Signed, Skye Harper (3 page)

Steve talked to me in those days. Said things like “hey” when I went to Leon’s and he was there.

He said hey to me all the way to sixth grade when all the sudden girls saw him to be the tall cute guy that he is.

But I’ve known how great Steve was all along.

Maybe he can’t see the real me past my bosoms.
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24

Work, Part Two

As soon as I got to work with Nanny, she set to checking the restaurant out, and I set to making sure that the glasses on the tables were all clean, the silverware was folded in the linen napkins, and there wasn’t a fly in the place. I mean I did all that after I visited the Deepfreeze.

Leon’s is where I took my first step, and truth be told, there is something about owning a restaurant. Or at least working in one that your nanny’s friend owns and she
sorta
owns, though I am not sure how it works, seeing they are rich and we collect our eggs from the backyard and not the Piggly Wiggly.

I have another secret wish.

That I can sometime open my own restaurant and make a bundle of money, like the Simmonses have. That will be after my swimming career is over. If Shane Gould can do it this summer, well, why not me? I’ll hang my gold medals on the wall over the cash register. And when the place is a roaring success, I will hand the keys over to Nanny and say, “Here you go.”

“After lunch rush,” Nanny said now, tapping her nails on the countertop, “I need you to go check the plants at the
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Simmons place. Make sure they have enough water.”

See what I mean about rich? Leon and Janet and Steve the First Simmons have gone off on an adventure. To visit Europe. That’s what Leon’s hard work has done for them. At least that’s what Nanny says. And I believe her. She may be in her late forties, but my grandmother knows a lot of stuff. Like how to train a one-legged rooster to walk and how to balance the books of a successful restaurant and how to raise a daughter and then a granddaughter, all on her own.

“I’ll do it,” I said. And just like that I knew today would be different, sort of like yesterday’s was with that letter from Momma.

What would make it different? My heart thrummed like when I stand all illegal at the edge of the smooth-watered high school swimming pool.

Today I’d investigate Steve’s room.
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25

Steve

Last time me and Nanny were in the Simmonses’ mansion (Nanny made me go with her so she wouldn’t have to talk to Janet Green Simmons all alone, which is exactly what ended up happening because that woman is the bossy type), I thought about it. You know, how I would go and take a peek at his door.

Then
he
barreled past in his swimming trunks with Angel Franklin attached to his hand (she was in a bikini), to his pool, and he was so tan, and his hair was so blond, and his momma was yelling at him to get his chores done and he was ignoring her and Angel was saying, “Is it cold? Is it cold?” so I never really had the chance to do more than think, then stare at him and wish that was me in that pink shimmery two-piece.

No one would have had to throw me in the pool. I would have dived right in—a perfect slice that wouldn’t even make a splash.
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26

Anticipation

My blood felt warmer than normal all during lunch service. My cheeks stayed pink.

I have to say I hate having a crush on a guy.

I wish I could be like Angel. Maybe money makes you fit in better. Maybe it makes you think different.

Maybe that’s what Momma thought when she left me and Nanny. That money might somehow save her.
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27

Plan

“The Simmonses are gone,” I whispered as I filled glasses with ice. I felt like someone from
The Twilight Zone
maybe. Or Victoria Winters from
Dark Shadows
.

They are all in Europe,
I thought as I cleaned up a spill in the lobby where Nanny handed out icy glasses of tea and water and lemonade while people waited for their tables to come empty.
I could swim. Eat something from their refrigerator.

I kept wondering what Steve’s room would look like. Would it be stylish and nautical like
McCall’s
magazine said was hip? Or all browns and tans the way some other magazines showed was cool. I imagined things so hard I overfilled one customer’s water glass and forgot to top off another person’s unsweetened tea.

“I’ll even look in his drawers,” I said as I took all the dishes from table eighteen, where a family had eaten more crab claws than should be allowed.

“Where’s your bra?” Nanny said as I passed close enough for her to get a good look.

“Cooling off,” I said and hurried away, the tub laden with dirty platters and bowls and silverware, and then to the freezer so I could be prepared when Nanny and I met up again.
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28

Preparing for the Plan

The Simmons house was quiet and cool. And huge. Huge! It would take me an hour to check all the plants. I know because I’ve done this with Nanny before. Janet Green Simmons is too busy to water her own plants. She has things to do.

I set the key on the table after I let myself in the grand foyer and went out to the garage to get the watering can. I came back through the kitchen that I know they never cook in and that I know Nanny would love to get her hands dirty in. I would water plants in the dining room, first.

Here there are windows that look out at the pool, and past that the lawn and all the way down to the shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean. From where I stood, I could hear the crash of the waves. Thelma would love this house. So would Denny. And Nanny.

I sighed.

“Get to work,” I said to myself.

My hands already ached from carrying that tub full of dishes back and forth to Raul, who washed them fast as he could for the next rush of people, and I was dirty now even though I wore an apron all during service. Somehow I’d
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gotten chicken-fried-steak gravy in my hair. Busing is hard business.

“First things first,” I said, and took off my bra and stuck it in the freezer next to the Borden’s cherry vanilla ice cream. Then I started watering.

And watering.

And watering.
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29

The Olympics

I looked at the Simmonses’ pool.

It seemed extra long. I bet our Olympic athletes could practice in that thing.

What did a three-person family need with a pool this size so close to the ocean? They could step into the surf from their front door. Well. Almost.

“Do it.” I whispered the words, fogging up the bit of glass. Running my fingers through my breath, I answered myself, “Are you crazy? No. Way.”

There’s no one here.

