time and she’d just not known it? It seemed so unlikely—Lizzie and Justin Bellstrom? It would never happen. It was as unlikely as a peacock dating an orangutan. But—and here she caught herself—why not? She’d just hit the thirty-one-pound mark on her diet, and maybe he’d noticed the cute new halter top she was wearing. Maybe he’d even noted her performance in the time trials that morning. Stranger things had happened.
Lizzie decided right then and there that he was the one. She didn’t want to lose her virginity to a nice boy like Mikey Bronstein; she wanted a heartthrob, the kind of boy everyone would look at and admire. Justin was in an entirely different league than she was, which was why, of course, he was perfect. She had visions of herself trading up, leaping a few rungs up the social ladder of Fillmore High. God, wouldn’t Susan Gossett and her friends just die if they saw Lizzie walking down the halls of Fill High arm in arm with Justin!
Later that night, after several hours of watching pay-per-view movies with Becky in their hotel room, she announced that she was going to the vending machine and left to search the shabby hallways of the Sacramento Wander Inn (doubles only $39 a night), trying to find Justin. The entire hotel had been booked with swimmers from around the state. The coaches either didn’t care about the debauchery or had fallen asleep and weren’t aware of it or had given up and retired to the hotel bar. When she pressed her ear to the doors of various hotel rooms, she thought she could hear faint echoes of orgies taking place inside. In one room, the sounds of shrieking laughter and breaking glass; in another, gunfire from a television; in another, the rhythmic thump of a headboard drilling the wall. The industrial carpet of the hallways was littered with abandoned beer bottles, empty pizza boxes, and the occasional puddle of vomit. She picked her way through gingerly, from the fifth floor through the first, stepping over a passed-out teenage boy in the stairwell, tiptoeing around the groups of whispering girls clustered outside hotel room doors who glanced blankly past her as she squeezed by.
After half an hour of wandering, she was ready to give up and go back to her own quiet hotel room, where she’d left Becky watching Blind Date on cable. She stood waiting by the elevator, trying not to inhale lest she accidentally get a whiff of the potted fern next to her, into which someone had recently urinated. When the elevator door slid open, there was Justin, prone on the floor with his arm wrapped lasciviously around a pillow. He opened one bloodshot eye and stared at her.
“Party central, going up,” he said. “Have any beer?”
The stench of booze wafted through the air and hit her in the face. She inched into the elevator and let the door slide closed, but didn’t press any buttons. Instead, she drummed up the conversational opener she’d been practicing in her head all night. “Congratulations on winning the freestyle,” she began. But standing over him like that made her feel awkwardly large, so she crouched down on her haunches and started again. “I thought that was really funny what you did today. You know, when you won.”
Justin squinted at her. “What about vodka? Have any of that? Pot? I’ll take anything.”
“Um, no,” she said, taken aback. She tried to return to the script. “I really like your technique. The way you, um, breathe every fourth stroke?”
Justin rolled over onto his back and hugged the pillow to his chest. “Who are you?” he asked.
Lizzie’s stomach sank. “Lizzie,” she said. She stood up and hit the button for her floor. The elevator lurched and began to rise. “Lizzie Miller. I’m on the swim team with you. I do the breaststroke.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “Lizzie. Lizzie of the breaststroke. Lizzie of the breasts. Lizzie, know where we can get some beer?”
“No,” she said.
“I think I might have some alcohol in
Lizzie decided right then and there that he was the one. She didn’t want to lose her virginity to a nice boy like Mikey Bronstein; she wanted a heartthrob, the kind of boy everyone would look at and admire. Justin was in an entirely different league than she was, which was why, of course, he was perfect. She had visions of herself trading up, leaping a few rungs up the social ladder of Fillmore High. God, wouldn’t Susan Gossett and her friends just die if they saw Lizzie walking down the halls of Fill High arm in arm with Justin!
Later that night, after several hours of watching pay-per-view movies with Becky in their hotel room, she announced that she was going to the vending machine and left to search the shabby hallways of the Sacramento Wander Inn (doubles only $39 a night), trying to find Justin. The entire hotel had been booked with swimmers from around the state. The coaches either didn’t care about the debauchery or had fallen asleep and weren’t aware of it or had given up and retired to the hotel bar. When she pressed her ear to the doors of various hotel rooms, she thought she could hear faint echoes of orgies taking place inside. In one room, the sounds of shrieking laughter and breaking glass; in another, gunfire from a television; in another, the rhythmic thump of a headboard drilling the wall. The industrial carpet of the hallways was littered with abandoned beer bottles, empty pizza boxes, and the occasional puddle of vomit. She picked her way through gingerly, from the fifth floor through the first, stepping over a passed-out teenage boy in the stairwell, tiptoeing around the groups of whispering girls clustered outside hotel room doors who glanced blankly past her as she squeezed by.
After half an hour of wandering, she was ready to give up and go back to her own quiet hotel room, where she’d left Becky watching Blind Date on cable. She stood waiting by the elevator, trying not to inhale lest she accidentally get a whiff of the potted fern next to her, into which someone had recently urinated. When the elevator door slid open, there was Justin, prone on the floor with his arm wrapped lasciviously around a pillow. He opened one bloodshot eye and stared at her.
“Party central, going up,” he said. “Have any beer?”
The stench of booze wafted through the air and hit her in the face. She inched into the elevator and let the door slide closed, but didn’t press any buttons. Instead, she drummed up the conversational opener she’d been practicing in her head all night. “Congratulations on winning the freestyle,” she began. But standing over him like that made her feel awkwardly large, so she crouched down on her haunches and started again. “I thought that was really funny what you did today. You know, when you won.”
Justin squinted at her. “What about vodka? Have any of that? Pot? I’ll take anything.”
“Um, no,” she said, taken aback. She tried to return to the script. “I really like your technique. The way you, um, breathe every fourth stroke?”
Justin rolled over onto his back and hugged the pillow to his chest. “Who are you?” he asked.
Lizzie’s stomach sank. “Lizzie,” she said. She stood up and hit the button for her floor. The elevator lurched and began to rise. “Lizzie Miller. I’m on the swim team with you. I do the breaststroke.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “Lizzie. Lizzie of the breaststroke. Lizzie of the breasts. Lizzie, know where we can get some beer?”
“No,” she said.
“I think I might have some alcohol in
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