Sweetest Taboo
A novel
By Eva Márquez
Sweetest Taboo © 2012 Eva Márquez All Rights Reserved To a young soul who left this world far too soon and whose beauty and spirit touched and inspired those who knew her. Table of Contents PROLOGUE Chapter One: Careless Whisper Chapter Two: It’s Raining Men, Hallelujah! Chapter Three: Is it a Crime? Chapter Four: Sowing the Seeds of Love Chapter Five: Sweetest Taboo Chapter Six: More than Words Chapter Seven: Friday, I’m in Love Chapter Eight: Winds of Change Chapter Nine: It Ain’t Over ’til It’s Over Chapter Ten: No More “I Love You’s” Chapter Eleven: I’ll stand by you Chapter Twelve: Better Be Home Soon Chapter Thirteen: Believe Chapter Fourteen: Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad? Chapter Fifteen: Losing My Religion Chapter Sixteen: Come What May Chapter Seventeen: No Ordinary Love Chapter Eighteen: Sweet Surrender Chapter Nineteen: Just Like Heaven Chapter Twenty: It’s the End of the World as We Know It Chapter Twenty-One: With or Without You Chapter Twenty-Two: Please, Please Tell Me Why? Chapter Twenty-Three: You were meant for me EPILOGUE Prologue Dear Reader, My story begins in the early 90’s, when a young girl started her high school career. She may have been any girl – young, impressionable, and fresh into the wide world of older boys, harder classes, and more choices. She may have been quite beautiful, well developed for her age, and smarter than most of the other students in her class. She may have been destined for the same high school career as anyone else – honors courses, braces, a few high school crushes, photography classes, a first kiss, and then a straight shot into the college of her choice, and her future as a doctor, or teacher, or architect. Instead, she fell in love with her swim coach, and one of the most popular teachers in the school, and became romantically involved with him. I don’t believe that I have to tell you how dangerous this would have been. She was a young girl of 15, 16, 17 and he an adult man in his late 30’s, old enough to be her father. Although this type of relationship would have passed as acceptable and even normal in Medieval England, the modern world frowns on such dalliances, and prosecutes the men – and women – who take advantage of adolescent students in this way. The two of them, then, would have been facing the threat of discovery, tarnishing of reputation, and even time behind bars; throwing their relationship in the face of society, if you will, but doing so quietly, in order to avoid detection. Have you guessed, yet, that the story I’m telling you is true? Have you guessed that it’s more than just a rhetorical question, more than an idea that developed in my head one day? The girl in the story is my mother, Isabel Cruz. She never told her story to the world, though she could have, because she didn’t want her love and relationship to be tainted by society’s judgments. This was a story of an illicit – and illegal – love. It was a story of lying, cheating, and misleading the authorities. My mother’s love for this older man was forbidden, and would have been highly scandalous to the world at large. She might have lost privileges, opportunities, and even her family, had they found out. And for him … his future and very life would have been put in jeopardy if the nature of their relationship were revealed, regardless of whether my mother sought to prosecute him or not. Even when she was older, my mother feared that the truth about their relationship might bring a backlash to the man she had loved so dearly. She fought against that with all her might, with the ongoing wish to keep him from any risk or pain. She never lost her love for him, scandalous as it may have seemed to others. She is older, now, and the man in the story is long gone. When I happened across her diary from that time and asked her permission to write the story, she acquiesced. It was time that the world knew, she said, so it could see that this type of love – though it may be frowned upon, and even prosecuted – isn’t always what it seems. Sometimes, regardless of the ages of the participants, it is just that. Love. True and pure as it can be between two people, and strong enough to last through the years. It was time, she said, for our family to know its past, and its future. I have just closed her diary, having squeezed every word from it, and written my own last words, which means that the book is done and her story has been told. I must pass it to you now, Reader, and trust you to hold it dear and keep it safe. I must trust you to see the love that shines through, rather than the social mores of the situation. I must trust you to care for my mother and her past, as I have during the writing of this book. This, then, is my mother’s story. It starts when she was very young, only 15 … ~ Claire Stevens Chapter One v Careless Whisper By my calculations, I had seven minutes. I had to make my move right now, or it would be too late. I strained my ears and listened for my brother's deep voice whispering down the hall. He always ended the conversations with his girlfriend with a “good night” and “I love you.” But there was nothing. Silence. I frowned. I knew my parents were already asleep; I could no longer hear their pillow talk – the steady murmurs that used to comfort me when I was a kid – from the other side of the wall. At least that meant I was safe to go looking. I left my bedroom and crept down the empty hall, but didn’t find my brother. I moved through the house stealthily, switching off the ringers to all three telephones. I went first to my mom’s office, next in the kitchen, and finally to the living room, where I found the cordless phone’s cradle empty. I switched the ringer off quietly, then looked around the room. Tony still had the cordless phone. He usually returned it to its cradle after he said goodnight to Amy. What was he doing? Was he expecting another call? Was he keeping the phone out of spite? I gulped down my frustration and fear. He could ruin everything. Worse, he could catch me and turn me in. I thought I still had about five minutes to find the phone and get outside, though. I crept barefoot down the hallway, a cold chill running down my back. Tony's bedroom door was ajar, the flickering lights of the TV slanting into the darkened hallway from his room. I tiptoed toward the door and peered through the gap. I was relieved at what I saw. My brother had fallen asleep with the TV on and the phone in hand. The idiot. Tonight, of all nights. I sucked in a deep breath, stretched out my hand, and pushed the door open. The hinge let out a slight creak and I froze. The loud groans of our old house were the last thing I needed right now. I waited until the door stopped moving, and listened intently for any other sound. Nothing. No one was awake but me. I held my breath, pushed the door a little wider, and slipped into the room. The carpet was thick under my feet, cushioning my quiet footsteps as I padded closer to my brother’s sleeping form, but my nerves fired with every step. I was terrified of being caught, but I needed that phone like I needed to breathe. I held my breath and reached out slowly, pulling the phone from Tony's hand. Tony stirred, mumbled something, and turned over with a grunt. I didn't breathe again until I was out of the room and rushing toward the kitchen. I glanced at the clock as I passed and exhaled; three minutes to spare. I crept across the living room, the phone held tightly in my fist, and took a wide path around the coffee table. The last thing I needed right now was to crash into something and wake the whole house. Luckily, the full moon’s warm light shone through the mini blinds in the living room, casting a glow across everything in the room. I turned the brass knob on the kitchen door with a light touch and tiptoed out to the patio. The phone would ring any minute. I swung the door almost shut behind me, but left it slightly ajar; as to not make any noise when I went back inside. The night air surrounded me, invigorating me with its touch and promise of dark corners and secrets. The wind blew through my hair on its way to the gigantic maple tree at the far end of our backyard, where it rushed across the dry leaves. This was good – the sound of the leaves would conceal the sound of my voice. I sat cross-legged on the cool patio floor, and wondered nervously if the buzz of the cordless phone would not wake anyone inside. It never had before, but there was a first time for everything. This