I sigh. “Levi, I need a break from you for a while, okay?”
His face creases with disappointment. “Okay.”
“You can let yourself out.”
I bury my face in the heels of my hands, listening to the heavy fall of his footsteps. Then I’m alone, just me and the medal I won today. I’m proud of it. I really am.
But somehow it doesn’t feel so special since I’m not celebrating with my best friend.
• • •
Coach gives me Sunday off.
He texted that it’s a reward for winning 200 free—but he probably thinks I need some space from Levi. Which is totally true.
Church is stressful because Georgia keeps asking what happened between us. We write notes back and forth on the little offering envelopes. Her mother, who is sitting in the pew behind us, keeps clicking her tongue because writing notes in church is apparently a total sin.
Did you and Levi fight?
I will tell you, but I don’t want it to affect your friendship with him.
Why would it?
I pull a deep breath and write, I had been planning to talk to him about us but he freaked out and pushed me away. He wanted to hook up with somebody else. Then Roxy flirted with him and I saw.
Georgia takes the envelope from my hand and reads the note, then folds it with crisp, angry movements.
Outside, it’s a beautiful morning. One of those rare seventy-degree March days. It gets a whole lot hotter when Georgia folds her arms across her stomach.
“Levi cheated on you?”
“We weren’t officially together, so, no, he didn’t cheat.”
“But you guys were fooling around, and then he tried to push you away by coming on to Roxy? That rat bastard jerk!”
“George, I told you,” I say quickly. “I don’t want this messing up your friendship with Levi.”
“I don’t want to be friends with a dick like that!”
“Georgia.”
“Maggie.”
“He is not like Kevin,” I say gently. “Levi didn’t treat me like he treated you.”
“But Levi hurt you!”
“I will feel terrible if this messes up our group,” I say quietly.
“Me too, but it’s not our fault. It’s his!”
“Actually, it’s mine. I’m the one who started this whole thing.”
“Don’t you dare defend him! You’re better than that.”
“Georgia,” her mother calls from the parking lot. “We need to go or we’ll be late to meet your grandmother.”
Georgia gives me a hug good-bye.
After church, Mom and Dad have paperwork to do at the office. By midafternoon I’m bored out of my mind—no practice, homework is done, nothing is on TV, sad thoughts won’t stop racing through my mind—so I decide to walk over and see if Chef made any snacks.
When I get to Mom and Dad’s office, Mom has left because of a “napkin emergency at a baby shower.” What in the world is a napkin emergency?
I plop down in Dad’s office, which is covered in pictures of events he designed. A picture from Shelby Goodwin’s thirteenth birthday party hangs on the wall. It was held in a tent on the Goodwins’ lavish horse farm. Half of the party was a black and blue nightclub for the kids, while the adult side was all gold opulence and champagne fountains. Dad pitched it as classy and cool, and the Goodwins have been hiring him to cater their parties ever since. Take that, Diane Musgrave.
Dad looks up from his laptop. “What are you doing here, Tadpole?”
“Came to see if you have any food.”
He shuts the lid on his computer. “Chef’s getting ready for an anniversary party tonight. We can probably scrounge something up.”
He leads me down the hall and out back to the spacious kitchens filled with pans hanging from the ceiling, ovens, and stoves. I call out a hello to Chef, but he is in Cooking Mode and has no patience for anything except letting the bread yeast rise. Four assistant cooks rush around doing his bidding.
Dad takes a plate around the kitchen, dodging cranky cooks, stealing samples for us. He pours us each a glass of iced tea, and we sit down together on the back porch, which overlooks rolling hills to the right and cornfields to the left. What a gorgeous day. The rest of the week will be in the fifties, so it’s nice to have this little reprieve. It’s so sunny I put on my sunglasses.
I dig into the almonds, pita chips, and hummus Dad collected for me.
He pops an olive in his mouth. “Bad news. We lost the pajama party bid.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Dad. What happened?”
He shrugs, his shoulders drooping. “You know how we won the contract last year because we proposed that people wear kimonos, and we would serve sushi and Asian-American fusion?”
“Right.”
“This year Diane Musgrave pitched a ‘pajamas around the world party,’ featuring foods from other countries,” he says, making finger quotes.
“She totally one-upped your idea again! Does that woman have one original thought? Aren’t you pissed?”
“Yeah, sort of.” Dad snags another olive and tosses it in his mouth. “I’d proposed an Americana theme this year—hot dogs, cotton candy. Something simple but delicious.” Dad loves the classics. “It turned out the mayor’s office wanted something different. I can’t let what other people do affect me.”
“But how do you get past that?”
My father thinks for a moment. “If you spend all your time thinking about how someone is going to one-up you, you can’t put your best foot forward. You can’t spend all your mental energy focusing on your opponent. You’ll lose every time that way.”
I push the almonds around on the plate.
“Maggie, what’s wrong?” Dad asks. “Your mom said something happened with Levi?”
“We had a fight.”
“About what?”
I shake my head. “He did something mean. I’m not sure he was thinking straight when he did it, and he apologized. I probably overreacted—it’s not all his fault, but I don’t know that I can get past it.”
Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Friends like Levi don’t come around every day. I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It still hurts.” And it’s mostly my fault. He would’ve never been in that situation if not for me. “I need some time.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of distance to help you see things clearly. I was really pissed last night when I heard Musgrave won the pajama party contract, but then I thought, she won’t win next year because she won’t be able to copy my idea from this year.” Dad chuckles evilly. “And I’ll come up with something even better.”
I love my dad.
And he’s right. It’s okay to take time to let the dust settle. It’s okay to regroup.
On Sunday night, I make a decision.
I text Levi: I am driving myself tomorrow.
Practice
Levi looks unkempt.
At practice Monday morning, he hasn’t shaved his face and his hair isn’t brushed. Normally it’s sleeked back before he tucks it under a swim cap.
Instead of joining me in lane six, he hops down into lane eight with Jason and two other guys. Four guys to a lane gives them less room to spread out, which causes them to roughhouse around for room. He appears to be paying for his decision to switch lanes because the guys are doing silly stuff during breaks between sets, like cannonballing into the water to splash Levi and piss him off. On top of that, they are all rapping loudly along with the music spilling from the speakers. Levi horses around on occasion, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood today—and he tells them to shut up.
Lunchtime is not any better. We join Hunter and Shelby and Shelby’s gaggle of sophomore friends who are busy making fun of how they got caught going at it in the equipment shed.
“Right there. Right there, baby!” a girl says, mimicking Hunter’s deep voice.
“Say you’re mine!” another one cries.
“I want to know every part of you!”
“I fantasize about you!”
“Don’t stop!”