Would You (2 page)

Carson prides himself on being first, but Audrey's pretty competitive. I wait till there's space, not wanting to jump in on top of other bodies.

Splash! Splash! Splash! Spl-splash!
Like stones hurled from the same fist.

In, dunk, stroke, side.

A light goes on upstairs in the house.

“Light,” shouts Audrey, but we all saw it.

I boost myself out, dripping, and the others are already running. Leila's limping, must have banged a knee or something. We're making enough racket to wake a drunk.
I'm last through the gate. A light comes on downstairs and we peel toward the bikes, laughing instead of breathing.

The front door opens. “Hey!”

I jam on my flip-flops, grab my tee, throw a leg over, push off and kick away the kickstand in one motion. I am unstoppable. My butt is soaking wet and slippery on the seat.

“Hey! You there! Hey! Damn kids!”

We zoom away from the house, back into the maze of Birdland, with the hollow shouts behind us and the glee of trespass making us bark like a pack of dogs in the curving, sleeping streets.

Downtown, only Beanie's Coffee Bar is open, and the Donut Barn. We see Claire outside the cinema saying goodbye to Kate.

“Claire,” I call. “Claire.”

“Hey.” She comes riding over.

“Where's Joe?” I ask. “What did you see?”

“Joe left,” she says. “We saw the one the boys wanted. Really dumb. But it had a good chase scene and a happy ending.”

“Oh,” says Zack. “You mean girls like the ones that slow down and end in tears?”

Claire laughs. “Where you going?”

“Swimming,” we say. “Wanna come?”

“Swimming? You mean …?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“You want to come with us?” I say. She never has. Usually, my friends are too young, not cool enough.

“Yay, Claire,” says Zack. “Come.”

I get this clutching in my chest. I'm pretty sure Claire and Zack had sort of a thing. Not a real whole thing, but maybe a time or two a while ago when they hooked up. I used to ask myself, Would you rather not see him ever again or see him every day with your sister? Zack is a year older than me and a year younger than her. They were on the same team from our school for the Smart Teen Challenge, and I know he really liked her. Then she got with Joe-boy and maybe Zack felt like the loser.

But now he's saying, “Come with us, Claire,” and she's giving him that warm, sweet smile.

“Why not?” she says. “I might as well try it once in my life, right?”

And we all say,
“Right!”
, like we've converted another sucker to our cult.

A minute later she clubs the brake. “I'm not wearing a swimsuit.”

“That's okay,” we all say.

“Undies work,” says Audrey. “We're only going to Amanda Layton's, clothing optional.”

“The perfect starter operation,” says Zack.

Amanda Layton is a folksinger who has a pool and a hot tub. She's nearly always away on tour, playing music festivals and hippie conventions. We can't figure out who buys her CDs, but somebody must because she's got this vast house. The pool is no challenge, really, except for one nosy neighbor who clearly wants to come in herself.

Claire does fine. We linger in the water, floating, stargazing, no worries until the neighbor's patio door slides open and we hightail it out of there. We're all cheering Claire, high on fun for a few minutes. Then she brakes.

“I left my wallet,” she says. “I took it out of my pocket. It's on the bench by the hot tub.”

“I'll go back with you,” says Zack.

“No, I'll just go,” says Claire. “I'll catch up with you later.”

So we're zipping down King Street in a pack and we see the cruiser behind us.

“Dang,” says Audrey, Western drawl. “Looks like the sheriff done nosed us out.”

We slow down but keep going, not really thinking there's trouble. We're not doing anything wrong. At the
moment. But then the siren goes
blip, blip
, telling us to stop. We stop.

Two officers climb out. One is Burt McCafferty, who coaches Claire's soccer team, and the other one I don't know.

“Hello, kids,” says Burt.

“Hello.” We're all bright and peppy the way cops want kids to be, not mumbly and shifty-eyed and high on illegal substances.