wasn’t the first night I’d sat barefoot on the patio, cordless phone in hand. I’d sat out here like this many nights, and it always made me feel … alive. Even with the dim light of the full moon, the other side of our yard was dark. Mysterious. Full of possibility. Of course I knew that during the day there was a fence there to keep the neighbor’s horses out and our little terrier in. At night, though, in the dark, the whole world seemed somehow larger. The cool spring breeze found its way under my long hair and I wished that I was wearing my favorite flannel shirt instead of the fitted pink tank top I had on. I shivered, staring at the darkness of our yard, and thought suddenly of the rapist and murderer who had terrorized our community when I was younger. My father had put special locks on our doors and windows, and no young girls had been allowed out after dark. I had been too young to really understand, but it had left a lingering mark. How did I know there wasn’t some nutcase just over the fence, waiting for a moment like this, when he could to jump out and assault an seventeen-year-old girl in her tank top and shorts? The phone vibrated suddenly and my heart jumped, startling me out of my morbid thoughts. I pressed the green Talk button on the phone, a lump forming in my throat. “Tom?” I asked in a hoarse whisper, my stomach full of butterflies. It was still a little strange to call him by first name, even after all these years. Especially when everyone else at Royal Oaks High called him “Mr. Stevens.” “Isabel,” came the familiar voice. “How are you?” His voice was gentle and deep. It soothed me instantly, the same way it had when I was fifteen. There was an edge to his voice tonight, though, and I sensed that there was something bothering him. "Is something wrong?" I asked. I didn’t want to admit that I already knew exactly what it was; my high school graduation was coming up. It would bring an end to our current arrangement. We hadn’t talked about our future yet, but I had known that it was coming. After a few pensive moments, Tom spoke. “You’re my sweetheart," he told me, his voice sad. "I can’t imagine life without you. I don’t want to have to imagine life without you.” Tom rarely used terms of endearment with me, these days. When he did – in these rare moments when he called me his sweetheart – my heart melted. All of the turmoil, the sleepless nights, the protracted nature of our relationship, became nothing more than a passing inconvenience and very worthwhile. Tonight, though, I knew that the word came with drawbacks. They gave me the courage I needed to say the words I’d been dreading. “My graduation won’t affect our relationship, you know that," I told him. "Look at how much we’ve been through together. If we made it through all of that, we can make it through anything. Tom, I want to be with you always, no matter where life takes me after graduation.” I spoke passionately, fully believing in what I said. I was absolutely devoted to this man. But somewhere deep inside, I knew I was being dishonest. Neither of us wanted our relationship to change, but it was clear that things were going to change, and soon. I had just been offered a place at a small, private liberal arts college on the East Coast. The choice had been difficult because although I wanted to stay close to Tom, I also wanted to move forward with my life. In the end, I accepted the offer. Tom hadn’t really reacted when I told him. It hadn’t affected our relationship. Now, though, the cracks were starting to show. “I want to believe that,” Tom answered quietly. “I loved the last letter you wrote me. Every time I read your letters, I feel like I’m sixteen again. I feel like I’ve come out of a deep sleep." A pause, and then, "I can’t lose you, Isabel. You’re the reason I wake up in the morning; I can’t love anyone more than I love–” Suddenly I heard a distinct click on the line. My heart plummeted. “Did you hear that?" Tom snapped, his tone suddenly terse. "Did someone pick up the phone at your house?” “Hold on a minute, let me check inside.” I slipped back inside and listened, but the house was completely quiet. The kitchen phone was on the counter, my mom’s office was dark, and I was holding the only other phone in the house. "Who picked up the phone?” Tom repeated, worry coloring his voice. The click had not originated on my end of the line. I should've been relieved, but my panic rose even more. “Tom," I whispered into the receiver. "It wasn’t here, everyone’s asleep..." “I have to go," Tom interrupted abruptly. "Danielle's coming.” There was another click, and the line went dead. Chapter Two v It’s Raining Men, Hallelujah! My freshman year of high school had been ... empowering. I’d found it almost immediately to be a welcome change from the awkwardness of middle school; my friends and I were growing up, we were having good times, and – best of all – the boys that I’d always noticed had finally started noticing me. I’d always been a family-oriented girl, but this new atmosphere brought a new independence, and I’d enjoyed every second of it. I was fourteen and ready for the world and ready for my first relationship with a boy. That year, and the summer after, had become a blur of new boys: Alfredo, Ryan, Brian, David, Charles, Eric … I felt as though I’d spent my entire life in a box, and was just now finding my way out of it. I never fell in love, though, and I was always careful to stop things before they got too serious. Nothing more than kissing; my parents had raised me to be a respectable girl, and I fully expected to be a virgin at my wedding. When I started my sophomore year, though, everything changed. q I walked slowly down the open halls of the campus on the first day of sophomore year, reveling in the feeling of being back. The summer had been wonderful, and I’d had a great time, but school still held the things that were important to me – learning, my future, and the daily social interactions. Nothing had changed since the year before, aside from my status in the school. The lockers were still old, rusty, and badly in need of maintenance, though they were decorated today with purple and silver welcome signs, in honor of the first day of school. I laughed at the posters; they were hung haphazardly with silver duct tape, and had obviously been done in a hurry. The rest of the school looked exactly the same; drab brown and tan walls, concrete floors, and single-story classroom buildings. The best thing about this particular campus was that it was open to the sky; when I was outside of class, I could lie on the benches or grass lawns, watching the clouds float through the sky, and dreaming about the future. I strolled past the window of one of the administrative offices, and glanced subconsciously at the reflection. I’d worn shorts, t-shirts, and jeans during my freshman year, and had been content to look like a tomboy. I was a sophomore now, though, and wanted to look the part, so I’d convinced my mom to buy me a new wardrobe over the summer: skirts, fitted jeans, and tops that showed off my emerging figure. I knew that I was maturing more quickly than some of the other girls in the class, and I intended to take full advantage of it. I’d also been told that I looked like Natalie Wood, and had done my hair in her signature style this morning – pulled back into a high, swinging ponytail, which just brushed the top of my shoulders. The only thing that spoiled my looks were the metal braces on my teeth, but I’d dealt with that. I had spent two full days in front of the mirror over the summer, learning to smile with my lips slightly parted. I was convinced that this was going to be my year. I’d even joined the swim team this year, with my best friends Vicky and Natalie, to pad my resume and get the extra-curricular experience. I’d never swum competitively, so it was going to take some work, but it would give me the opportunity to improve my form, enjoy my friends, work on my tan, and catch the eye of boys, who hung around the pool watching us girls in swimsuits. I smiled shyly at my reflection on the window, then turned and walked away. Enough daydreaming, I lectured myself. If this was going to be my year, I needed to start by getting to my first class. q By the time January rolled around, swim practice had become the highlight of my day. It gave me something to work toward, and a break in the routine that was my life. It was also an additional activity on my transcript, and I was keenly aware that colleges would be