I wake up with a bad case of makeover hangover. It’s like a normal hangover, except that the empty bottles scattered around the room used to hold nail polish. As I get dressed, my mind is a throbbing blur of hairdos and fashion don’ts.
I stop and look at myself in the mirror. A nice boy has asked me for help. Okay, a smoking hot nice boy. And how did I meet the challenge? I stole my sister’s clothes and learned to walk like a supermodel/ government assassin.
I’m pathetic.
But, damn, my hair looks great.
The supermodel-assassin moves come in handy for my escape from the house. There may not be any foreign agents to elude, but running into family members could be just as dangerous. My parents’ curiosity about hair and makeup for a swim lesson would be bad enough. Kendra seeing me wearing her clothes could prove fatal.
Within seconds, I’m in the Cabrio and on the road. Everything is going perfectly.
Then the music starts.
I’m a firm believer in Radio Karma: When you start the car, the first song you hear is a message from the music gods about the day ahead.
Radio Karma kick-started the summer as we drove away from school with the Black Eyed Peas singing “Let’s Get It Started.” And now Radio Karma is kicking my butt as I drive toward Alex’s house with some bad alt-rock group screaming away. I don’t recognize the group or the song, but some of the lyrics stand out.
“She’s got problems …
She had to suffer some”
I reach down to change the station, but it’s too late. The music gods have spoken, and this is the song they have given me. What kind of message are they sending? I try to twist it into something positive, but it’s useless.
“She’s got problems. And more problems to come.”
Whatever he’s screeching about now has got to be bad.
The song is just terrible, and there’s nothing I can do about it. By the time it ends, I’m mental. Maybe this whole Bikini Jane thing is a mistake. I don’t want problems and I don’t want to suffer. Then the DJ says the name of the group:
Jane’s Addiction.
Slowly a smile starts to form.
What if the music gods weren’t giving me a song? What if they were giving me a group? I work it out like a geometry proof.
I’m Jane.
I’m addicted to dreamy guys with great personalities.
Alex is a dreamy guy with a great personality.
Therefore, Alex is Jane’s Addiction.
Radio Karma. Where would I be without it?
When I pull up to the house, there’s no sign of Alex doing more yard work. This gives me a moment to collect my thoughts before I knock on the door. All of this is virgin territory for me. (Okay, technically, everything is virgin territory for me.) I’ve been Bikini Jane for less than twenty-four hours and I’m already exhausted. I hope it’ll get easier.
That’s when I hear a voice behind me.
“Are you going to knock or are you just going to stand there?”
It’s Alex. He must have walked around from the side of the house. I’m sure I look like a total idiot just staring at the door. But the key to my new persona is confidence, so I fake it.
“That depends,” I tell him. “When we get to the pool, are you going to jump in or are you just going to dangle your feet in the water?”
“I’ll lead you into the house,” he says. “And you can lead me into the pool.”
“Sounds good.”
The inside of the house is even more impressive than the outside. Everything about it is big and expensive, but also tasteful.
“This is a beautiful home,” I say.
“It’s not a home, it’s a trophy,” he answers. “My dad won some big lawsuit and suddenly he became Mr. Mansion. The house my mom and I live in is more my style. It’s about the size of the living room.”
I’m sure he’s offering some great insight into his personality, but I’m too busy trying to keep the walk going. In my head, I can hear Becca coaching me.
Overlap your feet. Swivel your hips.
As we reach the kitchen, something catches his eye. “You seem different today,” he says, giving me a quick once-over.
How about my hair, my face, my clothes, the way I walk, or the slight emphasis on my Southern accent to make me seem more feminine?
“Nope,” I say. “It’s the same me as yesterday, except this time I’m not ranting like a madwoman.”
He looks again and smiles. “That must be it.”
Becca says you can always count on guys not to notice things. She knows what she’s talking about.
We’re fine until we reach the pool, and he instantly tenses up. I realize that he truly has a problem and that I can help him with it. I try to give him a little pep talk.
“I’m not the type to brag, but I am an excellent swimmer. I’m even a state champion. I promise that I won’t let anything happen to you around the water. You’ve got to trust me and relax.”
“You’re a state champion?” he says, impressed. “Really?”
“Really,” I reply. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment with that one, but I’m glad he noticed.
Still, he’s not satisfied. “Do you know CPR?”
“Are you kidding? My dad is a captain with the fire department. I’ve been a certified instructor since I was twelve.”
