Chapter #21The Swimmer by: Seuzz   "We wanted to run the school, right?" you ask. Caleb nods. "We can't do that if we topple the ruling clique. Anyway, Chelsea still has to take orders from us." The head cheerleader shoots you a waspish look, but at a glance from Caleb she nods unhappily. "So nothing's really changed. Except that Eva and Jessica are off the cheerleader squad."
"I guess you're right," Caleb grumbles.
"You can still switch into her," you point out.
"I'll have to do it after school," he says. "I'll get Gordon, too."
"That's the spirit," you say. "Come on, let's go tell Coach Tesla we're off the team."
Still, there's a despondency to your tread as you exit the office, leaving Chelsea behind. Coach Tesla and the other girls turn as you approach. "We can't stay on the squad," Jessica tells the coach. "Chelsea's ... Well, it just wouldn't work."
"I understand," she says grimly. "I'm sorry, girls. Maria, back in formation!" she calls as he returns to business. You give a little wave to your friends, but no one returns it: Chelsea has appeared in the meantime, with a gloating expression on her face.
* * * * *
Jeremy catches you after first period, to tell you that he received an ultimatum of his own from Black and Patterson: he's to stop seeing you. "Well, that's just peachy." you bitterly reply. "Are you relieved or upset?"
"It wasn't really working between us, was it?"
"I guess not. But we'll be in touch one way or another."
"Yeah, I getcha," he says sullenly. "Your friend will be, at any rate."
Despite Eva's catastrophe, you feel disconnected from it all. Maybe that shouldn't be a surprise. After all, it's Eva's persona, not you, that has suffered the reversal; and you even have to kind of admire how thoroughly Chelsea has practiced her vindictiveness. It's the kind of power that you and Caleb sought to grasp. However terrifying it is to be on the receiving end, you don't forget that, ultimately, it's you and he that hold the lever. This setback--which isn't even really a defeat--was just a cock up on your part.
But you have to play the part of the wronged Eva Garner, and you do your best. You sulk in the back of your classes, arms crossed, glaring at nothing, pretending that you are fighting back tears. Maybe Chelsea's reach is that long, or maybe your performance just drives everyone away, but no one comforts you or talks to you.
At lunch force of habit almost leads you to the cafeteria, but you catch yourself before making that fatal error. For that you have to thank a knot of losers--guys in hoodies and pants drooping off their hips and crotches--smirking at you near the entrance. "Hey Eva," one of them calls. "Lookin' for company? Hang with us, we can find a girl for you." Abruptly you turn on your heel and exit another door.
Somehow you wind up in the gym: lunch, oddly, is the one time it is almost sure to be empty of jocks and their bitches. You skirt the basketball floor, where a bunch of freshmen and sophomores are playing under the eye of the assistant coach. The upper deck is where the weight machines are, and you might run into someone there. You go out the other side, then on an impulse duck into the gym annex, which contains extra practice spaces as well as the school swimming pool.
It stinks of chlorine, but it is very cool, and the slap of the water in the pool is calming. You walk slowly around the edge of the pool, head bent in thought. In a few hours, if Caleb handles it right, you and he will have your own fists inside the gloves that wield the whip: him in Chelsea and you in Gordon Black. It is a comforting thought, though somewhat tempered by your keen awareness of what it's like to feel the tip of that lash.
A dark shape bobs to the surface of the pool, and you start. Andrea Varnsworth smiles up at you. "Got your suit?" she asks. "Come on in, the water's fine."
You blink, then shake your head. She shrugs and pulls herself onto the lip of the pool; water cascades off her shoulders and bosoms and hips and long, long legs. Despite wearing Eva's form, you swallow hard.
She seems to have caught your glance, for she smiles again. "Hand me my towel?" She nods at a bundle a few feet away, and you totter over to retrieve it. She sits on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water. "Dry me off?"
You swallow again. Andrea is the dark mare of the school: cool and sexy and insouciant and famously unattached to anyone. She keeps to herself and watches everyone. Eva has never talked to her; you yourself, naturally, have never had the nerve. And yet here she is, asking you to ... touch her.
Gingerly you pat her down. "You'll have to be rougher than that," she says. "And I'll never get dry if you don't do something about my hair." You take her long, dark hair in the folds of cloth and tousle it.
"Why weren't you wearing a cap?" you ask, and your voice catches.
"I wasn't practicing, just relaxing. I like being wet. Don't you?"
"Um." You're glad you don't have any chewing gum in your mouth, or you might have swallowed it.
"So I hear you made a pass at Chelsea Cooper last night."
You almost drop the towel. "That's not true," you say with some little emotion. "She just ... misunderstood something I did."
She laughs lightly. "Life is full of misunderstandings. That's what makes it interesting. Nothing fun would happen if people didn't ... misunderstand each other. Or themselves."
"She just fainted was all. I was trying to revive her."
"Hard to misunderstand something like that unless you tried mouth-to-mouth on her."
"Would you please stop it, Andrea?" you say. "You're the first person today who's even talked to me."
"But you do want to talk about it, don't you?" She turns. Her gaze is warm but veiled. "I just broached the subject because you couldn't find a way to."
"It was just a stupid mistake," you say firmly, but wretchedly aware of how tinny your insistences sound. "That's all I want to tell everyone."
"And now you've told someone. I'll say something too, and I hope you won't misunderstand me." Her lips twitch. "I could've told you not to get into that kind of a misunderstanding with Chelsea Cooper."
You fumble the towel. Your mind has suddenly turned into an adding machine and with a click-click-click a column of numbers that you never knew belonged together have suddenly resolved themselves into a very interesting sum. Andrea, for all her beauty, is firmly on the margins of Westside social life; and yet she towers over it as something unattainable. Chelsea does not tolerate even the semblance of rivalry from others, and yet she has never, to your knowledge, done anything to try cutting Andrea down to size.
"I never thought to ask you if I should," is all you say as an odd picture, of Andrea and Chelsea, cocked revolvers to each other's foreheads, appears in your mind.
"Until last night," Andrea says with a laugh. "Sit down."
Awkwardly you lower yourself by her side and she turns to you. Her hair hangs like thick seaweed around her narrow, oval face. You expect her to speak, but instead she leans in and kisses you. Her lips taste of chlorine, naturally, but her mouth has a spiciness, like cinnamon or cloves or nutmeg. Her kiss is gentle but firm, and she sucks you into herself rather than burrowing into you. You're breathing raggedly when she breaks it off.
"I like that," she says. "Chelsea has no taste if she doesn't. But then, her tastes run toward that ox. Or so she's convinced herself."
"My tastes-- I mean, I don't-- I'm not--"
"You're not?" Her tone is light, holding no disappointment. "That's too bad. I like you. I like all the girls on the squad. But Chelsea likes to keep the fluffy ones all to herself. She wants to be a fluffy one, too, but she's like me, hard as redwood inside."
"Cedar," you blurt out, finally placing what the taste of her mouth reminds you of. You could be wrong, though, but you don't dare try to confirm the hypothesis with another kiss. Andrea looks at you curiously. "Nothing," you mutter.
"Hmm." She draws back and drinks you in slowly, from your knees to your hips to your boobs to your lips to your eyes. "You're a funny one, Eva. I really wouldn't have pegged you as one to suffer from a ... misunderstanding. But have I misunderstood you?"
You told Caleb you wanted a squad of boys as your team players because you wanted a hot girlfriend. And so you can't quite bring yourself to agree with Andrea that she has misunderstood you.
"What are you doing tonight?" she asks. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author