“This here is Officer Foster,” says Burt. “Just moved to town from Oakdale.”

“Hello, Officer Foster,” we singsong, like he's visiting our second-grade class to tell us about traffic rules.

“Where you coming from?” says Burt. “Why are you all wet?”

“We were swimming,” says Leila. “At my house.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents home?”

We look at Leila, since none of us knows. Even though if we'd just been there we would know. If they were out, we'd still be there, eating all the ice cream sandwiches in the freezer. If they'd been home, we would have noticed. We would have said, Hey, Mrs. Greyson, how are you? The garden looks nice this year.

“They might be home by now,” says Leila, trying to cover both angles.

“We had a call,” says Burt. “Didn't we, Foster?”

“Yep,” says the other guy, growly-like. “Citizens complaining about a break-in.”

Citizens? What TV show do these guys think they're starring in? We straddle our bikes, not looking at each other.

“ Break-in?” I say, because it's too quiet.

“Over in the new development,” says Burt. “Break and entry in the backyard pool.”

“Oh,” says Leila. “That's a break and entry? I thought you had to break something, like a window. Or a vase.”

Audrey snorts. “A vase, Leila?”

“This is not a laughing matter, young lady,” says Officer Foster.

“We don't want to think it's anything to do with you folks,” says Burt. “You're good kids, I know you kids. But you're all wet.”

“We were swimming,” says Leila. “At my house.”

“And where
is
your house?” asks Officer Foster.

“Burt's been there,” says Leila, showing off. “For dinner. It's on Caledonia Street.”

“So where are you headed now?” he says.

“Donut Barn,” says Carson.

“The Beanie,” says Audrey.

“We're just biking everyone home,” I say, “But we're stopping for snacks along the way.”

Claire picks that moment to come steaming along.

“Hey,” she says, grinning all round. “Hi, Coach Cop.”

I make bug eyes at her so she pays attention.

“Did you find your wallet that you went back to Leila's for?” I ask.

She tilts her head at me. I tilt back. She puts her hand in her shorts pocket and pulls out a soggy wallet.

“It fell in a puddle,” she says, smooth as a new-shaved leg.

“Beside the pool?” says Burt.

“Lotta splashing going on,” says Claire.

“You were with these kids tonight, Claire?” asks Burt. Like she's a chaperone.

“Yes, sir,” she says. “Trying to squeeze some sister time into the last few weeks before I go away.”

“Good for you,” says Burt, patting her shoulder. He turns to us, all paternal.

“Don't let us see you kids again tonight,” he says. Officer Foster grunts, like he's not fooled. But he doesn't know Claire, doesn't know that with Burt McCafferty, Claire's word is like a pledge carved on a shield.

I'm surprised she lied so easily. Normally she's kind of upstanding. Teacher's pet material.

“I forgot to tell you,” she says on the way home. “What Kate said.”

“What?”

“She said she thought you were going to be prettier than me. Someday.”

“Typical Kate,” I say. “Insult us both with the same compliment.”

Claire laughs. “No, I think she actually meant it the good way.”

“Don't worry,” I say. “She's wrong.”

There's this moment whenever I get to work and stand beside the pool, before the surface is broken. The water is so blue and so calm it seems to actually reflect the sky, instead of just holding a thousand quarts of chlorine. Makes me want to
slip
in with hardly a ripple, to immerse myself in liquid turquoise.

But then the morning shift begins. I crank up the music till the AquaFifties Plus think they're reliving their junior years in a dance club. Marlene and Liz and Joan and Phyllis, all my regular fatties, kicking and splashing, working up to the frosty mocha cappuccino and sour cream glazed at the Donut Barn.

Then in come the children, herded by mothers in varying degrees of annoying.

I go, “Hey, Tadpoles! Hey, Otters!”