looking for such things when reviewing my application. I spent most of my time in class looking forward to the last bell. When it sounded, my team members and I rushed to the girls’ locker room – dimly lit by just a few fluorescent lights – to change into our suits and do our stretches. I became addicted to the smell of the chlorine, which never left my suit, and the cool, shocking plunge into the refreshing water. The afternoons were warm, even in January, so we always had a crowd of observers. I loved the spectators, and the knowledge that they’d come to see us perform. Of course, there was something else that sent me rushing to the pool every day. Something bigger and more important than the smell of the chlorine, the cool water, or even the eyes of the audience. Two of our swim instructors were female coaches from the PE department. They handled the beginners and coached the JV team. They also ran the majority of our practices. The varsity coach, though, was the reason I sprayed on Exclamation, my favorite perfume, every afternoon before heading to the pool. Mr. Stevens was the head coach, though he took a back seat to the two assistant coaches during practice. He didn’t give us our drills or correct our mistakes, as the two women did. He sat in the shadows instead, watching, and murmuring an occasional comment to one of the assistants. When it came time to separate into different teams, he took the varsity team to the smaller pool to work with them. I’d never had a personal conversation with him, and I didn’t know if he’d ever even looked at me. That, of course, just made me even more attracted to him. I’d always had crushes on older men, but Mr. Stevens was the most attractive man I’d ever seen. Tall, athletic, broad-shouldered … he had the short dirty-blonde hair and hazel eyes that I’d always found very attractive, with deeply tanned skin and full, pouting lips. I had never noticed him before I joined the swim team, but couldn’t keep my mind off him once I’d seen him. A bit of quick research told me that he was a teacher as well, and taught both mathematics and photography to the upper classmen in the school. Several of my older friends were taking his class, though they thought I was crazy when I told them I wanted to meet him. None of my friends found him particularly attractive – he was in his late thirties and sporting some gray on his temples, and wasn’t exactly a high school jock. I ignored their opinions, though, and embraced my crush with all the fierceness of a love-struck fifteenyear-old girl. I made it my mission in life to meet him and get to know more about him. “So I hear that Robby Herrera is really into you," Sarah said suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. I gasped and blinked, clearing my head of the daydream I’d been having, and looked over at her. “What?” I asked gruffly. “Who?” Sarah pursed her lips in disapproval and followed my eyes to the edge of the green, where Mr. Stevens stood talking to some teachers. "Robby Herrera,” she repeated. “You know, he’s a student here? He’s a freshman, but he seems like a nice guy.” She paused, frowning. “Better than having a crush on a creepy teacher,” she added darkly. I narrowed my eyes at her in response. Sarah was the only one who reacted this way to my crush. I assumed that it had something to do with her family life, which wasn’t pleasant, but I never took well to being lectured. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sarah,” I muttered. She huffed, crossing her arms. “What’s wrong with you?" she snapped. "Do I have to paint a few gray hairs on Robby's head just so you’ll give him a chance? Izzy, Mr. Stevens is old enough to be your dad. He’s married and has kids. Daughters, not that much younger than us! What are you going to do, become a home wrecker?” She looked at me and shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bother. It’s not like you even listen to me.” She turned and stormed away from the green top toward the classrooms. I sighed; I didn’t know why it meant so much to Sarah, and I didn’t know how to make it any better with her. She was right, though – her words had no bearing on my obsession with Mr. Stevens. What she didn’t know – though I’d been obsessing about it for a week – was that my crush had become even deeper the previous Monday. Mr. Stevens had finally started paying attention to me. I don’t know why it happened, or what I had done to attract his eyes, but when I got out of the pool he was standing on the deck, waiting, with my turquoise beach towel in his hand. That’s when I’d known that this crush wasn’t as one-sided as I had thought. He hadn’t been waiting for anyone else. He hadn’t even said anything to anyone else on the JV team. And he certainly didn’t know where anyone else’s towel was (this part might have been an assumption on my part). But he knew who I was, and he was waiting for me. I stared up at him, my mouth open, and my mind raced through all of the implications. First, the fact that he handed me the towel, and not anyone else on the team, meant that he was sharing this connection with me, and only with me. Second, the fact that Mr. Stevens knew which towel was mine meant that he had been observing me. All of this time, when it had seemed to me that he’d never even looked my way, he had been watching. Watching for long enough to know which towel I picked up, at least. And he must have been watching me carefully to know that I always put my bag on the concrete bench near the south end of the pool. He’d known where to look for my towel, and that brought me to my third – and most important – conclusion. He knew when I got to practice, and where I put my things. That must mean that he watched for me to arrive. I took the towel and turned without speaking, dizzy with excitement. I don’t know how I made it to the girl’s locker room without tripping over myself. After that, things changed. q Three weeks later, we had our first swim meet. This marked the first time that our team would compete together, and the first time we would face a real school in the races. I was ridiculously nervous the night before the meet – would we be badly beaten, or were we as good as we thought we were? I chewed every one of my fingernails during the long day, but finally found myself in my last class. The swimmers were dismissed early and I walked to the girls’ locker room with two of my teammates. We gathered our gear from our lockers and headed to the parking lot to wait for the bus. When the yellow school bus arrived, everyone piled in, choosing their preferred seats as they walked the aisle. I frowned in distaste “An old bus today,” Natalie muttered. “You’d think they could at least offer us a nice bus. We’re representing the school, after all.” I shrugged, looking up at the peeling paint and faded lettering of the bus. “I guess they’re doing what they can. Not a lot of money to be had, you know.” My eyes traveled over the windows until I found the swim coaches. They were sitting in the front rows, as usual. My lips turned up in a grin and my voice rose. “Anyhow,” I continued, “at least we’re getting out of school early. And going on a trip.” Natalie turned to me, frowning, then caught the direction of my eyes and grinned back. “And what’s got you in such a good mood, Izzy?” she asked, teasing. “Why so excited? It wouldn’t be the fact that we’re going on a trip … with Coach Stevens, would it?” She poked me in the ribs and laughed when I squirmed. “Quiet, you,” I laughed. “No one’s supposed to know about that!” Natalie laughed, then grabbed our friend Vicky and climbed up the stairs to the bus. Most of the team chose to sit at the back of the bus, to be as far away from the coaches as possible. My friends and I chose to sit in the row behind them, though, so we could look over their shoulders at the swim assignments. I knew that the two female coaches disliked me – they spent most of their time in practice assigning me extra laps – but sitting behind them would give us an idea of who was swimming what at the meet. Besides, Natalie and Vicky were returning swimmers, and some of their favorites, so the coaches were nice to me when they were around. I glanced past the two women to the other side of the row as we sat down, seeing that Coach Stevens sat by himself, with a list of assignments in front of him. He looked lonely, I thought, and wondered if he would like some company. The thought of sitting so close to him made me blush, though, and I ducked my face toward the window before