He relaxes a bit, which is more than I can say for myself. Despite what Becca and Melanie said, I still feel like a total idiot giving a swim lesson in a bikini. I’ve just got to do it like taking off a Band-Aid—in one swift motion.
I pull off my shirt, toss it to the ground, and drop my shorts. After a long beat, I finally look up at him. He doesn’t say a thing, but I swear I hear him make a sound like a bicycle tire going flat.
Nice to meet you, Bikini Jane.
“Are you ready?”
He nods. “I think so.”
I jump in the water. (Good-bye, scrunchy hair. You were nice while you lasted.)
“Jump in!” I tell him.
Instead of actually jumping in, he sits down on the edge of the pool and carefully lowers himself into the shallow end. He’s trying to be brave, which is extremely cute.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I tell him as he clutches on to the side for dear life. “For every five minutes you give me in the water, we can break for five and sit by the pool and talk.”
“Deal,” he says.
We go to shake on it, but he’s holding on to the side so tightly that I end up shaking his elbow.
“The first thing you have to do is put your head underwater,” I tell him.
“Shouldn’t we build to that?” he asks.
This is the difference between teaching a kid and teaching someone older. When you tell seven-year-olds to do something, they just do it. When you tell seventeen-year-olds, they want reasons.
“It’s the thing you’re most scared of and it’s the thing you have to do in order to swim,” I explain.
“I can practice putting my arm underwater like this?” He smiles as he dips his shoulder under the surface. He’s joking, kind of.
“How tall are you, Alex?”
“Six one.”
Wow. Just the sound of that is sexy.
“How deep is the water right here?”
He looks over at the side of the pool and frowns. “Three feet.”
I let the math sink in for a moment. “All I’m asking is two seconds underwater. If there’s any problem, all you’ve got to do is stand up.”
He gives me an uncertain look, and I do my best to be reassuring.
“Trust me.”
For some reason, that calms him. He smiles and nods. “I do trust you.” Then he bends over so that just his face goes under. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t graceful, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Over the next hour, he gets more and more comfortable going under the water. (And I get more and more comfortable wearing a bikini while talking to a hot guy.) Every five minutes, I give him a break and we get out of the pool and talk. We cover everything from school to music to what colleges we’re considering. His favorites are American history, classic rock, and the University of Virginia.
He also mentions that he’s gotten a job at the tennis shop in the Lake Shelby Country Club. It’s more of his father’s character-building plan.
“Maybe I can give you tennis lessons,” he says. “After you’ve taught me how to swim.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
I laugh as I make up a childhood trauma to match his. “You see, when I was seven, I was on vacation with my family and I got stuck in a tennis net. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get out until my dad pulled me free. It was terrible, and now I’m frightened of tennis.”
“I’ve heard of that,” he says with a laugh. “I think it’s called Sharapovaphobia. I can help you. I just have to come up with something that will inspire you to go onto the court again.”
I think about it for a moment and decide to go for broke.
“I think you’d do pretty good all by yourself,” I say.
We look into each other’s eyes for a moment. Like I said, he’s got deep, dreamy eyes.
“That’s the stupidest line I’ve ever heard,” he says. Then he pushes me into the water.
As I fall, I instinctively grab his arm and pull him in with me. (Not a good idea.) We hit with a big splash, and he starts to flail around.
It’s a frantic couple of moments before he remembers to stand up. Even though we’re toward the deep end, he’s tall enough to stand on his tiptoes and keep his head out of the water.
“Was that a test?” he asks, trying to cover his nervousness with a joke.
“No, that was an accident,” I tell him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he says. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
I see the clock on the wall and realize that we’re running late. I’ve got to hurry over to Magic Waters.
“Let’s get you out of the pool,” I tell him. “I’ve got to go.”
We climb out and towel off. He’s quiet for a minute as he gets over the adrenaline rush of falling into the pool.
“So, where do you go from here?” he asks. “Another lesson?”
“No, I’m off to Tragic Waters.”
“What’s Tragic Waters?”
“That’s what most people around here call Magic Waters.”
“The place with the mermaids?”
“I’ve seen the billboard. And I can’t imagine a worse idea for a theme park. It’s all about water.”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, you’ll never catch me there,” he says with a laugh. “What do you do? Are you one of the mermaids?”
I go to answer, but my brain just freezes up. Bikini Jane is real. But there’s no way that Bikini Jane is also a giant beaver. I just can’t tell him. And then, it comes out. I can’t believe it, but I also can’t stop it.