championships?”

Ms. Luntz laughs. But not a that’s-funny laugh. More like a you’re-an-idiot laugh. “We have
three
meets, Gratton. Someone has to swim butterfly in all three of them. Or maybe we should just forfeit those events. Is that what you’d like me to do?”

“No,” I say. “I just thought . . . When you asked for a volunteer . . . I just thought . . .”

Ms. Luntz sneers at me, her nostrils flaring. “You
thought
?”

I can’t tell if she’s asking me
what
I thought, or if I’m actually
capable
of thinking. I decide to cut my losses.

“Never mind,” I say, turning and walking off.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? I can’t even finish a single lap of the fly. Forget about two. I’m going to look like a moron.

“Hey, Matt.”

I look up. It’s Valerie. Waving me over to her and Kelly.

I hesitate, glancing over at Sean and Coop playing cards again. The medley race isn’t until later in the meet. I have a bit of time. But not much.

I walk toward Kelly and Valerie. “What’s up?”

“Sit down,” Kelly says, slurp-popping her lollipop from between her lips. “We want to give you a quiz.”

“A quiz?” I suddenly feel all sweaty.

“Yeah.” Valerie laughs. “To tell us which cartoon character you are.” Her French lilt makes this seem much more interesting than it should be.

“I was Bugs Bunny,” Kelly says. “And Valerie was Peppermint Patty.”

“Come on. Don’t you want to know who you are?” Valerie pats the comforter.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Okay.”

I guess Pete was right. Volunteering for the fly made Kelly notice me.

I kneel down in between the girls.

“All right,” Valerie says. “I’ll read the questions and you have to answer honestly. Kelly will keep track of your answers and then do the calculations.”

I look over at Kelly, who’s got a pen and pad at the ready. Being this close to her, it’s hard to catch my breath. My mouth goes all cottony. I have to look away, be careful not to stare. Except my eyes keep sliding over to her. I need to find something else to focus on. A loose thread in the comforter. I’ll make that my beacon.

Valerie sits up and folds back the magazine. “Okay. First question. ‘What would you consider a perfect date? A romantic dinner for two. Renting a video and ordering takeout. A concert. Rollerblading. Or an amusement park.’”

Huh? What does this have to do with cartoon characters? They don’t even go on dates. I figured the questions
would be “Do you like to eat carrots, pizza, lasagna, or insects?” Kelly was Bugs Bunny. So what would Bugs Bunny choose? Something active. Something fun.

“Well?” Valerie says.

“Umm.” What if I answer wrong? What if Kelly likes hanging out at home rather than going out? What if she loves Rollerblading? “Amusement park,” I say.

Kelly writes this down.

“Really?” Valerie says. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.” She looks at her magazine again. “Okay. ‘Which of the following occupations would you choose if you only had these jobs to choose from? Plumber. Teacher. Fireman. Doctor. Gardener.’”

Man, oh, man. These don’t sound like cartoon-character questions. I guess Bugs Bunny would probably want to be a gardener so that he could get free carrots. But a fireman’s cooler. And a teacher shows you’re a caring person. Why the hell did I agree to take this stupid quiz?

“Gardener,” I say.

Kelly snorts. She starts to write.

Gardener? Christ. Way to go.

“Wait,” I say. “I meant teacher.”

Kelly scratches out my first answer. She writes down my new one.

“Next question,” Valerie says. “‘You have the afternoon completely free. What would you want to do? Go to
the mall. Go to the gym. Read a book. Go to the movies. Or sleep.’”

“Mall,” I blurt, thinking about what girls like to do. Then I realize. That’s exactly what
girls
like to do. I’ll wind up being Betty or Veronica. “Movies, I mean.”

“Are you always this indecisive?” Kelly sighs, scratching out “mall” and writing down “movies.”

“No,” I say. “Sometimes. I don’t know. Not usually.”

Valerie laughs.

“I didn’t know the questions were going to be so serious.”

“Well, we’re almost done, so you can chill,” Kelly says.

Valerie folds the magazine back and finds her place. “‘What’s your favorite holiday? Fourth of July. Easter. Valentine’s Day. Christmas. Or Halloween.’”

“Christmas,” I say confidently. Who doesn’t like Christmas? Jewish people, I guess. Is Kelly Jewish? I have no idea. Damn it. Why didn’t I think of that? What if she’s Jewish? I should have chosen a nonreligious holiday. I should have said Fourth of July.

“Last question,” Valerie announces. “‘What kind of person would you rather hang out with? Somebody who is funny. Somebody who is good-looking. Somebody who is intelligent. Somebody who has a lot of money. Or somebody who’s adventurous.’”

Great. Save the hardest question for last. All this
quiz has done is make me realize how little I know about Kelly. Other than the fact that she’s extraordinarily gorgeous. I could say I like to hang out with people who are good-looking, but that’s just not true and Kelly would know it. I mean, all you have to do is take one look at Sean and Coop to see that.

“I like all sorts of people.”

“You have to pick one,” Kelly insists. “Otherwise the test doesn’t work.”

“But I like smart people and funny people and adventurous people and good-looking people. It doesn’t seem fair.”