anyone could see he color rising in my cheeks. He’d been friendlier since the towel incident, and people had started to make comments. He was always laughing at my antics now, and had even directed a joke or two my way. I’d turned around to find his remarkable hazel eyes on me more than once, and had learned to smile back when we made eye contact. Thinking about sitting beside him on the bus was a whole new thing, though, and I didn’t think I was quite ready for that. Natalie, who sat beside me, leaned closer and breathed quietly in my ear. “Why don’t you go sit next to your boyfriend, Mr. Stevens.” She laughed when I jumped, and I reached out to smack her on the arm. “Oh stop,” she muttered, still smiling. “I can’t help it if you’re so transparent. I can tell exactly what you’re thinking every time you look at him. You need to learn to hide it better.” I shrugged again, grinning, and turned back to the window. She was right. Whatever this was between us, I didn’t want to mess it up. And I certainly didn’t want it to end. I had to learn to play it cool and blow things off, the way the older girls did. It would never do for people to start suspecting that more was going on – it might ruin things for both of us. Not that anything was going on, I reminded myself. Nothing had happened. At least, not yet. That didn’t change the fact that I wanted to know more about this man. I wanted to know him better, and learn what made him tick. What made him smile, and what made him dream. I wanted to know everything about him: his strengths, his weaknesses, the things that upset him, his fears, what brought him peace ... most of all, I wanted to know all about his desires. And what he thought of me. I stole another quick glance in his direction and found his eyes on me, his face unreadable. I blushed and looked down quickly, but not before Natalie elbowed me in the side again. Learn to control your reactions, I reminded myself quietly. Don’t give yourself away so easily. q The bus had arrived at the unfamiliar high school, nearly thirty minutes away from our campus, before I could work up enough courage to look at Mr. Stevens again. I looked out the window and noted how beautiful the campus was; clean walkways, bright green lawns, and a range of tall, mature trees. The buildings were larger than those at my school, and constructed of colorful red brick. It gave the entire school an established, classic feel, and I smiled to myself. I’d been to several other high schools over the years, and they were always far nicer than ours. The buildings were larger, the trees were more beautiful, and the grass was always greener. There were a number of reasons for the difference – our school was in a low-income part of town, and the students were almost all immigrants or minorities. There wasn’t a lot of funding for renovations or even adequate maintenance. It always made me wonder, though. What did the other students think when they came to our school? Did they think we were less than them? Did they wonder if we were some kind of ghetto school? Did it ever occur to them that we might be just as talented as they were – even better – but without all the fancy trappings? I squared my shoulders, putting these thoughts away, and focused on the coming meet. We may not have a big, fancy swimming pool like this school did, but I had faith in our team. We had weapons they had never seen and talented, motivated coaches. I stole a last glance at Coach Stevens, who hadn’t looked up again, then stood and walked off the bus with my friends. Our job started now – find the locker rooms, change into our suits, and enter the water to warm up for the competition. Natalie and Vicky had been here before, and walked confidently toward the pool area. As we came around the corner behind them, I heard one of the other girls gasp in surprise. A rich school indeed – they had an Olympic-sized swimming pool in their own back yard. It sat in the midst of a neatly landscaped garden, complete with rolling lawns and a small park-like area for relaxing in “nature.” This was the first time I had ever seen such a large swimming pool. I resolutely closed my mouth on my surprise, though, and vowed to show the students of this other school that we were good enough for their pool too. “Come on, girls,” I muttered to my teammates, nudging them toward the nearby locker rooms. We filed into the bright, clean rooms and slipped into our competition suits for the warm-up. These suits were new, and still much tighter than our practice suits. “Tighter suits make for less drag,” Natalie had told me at the start of the season. “Always order the smallest suit you can, then suck your gut in to get it on.” I breathed deeply, feeling the stretch of the spandex around my ribs, and grinned at the girl next to me. The suits were tight, which meant that they fit us like a second skin. It also gave everyone else a better look at what we had to offer. Mr. Stevens hadn’t seen me in my new suit before, and I paused before the mirror in the bathroom. It was scratched and clouded with wear, but it reflected enough of my body for me to realize that Natalie had been right – this suit was tighter than anything I’d ever worn, and verged on indecent. “Isabel, where are you? We’re warming up!" Vicky shouted through the door. The girl was 5-foot-nothing, but had the loudest voice on the swim team. I could never figure out where she stored all that sound when she wasn’t using it. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called. I took one more glance in the mirror. “Time to perform,” I said firmly. Lifting my chin a notch, I squared my shoulders, turned, and strolled out into the sun. q Coach Stevens and Vicky were waiting for me outside of the girl’s locker room. As soon as Vicky saw me, she gave me a nod and ran ahead toward the swimming pool, leaving Mr. Stevens and me to walk alone. This should not have been an awkward moment for either one of us; he was my coach and I was a swimmer on his team. Time spent alone before a meet should have consisted of some last words of wisdom or encouragement. Perhaps we would have discussed the races I was to swim, and my chances against the other team. We may also have talked about the classes he taught, and whether I would be using them to pad my transcript in the next two years. Instead, though, we said nothing, and the thirty seconds it took us to walk to the poolside were slow and tense. I searched for words that would break the silence, but came up with nothing. This was the chance I had been waiting for – Mr. Stevens was walking next to me, with no one else around. I could have said anything I wanted. But my mind stubbornly refused to tick, and my lips remained glued together. I noticed instead the confident momentum of his walk, and the proximity of his body to mine. He was close to me – almost close enough to graze my hand with his own. Certainly closer than he should have been. He seemed to tower over me, although he was only about 6 inches taller than I was. That height comforted me; I felt protected in his presence. He must have felt the awkwardness of the silence, too, because he stopped walking and turned toward me. I stopped in turn and looked up at him. “Isabel, are you nervous?” he asked quietly. I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts and fantasies that I replied without thinking. “No, you don’t make me nervous.” He drew back, confused, and I felt my cheeks flush crimson. I had misread the situation, and grasped for a way to save the conversation. “Um, what I mean is, are you trying to make me nervous about my event?” I asked quickly, smiling. “If you are, it’s not working,” I forced another bright smile and ducked my head, looking up at him through my lashes. He laughed and placed his hand on the back of my neck, pressing his fingers softly to my skin. I stopped breathing, reveling in the feel of his fingertips caressing me. He leaned forward to speak closer to my ear. “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, young lady. And you certainly don’t need to be nervous about me.” I blushed again, and he released me. He had understood my statement, then, and seen through my attempt to cover the mistake. I looked up at him and smiled, then turned and walked toward the pool. As I put my cap on, though, I turned to look at him again, and caught the smile that lingered at the corner of his mouth. My heart hammered at my ribcage and my knees grew weak, but I forced myself to turn away and focus on the upcoming meet.