Shannon takes the Otters to the other side and I get into the pool for the first time today. Now that it's stirred up, the water looks way too used. I have to make a dunking seem fun for the Tadpoles huddled on the side. The brave ones have their legs in already, whacking at the surface to make foam. It takes most of the thirty-minute lesson to coax them all in, holding on to the side for dear life.

Tadpoles are the cutest, though. When they get as old as Seals and Dolphins, those kids are brats. But even with demon children drowning each other and peeing in the pool, lessons win over laps anytime.

Watching laps bites.

There's this old man about eighty years old, or more, maybe. He's had the swim trunks for half his life, I swear. They're the color of dry dirt and tied on with string. I don't even want to think about what if the string breaks. He's got yellowy nails that curl over the end of his toes like he's some prehistoric reptile.

He comes at 11:59 for the noon lap swim and takes ten minutes to get down the ladder. Then it takes him fifteen to paddle his way from this end of the pool to the other. We call him Driftwood. We take bets on his time. He's so slow it's mesmerizing. I've been tricked more than once into thinking he's dead in the water. He stops moving and floats along, as if there's a current. And I'm going, Please no, I have to do mouth-to-mouth on Driftwood?

I go to Audrey's after my job, before her job. We have an hour to lie in her backyard as naked as we can get, wearing screw-you-ozone oil, SPF 4. Zack's not here because he's digging in somebody's garden or serving ice cream. So it's just us, hanging.

“If I had my eyebrows shaved off completely,” I say, “I'd have such a great tan line.”

“Mmmm,” says Audrey. “Let's consider that for our initiation ceremony.”

“Initiation to what?”

“To our club.”

“What club?”

“Let's start a club.”

The guy next door turns on his lawn mower and Audrey groans.

“Mr. Buckle is pornographically fixated on his lawn,” she says. “I'm not kidding, every Saturday, he gets practically horizontal to pick up twigs.”

“And you call him Buckle because?”

“His belt buckle is always open, swear to God. I'll give you five dollars if you look over that fence right now and his buckle is done up.”

“I'm not risking it,” I say. “But isn't he the guy with Hot Jimmy for a son? The boy who works the bar at O'Dooleys?”

“He's not as hot as the new Pizza Shack guy,” says Audrey, flipping over. “And definitely not hot enough to overcome the idea of ever having a conversation with his father.”

“Are parents really relevant?” I ask.

“Parents are
so
relevant,” says Audrey. “How else are you going to know if the guy will be bald someday?”

“Bald is so wrong,” I agree.

“And don't you think parents should be considered when selecting a life mate?” says Audrey. “What about Thanksgiving?”

“Whoa! That question is loaded with flaws.”

“As in?”

“You don't select a mate the way you choose a shampoo, Audrey. They're not all lined up in front of you at the same time displaying themselves for possible selection. And why are you using the phrase
life mate?
There shouldn't even be such a thing.”

“Too true,” says Audrey. “Who wants to be stuck with the same guy?”

“For
life”
I say.
“Forever.
All you have to do is look at any of our parents to know what a pointless concept it is.”

“My point exactly,” says Audrey.

“What? That parents are relevant?”

“Yes.”

“As the lowest rung of comparison, maybe.”

“What if,” says Audrey. “What if I got turned into an insect but you could hear me speak and I was still the same person, but I was an insect.”

“What kind of insect?”

“Something benign.”

“A praying mantis?”

“Sure.” Audrey rolls over and lunges for the sunblock.

“Well, I'd keep you in my room … on my dresser, maybe, so you could see in the mirror. And I'd talk to you. But it really wouldn't be the same.”

“No kidding.”

“What's your all-time worst word?” Audrey starts a new game.

“No discussion. The worst word is
moist. Moist!
Could anything be more explicit?
Mmmmooyysssst.”

“Ew!” says Audrey. “And I hate
mustache
, don't you? Isn't that just nasty? I hate the thing and I hate the word.”

“How about a moist mustache?” I say. “The bald gynecologist had a moist mustache.”

“Ew!”