Valerie swats me with the magazine. “Don’t be difficult. You have to pick one. Who would you
most
like to hang out with?”

“Maybe I’m not a cartoon character,” I say. “I’m probably too complex.”

Valerie and Kelly both glare at me.

“Fine. Funny people. If I have to choose.”

Kelly quickly scribbles this down, and her pen moves wildly across the page as she does the computations that will seal my fate.

“Give me the magazine,” Kelly says, holding out her hand. Valerie passes it to her.

Kelly looks at the magazine, then at her paper, then at the magazine again. “Okay,” she says. “Here we go. You are . . . SpongeBob SquarePants.”

Valerie chuckles. “SpongeBob’s cute. A bit nerdy, though.”

I feel my cheeks burning and hope to God they aren’t as red as they feel.

“‘You are the classic friend,’” Kelly reads. “‘SpongeBob is the friend everyone wants to have and nobody wants to lose. You like to have fun, but you should try to avoid stressful situations.’”

Perfect. I’m the friend. The guy everyone wants to talk to but no one wants to date.

“That was fun, huh?” Valerie says.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Although, I think I dress a little better than SpongeBob.”

“How do you think I feel?” Valerie laughs. “It’s not like Peppermint Patty’s got the greatest fashion sense.”

“
And
she’s a lesbian,” Kelly adds.

“Is not,” Valerie says. “Besides, my mom’s friend is gay and she’s, like, the coolest dresser I know.”

“I don’t know what you two are complaining about.” Kelly throws her pen down. “At least your characters actually wear clothes. I walk around completely naked all the time.”

Naked? Kelly naked? All the time? Completely naked?

Oh Jesus.

I suddenly realize my jaw is hanging open. I quickly close it. Thank God there’s no such thing as ESP.

My eyes keep darting back to Kelly. I need to get out of here. If I wait another minute, they won’t need ESP to know what I’m thinking.

“Okay, well.” I stand quickly. Think of something else. Hairy underarms. Mr. Shanker’s belly. “I better get back to Sean and Coop.”

“Wait,” Valerie says, glancing at Kelly, then looking up at me. “Are you going to Ronnie Hull’s party next Friday?”

I swallow. I blink. I look over my shoulder. I blink again. Stop blinking, idiot. “I . . . uh . . . No . . . I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . I didn’t know he was having one.” Brilliant.

“Yeah. His parents are out of town.”
Naked
Kelly speaks around her
naked
lollipop, tucked inside her
naked
cheek. “You should come.”

“It’s gonna be awesome,” Valerie says. “Me and Kelly are going.”

“Yeah? Okay. Sounds good.” I close my mouth and bite down hard on my tongue to try and wrench control of my mind.

“You can bring Coop and Sean, too,” Valerie continues. “But it’s BYOB. A six-pack should get you guys in.”

“Great,” I say. “No prob. We’ll see you there.” I smile and turn and stride back to Sean and Coop.

I take a quick peek down. Somehow I’ve managed to avoid putting on a puppet show.

Thank God.

“WE HAVE THE MASTER PLAN,”
Coop says as soon as I return. He’s got this I-know-something-you-don’t grin on his face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Wait,” Sean says, holding up his hands. “First, tell us what that was all about. You were over there an awfully long time.”

“They just wanted to give me this dumb quiz that’s supposed to tell you what cartoon character you are.”

“Don’t tell me.” Coop chuckles. “Marge Simpson.”

“Very funny.”

“Did Valerie say anything about me?” Sean asks.

“Strangely, no.” I roll my eyes. “So, what’s this about a plan?”

“Let’s just say you won’t be swimming the butterfly today.” Coop laughs, leaning in and clapping my back.

“I’m listening.”

Sean sighs. “How much money do you have?”

“Twenty bucks. Why?”

Sean holds out his hand. “We need it.”

“What? No.”

Coop lowers his gaze at me. “Do you want to get out of the relay or not?”

“Tell me what the plan is.”

“We can’t do that.” Sean shakes his head. “If you’re in on it, then you might give it away.”

“How would I give it away?”

“You need to be insulated,” Coop says. “If you’re not part of the plan, then you can’t be blamed.”

“I’m supposed to just hand you my twenty bucks without knowing what you’re going to do with it?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Sean says.

“Yeah. I could keep it.”

Coop cocks his head. “How much is getting out of this race worth to you?”

“What are you going to do? Bribe Ms. Luntz?”

“Look, do you want our help or not?” Sean asks.

I exhale hard. “Fine.” I dig the twenty-dollar bill from the pocket of my shorts and hand it to Sean. “But if your ‘mysterious’ plan doesn’t work, you both owe me.”

“This isn’t the Home Shopping Channel, dude,” Coop says. “We don’t offer money-back guarantees.”

“All right.” Sean turns to Coop. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sean and Coop march off across the lawn toward the shopping strip.

I grab my iPod and start watching
Sin City
to get my mind off the fact that I probably just threw away twenty dollars.

When Coop and Sean return, they empty a big plastic bag of candy and chips and fruit pies onto our towels. It looks like a vending machine exploded.

“This is your plan?” I reach over and pluck up a Whatchamacallit. “To have a party?”