Sweetest Taboo © 2012 Eva Márquez All Rights Reserved To a young soul who left this world far too soon and whose beauty and spirit touched and inspired those who knew her. Table of Contents PROLOGUE Chapter One: Careless Whisper Chapter Two: It’s Raining Men, Hallelujah! Chapter Three: Is it a Crime? Chapter Four: Sowing the Seeds of Love Chapter Five: Sweetest Taboo Chapter Six: More than Words Chapter Seven: Friday, I’m in Love Chapter Eight: Winds of Change Chapter Nine: It Ain’t Over ’til It’s Over Chapter Ten: No More “I Love You’s” Chapter Eleven: I’ll stand by you Chapter Twelve: Better Be Home Soon Chapter Thirteen: Believe Chapter Fourteen: Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad? Chapter Fifteen: Losing My Religion Chapter Sixteen: Come What May Chapter Seventeen: No Ordinary Love Chapter Eighteen: Sweet Surrender Chapter Nineteen: Just Like Heaven Chapter Twenty: It’s the End of the World as We Know It Chapter Twenty-One: With or Without You Chapter Twenty-Two: Please, Please Tell Me Why? Chapter Twenty-Three: You were meant for me EPILOGUE Prologue Dear Reader, My story begins in the early 90’s, when a young girl started her high school career. She may have been any girl – young, impressionable, and fresh into the wide world of older boys, harder classes, and more choices. She may have been quite beautiful, well developed for her age, and smarter than most of the other students in her class. She may have been destined for the same high school career as anyone else – honors courses, braces, a few high school crushes, photography classes, a first kiss, and then a straight shot into the college of her choice, and her future as a doctor, or teacher, or architect. Instead, she fell in love with her swim coach, and one of the most popular teachers in the school, and became romantically involved with him. I don’t believe that I have to tell you how dangerous this would have been. She was a young girl of 15, 16, 17 and he an adult man in his late 30’s, old enough to be her father. Although this type of relationship would have passed as acceptable and even normal in Medieval England, the modern world frowns on such dalliances, and prosecutes the men – and women – who take advantage of adolescent students in this way. The two of them, then, would have been facing the threat of discovery, tarnishing of reputation, and even time behind bars; throwing their relationship in the face of society, if you will, but doing so quietly, in order to avoid detection. Have you guessed, yet, that the story I’m telling you is true? Have you guessed that it’s more than just a rhetorical question, more than an idea that developed in my head one day? The girl in the story is my mother, Isabel Cruz. She never told her story to the world, though she could have, because she didn’t want her love and relationship to be tainted by society’s judgments. This was a story of an illicit – and illegal – love. It was a story of lying, cheating, and misleading the authorities. My mother’s love for this older man was forbidden, and would have been highly scandalous to the world at large. She might have lost privileges, opportunities, and even her family, had they found out. And for him … his future and very life would have been put in jeopardy if the nature of their relationship were revealed, regardless of whether my mother sought to prosecute him or not. Even when she was older, my mother feared that the truth about their relationship might bring a backlash to the man she had loved so dearly. She fought against that with all her might, with the ongoing wish to keep him from any risk or pain. She never lost her love for him, scandalous as it may have seemed to others. She is older, now, and the man in the story is long gone. When I happened across her diary from that time and asked her permission to write the story, she acquiesced. It was time that the world knew, she said, so it could see that this type of love – though it may be frowned upon, and even prosecuted – isn’t always what it seems. Sometimes, regardless of the ages of the participants, it is just that. Love. True and pure as it can be between two people, and strong enough to last through the years. It was time, she said, for our family to know its past, and its future. I have just closed her diary, having squeezed every word from it, and written my own last words, which means that the book is done and her story has been told. I must pass it to you now, Reader, and trust you to hold it dear and keep it safe. I must trust you to see the love that shines through, rather than the social mores of the situation. I must trust you to care for my mother and her past, as I have during the writing of this book. This, then, is my mother’s story. It starts when she was very young, only 15 … ~ Claire Stevens Chapter One v Careless Whisper By my calculations, I had seven minutes. I had to make my move right now, or it would be too late. I strained my ears and listened for my brother's deep voice whispering down the hall. He always ended the conversations with his girlfriend with a “good night” and “I love you.” But there was nothing. Silence. I frowned. I knew my parents were already asleep; I could no longer hear their pillow talk – the steady murmurs that used to comfort me when I was a kid – from the other side of the wall. At least that meant I was safe to go looking. I left my bedroom and crept down the empty hall, but didn’t find my brother. I moved through the house stealthily, switching off the ringers to all three telephones. I went first to my mom’s office, next in the kitchen, and finally to the living room, where I found the cordless phone’s cradle empty. I switched the ringer off quietly, then looked around the room. Tony still had the cordless phone. He usually returned it to its cradle after he said goodnight to Amy. What was he doing? Was he expecting another call? Was he keeping the phone out of spite? I gulped down my frustration and fear. He could ruin everything. Worse, he could catch me and turn me in. I thought I still had about five minutes to find the phone and get outside, though. I crept barefoot down the hallway, a cold chill running down my back. Tony's bedroom door was ajar, the flickering lights of the TV slanting into the darkened hallway from his room. I tiptoed toward the door and peered through the gap. I was relieved at what I saw. My brother had fallen asleep with the TV on and the phone in hand. The idiot. Tonight, of all nights. I sucked in a deep breath, stretched out my hand, and pushed the door open. The hinge let out a slight creak and I froze. The loud groans of our old house were the last thing I needed right now. I waited until the door stopped moving, and listened intently for any other sound. Nothing. No one was awake but me. I held my breath, pushed the door a little wider, and slipped into the room. The carpet was thick under my feet, cushioning my quiet footsteps as I padded closer to my brother’s sleeping form, but my nerves fired with every step. I was terrified of being caught, but I needed that phone like I needed to breathe. I held my breath and reached out slowly, pulling the phone from Tony's hand. Tony stirred, mumbled something, and turned over with a grunt. I didn't breathe again until I was out of the room and rushing toward the kitchen. I glanced at the clock as I passed and exhaled; three minutes to spare. I crept across the living room, the phone held tightly in my fist, and took a wide path around the coffee table. The last thing I needed right now was to crash into something and wake the whole house. Luckily, the full moon’s warm light shone through the mini blinds in the living room, casting a glow across everything in the room. I turned the brass knob on the kitchen door with a light touch and tiptoed out to the patio. The phone would ring any minute. I swung the door almost shut behind me, but left it slightly ajar; as to not make any noise when I went back inside. The night air surrounded me, invigorating me with its touch and promise of dark corners and secrets. The wind blew through my hair on its way to the gigantic maple tree at the far end of our backyard, where it rushed across the dry leaves. This was good – the sound of the leaves would conceal the sound of my voice. I sat cross-legged on the cool patio floor, and wondered nervously if the buzz of the cordless phone would not wake anyone inside. It never had before, but there was a first time for everything. This wasn’t the first night I’d