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. “The 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?”