“What smile . . .”
“I’ve seen you at work, girl. You aren’t me in that suit, but you’re the next best thing.”
There is something powerful about making guys drool, even if they’re doughy little boys three to six years younger, walking around between races with their beach towels high up under their boy boobs to hide their cottage cheese love handles. I’m pretty sure this sick little part of me has something to do with what Nancy calls my “Boots wiring,” which is designed to “git yourself a man.”
Our coach, though, presents a greater challenge. This guy turns heads. He’s a student at Whitworth University, probably the best swimmer in our region, if you don’t count Leah, and dead serious about this swimming thing. He’s built like a real swimmer, and it’s a challenge to make him look at me the same way the little boys do. His name is Rick Sebring, and if there’s a straighter arrow anywhere, it’s gotta be his girlfriend, Janine, also a Whitworth swimmer and Rick’s assistant coach. She’s really nice and really patient and every bit as pretty as she is tough, or vice versa, which kind of makes me jealous.
I’m not really trying to take Rick from Janine. In fact, I know from a couple of bad junior high experiences that “Boots wiring” is just another term for “trouble.” I was a victim of “early development,” and Nancy told me every chance she got that “them titties” could get me all of what I needed and most of what I wanted. I’m not going into it, but mostly they got me fingerprints and lies. So even though it would be easy to travel that road, I am not going down it. I never go out with a guy more than three times, and only then if he keeps his hands in his pockets. But I have an overdeveloped yearning to be wanted, which doesn’t speak highly of me, and I do like making another girl nervous.
So I’m walking out of the dressing room at Witter pool, net bag slung over my shoulder with my wet Speedo, swim cap, and goggles inside, scanning the parking lot in case there’s a misplaced Boot hanging around.
“Annie, hey!” Rick. Coach.
“Yeah?”
“Got a minute?” Janine is headed toward his car.
“Yeah.”
He catches up to me. “Listen, what are your goals?”
“Dancing With the Stars,” I say. “My own reality show.”
Slight grimace. “For swimming.”
“Stay on top of the water; move toward the far end. Repeat.”
“Didn’t I see your name in the Review for winning your division at Hoopfest?”
“Yeah.”
“And weren’t you All-City last year?”
“Second string,” I say.
“So what are you doing in the water?”
“Staying in shape?” I give him a look.
“You put that as a question. Why aren’t you on an elite summer basketball team?”
“I like to try new stuff. Is that okay?”
He shrugs. “It’s okay by me, but I’m going to be cranking up the yardage once some of these younger kids look like they can take it. Coach Cole is looking for the studs who can move up. Your stroke isn’t exactly . . .”
“Olympic?”
“I almost jumped in to pull you out twice today.”
I murmur. “That’s good to know.”
He frowns. “What?”
“I’m in less danger than I look. Don’t worry, I’ll get the hang of it and I’ll put in the yards.”
“Long as you know what you’re getting into.”
Janine hollers from the car, “Hey, sweetie. You coming?”
He turns and jogs away. They talk for a minute before he starts the engine, while I convince myself I caused a little trouble.
Marvin meets me at the door. “Man, am I glad to see you.”
“What’s up?”
“Frankie’s up.”
“He’s back already?”
He nods. “And Sheila looked quite roughed up.” What seventh grader says “quite roughed up”? I never quite get used to Marvin. He dresses like a kid—sandals and baggy shorts and T-shirts, though his T-shirts are often telltale. Today’s says, “There is a reason for everything, and that reason is science.”
“How bad?”
“Facial bruising, swollen lip; you know . . .”
Sheila does like the bad guys. “But Frankie’s okay?”
“Relatively,” he says, and smiles. “I mean, he’s still Frankie.”
“Is he doing his Frankie thing?”
“Uh-uh, but only because I’m following him like a secret service guy. Man, I don’t get it. How come it doesn’t bother him as much as me?”
I shrug, punch his shoulder. “Frankie runs on negative feedback. You look like you’ve had enough. Where is he?”
“In the bathroom.” He points to the closed door. “At least he’s close to where he should be putting it.”
“Never let him close the door,” I tell him, and bang on the bathroom door. “Frankie, open up!”
Silence.
“Frankie!”
Nothing.
“You better not be doing what I think you’re doing!”
From behind the locked door: “I not.”
“Yeah, well, you were thinking about it.”
Silence. Then, “How come you know?”
“I know everything. Open up. If I have to jimmy this door, you’re really in trouble.”
Laughter.
I say, “You’re gonna think funny.”
“Jimmy,” he says, and laughs again.
“It means ‘break in,’ Frankie. Open the door.”
“I don’t like bosses,” he says. “If I open this, you don’t be mean to me.”
“I don’t like bosses, either,” I say. “If you open it, I don’t be mean to you. If you don’t open it, I do be mean to you.”
Silence.
“Frankie?”
Nothing.
“If you’re smearing . . . if you’re doing the bad thing, I’m going to tie you to your bed.”
“That’s mean!”
Uh! “You’re right. If you’re doing that, you and I are going to get a rag and some soap and scrub everything till it smells like roses.”
“Not smearin’ nothin’.”
“Good. Then we can go play. Open up.” No wonder Sheila dumps this little Martian off so often; he’s exhausting.
I hear water running. “Frankie, will you open this door? Please?”
“I might take a bath.”
“You can take a bath if you want, but you gotta open the door first.”
“I just like bosses what don’t boss me,” he says. “My teacher bosses me but I just don’t do what her say. Her gets mad.”
“I’m not your teacher, Frankie. Neither is Marvin. Open the door and