sat barefoot on the patio, cordless phone in hand. I’d sat out here like this many nights, and it always made me feel … alive. Even with the dim light of the full moon, the other side of our yard was dark. Mysterious. Full of possibility. Of course I knew that during the day there was a fence there to keep the neighbor’s horses out and our little terrier in. At night, though, in the dark, the whole world seemed somehow larger. The cool spring breeze found its way under my long hair and I wished that I was wearing my favorite flannel shirt instead of the fitted pink tank top I had on. I shivered, staring at the darkness of our yard, and thought suddenly of the rapist and murderer who had terrorized our community when I was younger. My father had put special locks on our doors and windows, and no young girls had been allowed out after dark. I had been too young to really understand, but it had left a lingering mark. How did I know there wasn’t some nutcase just over the fence, waiting for a moment like this, when he could to jump out and assault an seventeen-year-old girl in her tank top and shorts? The phone vibrated suddenly and my heart jumped, startling me out of my morbid thoughts. I pressed the green Talk button on the phone, a lump forming in my throat. “Tom?” I asked in a hoarse whisper, my stomach full of butterflies. It was still a little strange to call him by first name, even after all these years. Especially when everyone else at Royal Oaks High called him “Mr. Stevens.” “Isabel,” came the familiar voice. “How are you?” His voice was gentle and deep. It soothed me instantly, the same way it had when I was fifteen. There was an edge to his voice tonight, though, and I sensed that there was something bothering him. "Is something wrong?" I asked. I didn’t want to admit that I already knew exactly what it was; my high school graduation was coming up. It would bring an end to our current arrangement. We hadn’t talked about our future yet, but I had known that it was coming. After a few pensive moments, Tom spoke. “You’re my sweetheart," he told me, his voice sad. "I can’t imagine life without you. I don’t want to have to imagine life without you.” Tom rarely used terms of endearment with me, these days. When he did – in these rare moments when he called me his sweetheart – my heart melted. All of the turmoil, the sleepless nights, the protracted nature of our relationship, became nothing more than a passing inconvenience and very worthwhile. Tonight, though, I knew that the word came with drawbacks. They gave me the courage I needed to say the words I’d been dreading. “My graduation won’t affect our relationship, you know that," I told him. "Look at how much we’ve been through together. If we made it through all of that, we can make it through anything. Tom, I want to be with you always, no matter where life takes me after graduation.” I spoke passionately, fully believing in what I said. I was absolutely devoted to this man. But somewhere deep inside, I knew I was being dishonest. Neither of us wanted our relationship to change, but it was clear that things were going to change, and soon. I had just been offered a place at a small, private liberal arts college on the East Coast. The choice had been difficult because although I wanted to stay close to Tom, I also wanted to move forward with my life. In the end, I accepted the offer. Tom hadn’t really reacted when I told him. It hadn’t affected our relationship. Now, though, the cracks were starting to show. “I want to believe that,” Tom answered quietly. “I loved the last letter you wrote me. Every time I read your letters, I feel like I’m sixteen again. I feel like I’ve come out of a deep sleep." A pause, and then, "I can’t lose you, Isabel. You’re the reason I wake up in the morning; I can’t love anyone more than I love–” Suddenly I heard a distinct click on the line. My heart plummeted. “Did you hear that?" Tom snapped, his tone suddenly terse. "Did someone pick up the phone at your house?” “Hold on a minute, let me check inside.” I slipped back inside and listened, but the house was completely quiet. The kitchen phone was on the counter, my mom’s office was dark, and I was holding the only other phone in the house. "Who picked up the phone?” Tom repeated, worry coloring his voice. The click had not originated on my end of the line. I should've been relieved, but my panic rose even more. “Tom," I whispered into the receiver. "It wasn’t here, everyone’s asleep..." “I have to go," Tom interrupted abruptly. "Danielle's coming.” There was another click, and the line went dead. Chapter Two v It’s Raining Men, Hallelujah! My freshman year of high school had been ... empowering. I’d found it almost immediately to be a welcome change from the awkwardness of middle school; my friends and I were growing up, we were having good times, and – best of all – the boys that I’d always noticed had finally started noticing me. I’d always been a family-oriented girl, but this new atmosphere brought a new independence, and I’d enjoyed every second of it. I was fourteen and ready for the world and ready for my first relationship with a boy. That year, and the summer after, had become a blur of new boys: Alfredo, Ryan, Brian, David, Charles, Eric … I felt as though I’d spent my entire life in a box, and was just now finding my way out of it. I never fell in love, though, and I was always careful to stop things before they got too serious. Nothing more than kissing; my parents had raised me to be a respectable girl, and I fully expected to be a virgin at my wedding. When I started my sophomore year, though, everything changed. q I walked slowly down the open halls of the campus on the first day of sophomore year, reveling in the feeling of being back. The summer had been wonderful, and I’d had a great time, but school still held the things that were important to me – learning, my future, and the daily social interactions. Nothing had changed since the year before, aside from my status in the school. The lockers were still old, rusty, and badly in need of maintenance, though they were decorated today with purple and silver welcome signs, in honor of the first day of school. I laughed at the posters; they were hung haphazardly with silver duct tape, and had obviously been done in a hurry. The rest of the school looked exactly the same; drab brown and tan walls, concrete floors, and single-story classroom buildings. The best thing about this particular campus was that it was open to the sky; when I was outside of class, I could lie on the benches or grass lawns, watching the clouds float through the sky, and dreaming about the future. I strolled past the window of one of the administrative offices, and glanced subconsciously at the reflection. I’d worn shorts, t-shirts, and jeans during my freshman year, and had been content to look like a tomboy. I was a sophomore now, though, and wanted to look the part, so I’d convinced my mom to buy me a new wardrobe over the summer: skirts, fitted jeans, and tops that showed off my emerging figure. I knew that I was maturing more quickly than some of the other girls in the class, and I intended to take full advantage of it. I’d also been told that I looked like Natalie Wood, and had done my hair in her signature style this morning – pulled back into a high, swinging ponytail, which just brushed the top of my shoulders. The only thing that spoiled my looks were the metal braces on my teeth, but I’d dealt with that. I had spent two full days in front of the mirror over the summer, learning to smile with my lips slightly parted. I was convinced that this was going to be my year. I’d even joined the swim team this year, with my best friends Vicky and Natalie, to pad my resume and get the extra-curricular experience. I’d never swum competitively, so it was going to take some work, but it would give me the opportunity to improve my form, enjoy my friends, work on my tan, and catch the eye of boys, who hung around the pool watching us girls in swimsuits. I smiled shyly at my reflection on the window, then turned and walked away. Enough daydreaming, I lectured myself. If this was going to be my year, I needed to start by getting to my first class. q By the time January rolled around, swim practice had become the highlight of my day. It gave me something to work toward, and a break in the routine that was my life. It was also an additional activity on my transcript, and I was keenly aware that colleges would be looking for such things when