Good grief! I knew that! Wasn’t I watering and dusting and peeping in drawers to see what all was in this place? Didn’t I plan to look in Steve’s room today? This very day? I knew I was alone! I didn’t need to convince me of anything.

I rubbed at my arms. Why in the world had the Simmonses left the air conditioning on? Did their precious plants need to be cool? Disgusting.

I went back to the ferns and peace lilies and moth orchids, checking the dirt with my thumb, passing by the ones that shouldn’t be watered at all.

Even their plants bloomed while they were gone.
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What would Janet Green Simmons do if I overwatered?

Underwatered?

Water.

The pool.

Go.

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30

Temptation

The plants on the main floor (which was as big as the Piggly Wiggly, if you ask me) were done.

I wandered to the fridge.

It was about empty. Beer. Bologna. Milk.
That
would go bad in almost three months.

So what? Let them come home to cheese. And bologna bricks.

“That’s it,” I said into the fridge, which was about as cold as the kitchen felt. Stinkin’ fridge was big enough to sleep in.

I closed my eyes and shut the door, then turned around and leaned on the counter. What was the matter with me? Why was I mad? I don’t ever get mad.

They had a pool.

Sure.

They were rich because of Leon’s.

Sure.

And me and Nanny weren’t.

Sure.

Steve could practice for the Olympics, but he played football instead.

Go.

“That’s it,” I said. “I’m gonna do it.”

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31

Doing It Once

I walked fast before I could change my mind.

Out the french doors.

Onto the back porch that was big enough to park cars on.

I slipped off my shorts.

Kicked off my flip-flops. Placed my T-shirt on top of everything as though I offered a gift to the swimming gods.

Were there swimming gods?

Did it matter?

My T-shirt had faded blue and got all stretched out around the neck like I like them. It looked like a jewel there on the white marble of the pool surround.

Should I go back in the house and get my bra? Should I swim in it?

I didn’t give myself a chance to answer, just dove into the pool, buck naked except my panties. And like that, I was home.
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32

Home

Swimming and me.

In a stolen pool, Simmons or high school.

In the ocean.

In Crystal Lake—minus the water moccasins.

Let me swim,
I thought, and I worked my way back and forth over that water, going as fast or as slow as I wanted.

Lost track of time.

Of Nanny.

Of Momma’s worrisome note.

This was the life. A pool right here. The ocean a few steps beyond.

After a bit I rolled onto my back.

The sun had moved a good deal, but I didn’t let that stop me from me from doing what came as natural to me as walking or running did.

Instead I planned. I’d go inside quick, take care of the plants upstairs, catch a glimpse or two of Steve’s room, then jog back to Nanny, who I bet had chewed her fingernails to the quick by now, worrying.

I blew a spout of water into the air.

Sure. I’d do that soon.
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33

Executing the Plan, Plus Surprise 3

It was a mess.

When I pushed the door open and saw his bedroom, I couldn’t believe it looked this way. Nanny would have my hide if I left things piled all over the floor, dishes on the dresser, the bed unmade.

Now I took a step, over a tangle of blue jeans, a skateboard, and underwear turned inside out. Nerves thumped through my veins and I swallowed. There was a mirror I could sort of see myself in, covered by more posters and pictures of girls from school. I recognized Angel and a girl named Whitney and the twins Samantha and Sabrina. Why were they hugging like that?

Posters of Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, and Alice Cooper covered one wall. There were several lava lamps, all going, blobs of lava (what was that stuff? I wasn’t sure but I wanted one) floated to the top of the bulb-thing then settled back down.

Steve Simmons the First couldn’t have been further from
McCall’s
than I was with my one Mark Spitz poster.

“I could live like this,” I whispered. “I could get used to it. Marry him. Have his babies.” I cleared my throat. “After
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the Olympics of course.” For a moment I imagined myself picking up after Steve.

Maybe no to the babies.

Another step.

There on the floor was a stack of
Playboy
s. One was open and . . . I looked away from the topless girl. Were . . . were these magazines Steve’s? They couldn’t be. They must be his father’s, and his father came in this room to read them—or look at them—or whatever you did with a
Playboy
, so his wife wouldn’t know.

What would Nanny think of this?

And couldn’t those lava lamps plugged in and going for three months straight, couldn’t that cause a fire or something?
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34

Surprise 4

“What are you doing in here?”

My hand shook so hard that water from the watering can slopped over the sides and landed on Steve’s underwear. I opened and closed my mouth three times, like an old catfish on a line. I felt as trapped. I wanted to run. To dive from his balcony and into the pool. I wanted to turn and stare into his face, but I couldn’t quite move.

Steve Simmons was here. Now. In this room. Here.

Now.

Not in Europe at all.

Here.

I almost dropped the watering can. I found my tongue, hidden in the back corner of my mouth. “What am
I
doing in here? What are
you
doing in here? That’s the real question.”

Steve cocked his head at me, birdlike. “I live here.”

“Uh.”

He was right about that.

“You’re
supposed
to be in France or something.”

Steve pushed past me and into his the-bomb-just-went-off room. “Didn’t go,” he said.
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That was obvious.

He turned and eyed me. “Watched you swimming,” he said.

Something inside my gut burst into flames.

“You saw—saw me?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

Steve pulled his shirt off and threw it on one of the piles in front of a walk-in closet that was bigger than our living room. He didn’t say anything.

“You spied,” I said. My face felt steamy. Maybe through this smoky haze he couldn’t see. Wait. Why was it smoky in here? “I think that’s against the law. Spying.”

Maybe he couldn’t see the wet imprints of my breasts or the water slipping down my legs. I should have used a real towel to dry off on, not that fancy thing I found in the kitchen sink.