reviewing my application. I spent most of my time in class looking forward to the last bell. When it sounded, my team members and I rushed to the girls’ locker room – dimly lit by just a few fluorescent lights – to change into our suits and do our stretches. I became addicted to the smell of the chlorine, which never left my suit, and the cool, shocking plunge into the refreshing water. The afternoons were warm, even in January, so we always had a crowd of observers. I loved the spectators, and the knowledge that they’d come to see us perform. Of course, there was something else that sent me rushing to the pool every day. Something bigger and more important than the smell of the chlorine, the cool water, or even the eyes of the audience. Two of our swim instructors were female coaches from the PE department. They handled the beginners and coached the JV team. They also ran the majority of our practices. The varsity coach, though, was the reason I sprayed on Exclamation, my favorite perfume, every afternoon before heading to the pool. Mr. Stevens was the head coach, though he took a back seat to the two assistant coaches during practice. He didn’t give us our drills or correct our mistakes, as the two women did. He sat in the shadows instead, watching, and murmuring an occasional comment to one of the assistants. When it came time to separate into different teams, he took the varsity team to the smaller pool to work with them. I’d never had a personal conversation with him, and I didn’t know if he’d ever even looked at me. That, of course, just made me even more attracted to him. I’d always had crushes on older men, but Mr. Stevens was the most attractive man I’d ever seen. Tall, athletic, broad-shouldered … he had the short dirty-blonde hair and hazel eyes that I’d always found very attractive, with deeply tanned skin and full, pouting lips. I had never noticed him before I joined the swim team, but couldn’t keep my mind off him once I’d seen him. A bit of quick research told me that he was a teacher as well, and taught both mathematics and photography to the upper classmen in the school. Several of my older friends were taking his class, though they thought I was crazy when I told them I wanted to meet him. None of my friends found him particularly attractive – he was in his late thirties and sporting some gray on his temples, and wasn’t exactly a high school jock. I ignored their opinions, though, and embraced my crush with all the fierceness of a love-struck fifteenyear-old girl. I made it my mission in life to meet him and get to know more about him. “So I hear that Robby Herrera is really into you," Sarah said suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. I gasped and blinked, clearing my head of the daydream I’d been having, and looked over at her. “What?” I asked gruffly. “Who?” Sarah pursed her lips in disapproval and followed my eyes to the edge of the green, where Mr. Stevens stood talking to some teachers. "Robby Herrera,” she repeated. “You know, he’s a student here? He’s a freshman, but he seems like a nice guy.” She paused, frowning. “Better than having a crush on a creepy teacher,” she added darkly. I narrowed my eyes at her in response. Sarah was the only one who reacted this way to my crush. I assumed that it had something to do with her family life, which wasn’t pleasant, but I never took well to being lectured. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sarah,” I muttered. She huffed, crossing her arms. “What’s wrong with you?" she snapped. "Do I have to paint a few gray hairs on Robby's head just so you’ll give him a chance? Izzy, Mr. Stevens is old enough to be your dad. He’s married and has kids. Daughters, not that much younger than us! What are you going to do, become a home wrecker?” She looked at me and shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bother. It’s not like you even listen to me.” She turned and stormed away from the green top toward the classrooms. I sighed; I didn’t know why it meant so much to Sarah, and I didn’t know how to make it any better with her. She was right, though – her words had no bearing on my obsession with Mr. Stevens. What she didn’t know – though I’d been obsessing about it for a week – was that my crush had become even deeper the previous Monday. Mr. Stevens had finally started paying attention to me. I don’t know why it happened, or what I had done to attract his eyes, but when I got out of the pool he was standing on the deck, waiting, with my turquoise beach towel in his hand. That’s when I’d known that this crush wasn’t as one-sided as I had thought. He hadn’t been waiting for anyone else. He hadn’t even said anything to anyone else on the JV team. And he certainly didn’t know where anyone else’s towel was (this part might have been an assumption on my part). But he knew who I was, and he was waiting for me. I stared up at him, my mouth open, and my mind raced through all of the implications. First, the fact that he handed me the towel, and not anyone else on the team, meant that he was sharing this connection with me, and only with me. Second, the fact that Mr. Stevens knew which towel was mine meant that he had been observing me. All of this time, when it had seemed to me that he’d never even looked my way, he had been watching. Watching for long enough to know which towel I picked up, at least. And he must have been watching me carefully to know that I always put my bag on the concrete bench near the south end of the pool. He’d known where to look for my towel, and that brought me to my third – and most important – conclusion. He knew when I got to practice, and where I put my things. That must mean that he watched for me to arrive. I took the towel and turned without speaking, dizzy with excitement. I don’t know how I made it to the girl’s locker room without tripping over myself. After that, things changed. q Three weeks later, we had our first swim meet. This marked the first time that our team would compete together, and the first time we would face a real school in the races. I was ridiculously nervous the night before the meet – would we be badly beaten, or were we as good as we thought we were? I chewed every one of my fingernails during the long day, but finally found myself in my last class. The swimmers were dismissed early and I walked to the girls’ locker room with two of my teammates. We gathered our gear from our lockers and headed to the parking lot to wait for the bus. When the yellow school bus arrived, everyone piled in, choosing their preferred seats as they walked the aisle. I frowned in distaste “An old bus today,” Natalie muttered. “You’d think they could at least offer us a nice bus. We’re representing the school, after all.” I shrugged, looking up at the peeling paint and faded lettering of the bus. “I guess they’re doing what they can. Not a lot of money to be had, you know.” My eyes traveled over the windows until I found the swim coaches. They were sitting in the front rows, as usual. My lips turned up in a grin and my voice rose. “Anyhow,” I continued, “at least we’re getting out of school early. And going on a trip.” Natalie turned to me, frowning, then caught the direction of my eyes and grinned back. “And what’s got you in such a good mood, Izzy?” she asked, teasing. “Why so excited? It wouldn’t be the fact that we’re going on a trip … with Coach Stevens, would it?” She poked me in the ribs and laughed when I squirmed. “Quiet, you,” I laughed. “No one’s supposed to know about that!” Natalie laughed, then grabbed our friend Vicky and climbed up the stairs to the bus. Most of the team chose to sit at the back of the bus, to be as far away from the coaches as possible. My friends and I chose to sit in the row behind them, though, so we could look over their shoulders at the swim assignments. I knew that the two female coaches disliked me – they spent most of their time in practice assigning me extra laps – but sitting behind them would give us an idea of who was swimming what at the meet. Besides, Natalie and Vicky were returning swimmers, and some of their favorites, so the coaches were nice to me when they were around. I glanced past the two women to the other side of the row as we sat down, seeing that Coach Stevens sat by himself, with a list of assignments in front of him. He looked lonely, I thought, and wondered if he would like some company. The thought of sitting so close to him made me blush, though, and I ducked my face toward the window before anyone could see he color rising in my cheeks. He’d been friendlier since the towel incident, and people had started to make comments. He was always laughing at my antics now, and had even directed a joke or two my way. I’d turned around to find his remarkable hazel eyes on me more than once, and had learned to smile back when we made eye contact. Thinking about sitting beside him on the bus was a whole new thing, though, and I didn’t think I was quite ready for that. Natalie, who sat beside me, leaned closer and breathed quietly in my ear. “Why don’t you go sit next to your boyfriend, Mr. Stevens.” She laughed when I jumped, and I reached out to smack her on the arm. “Oh stop,” she muttered, still smiling. “I can’t help it if you’re so transparent. I can tell exactly what you’re thinking every time you look at him. You need to learn to hide it better.” I shrugged again, grinning, and turned back to the window. She was right. Whatever this was between us, I didn’t want to mess it up. And I certainly didn’t want it to end. I had to learn to play it cool and blow things off, the way the older girls did. It would never do for people to start suspecting that more was going on – it might ruin things for both of us. Not that anything was going on, I reminded myself. Nothing had happened. At least, not yet. That didn’t change the fact that I wanted to know more about this man. I wanted to know him better, and learn what made him tick. What made him smile, and what made him dream. I wanted to know everything about him: his strengths, his weaknesses, the things that upset him, his fears, what brought him peace ... most of all, I wanted to know all about his desires. And what he thought of me. I stole another quick glance in his direction and found his eyes on me, his face unreadable. I blushed and looked down quickly, but not before Natalie elbowed me in the side again. Learn to control your reactions, I reminded myself quietly. Don’t give yourself away so easily. q The bus had arrived at the unfamiliar high school, nearly thirty minutes away from our campus, before I could work up enough courage to look at Mr. Stevens again. I looked out the window and noted how beautiful the campus was; clean walkways, bright green lawns, and a range of tall, mature trees. The buildings were larger than those at my school, and constructed of colorful red brick. It gave the entire school an established, classic feel, and I smiled to myself. I’d been to several other high schools over the years, and they were always far nicer than ours. The buildings were larger, the trees were more beautiful, and the grass was always greener. There were a number of reasons for the difference – our school was in a low-income part of town, and the students were almost all immigrants or minorities. There wasn’t a lot of funding for renovations or even adequate maintenance. It always made me wonder, though. What did the other students think when they came to our school? Did they think we were less than them? Did they wonder if we were some kind of ghetto school? Did it ever occur to them that we might be just as talented as they were – even better – but without all the fancy trappings? I squared my shoulders, putting these thoughts away, and focused on the coming meet. We may not have a big, fancy swimming pool like this school did, but I had faith in our team. We had weapons they had never seen and talented, motivated coaches. I stole a last glance at Coach Stevens, who hadn’t looked up again, then stood and walked off the bus with my friends. Our job started now – find the locker rooms, change into our suits, and enter the water to warm up for the competition. Natalie and Vicky had been here before, and walked confidently toward the pool area. As we came around the corner behind them, I heard one of the other girls gasp in surprise. A rich school indeed – they had an Olympic-sized swimming pool in their own back yard. It sat in the midst of a neatly landscaped garden, complete with rolling lawns and a small park-like area for relaxing in “nature.” This was the first time I had ever seen such a large swimming pool. I resolutely closed my mouth on my surprise, though, and vowed to show the students of this other school that we were good enough for their pool too. “Come on, girls,” I muttered to my teammates, nudging them toward the nearby locker rooms. We filed into the bright, clean rooms and slipped into our competition suits for the warm-up. These suits were new, and still much tighter than our practice suits. “Tighter suits make for less drag,” Natalie had told me at the start of the season. “Always order the smallest suit you can, then suck your gut in to get it on.” I breathed deeply, feeling the stretch of the spandex around my ribs, and grinned at the girl next to me. The suits were tight, which meant that they fit us like a second skin. It also gave everyone else a better look at what we had to offer. Mr. Stevens hadn’t seen me in my new suit before, and I paused before the mirror in the bathroom. It was scratched and clouded with wear, but it reflected enough of my body for me to realize that Natalie had been right – this suit was tighter than anything I’d ever worn, and verged on indecent. “Isabel, where are you? We’re warming up!" Vicky shouted through the door. The girl was 5-foot-nothing, but had the loudest voice on the swim team. I could never figure out where she stored all that sound when she wasn’t using it. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called. I took one more glance in the mirror. “Time to perform,” I said firmly. Lifting my chin a notch, I squared my shoulders, turned, and strolled out into the sun. q Coach Stevens and Vicky were waiting for me outside of the girl’s locker room. As soon as Vicky saw me, she gave me a nod and ran ahead toward the swimming pool, leaving Mr. Stevens and me to walk alone. This should not have been an awkward moment for either one of us; he was my coach and I was a swimmer on his team. Time spent alone before a meet should have consisted of some last words of wisdom or encouragement. Perhaps we would have discussed the races I was to swim, and my chances against the other team. We may also have talked about the classes he taught, and whether I would be using them to pad my transcript in the next two years. Instead, though, we said nothing, and the thirty seconds it took us to walk to the poolside were slow and tense. I searched for words that would break the silence, but came up with nothing. This was the chance I had been waiting for – Mr. Stevens was walking next to me, with no one else around. I could have said anything I wanted. But my mind stubbornly refused to tick, and my lips remained glued together. I noticed instead the confident momentum of his walk, and the proximity of his body to mine. He was close to me – almost close enough to graze my hand with his own. Certainly closer than he should have been. He seemed to tower over me, although he was only about 6 inches taller than I was. That height comforted me; I felt protected in his presence. He must have felt the awkwardness of the silence, too, because he stopped walking and turned toward me. I stopped in turn and looked up at him. “Isabel, are you nervous?” he asked quietly. I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts and fantasies that I replied without thinking. “No, you don’t make me nervous.” He drew back, confused, and I felt my cheeks flush crimson. I had misread the situation, and grasped for a way to save the conversation. “Um, what I mean is, are you trying to make me nervous about my event?” I asked quickly, smiling. “If you are, it’s not working,” I forced another bright smile and ducked my head, looking up at him through my lashes. He laughed and placed his hand on the back of my neck, pressing his fingers softly to my skin. I stopped breathing, reveling in the feel of his fingertips caressing me. He leaned forward to speak closer to my ear. “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, young lady. And you certainly don’t need to be nervous about me.” I blushed again, and he released me. He had understood my statement, then, and seen through my attempt to cover the mistake. I looked up at him and smiled, then turned and walked toward the pool. As I put my cap on, though, I turned to look at him again, and caught the smile that lingered at the corner of his mouth. My heart hammered at my ribcage and my knees grew weak, but I forced myself to turn away and focus on the upcoming meet.
No comments:
Post a Comment