better.”
We didn’t think of anything better—though we did argue about the best place to get a 12-pack of Bounty, and whether or not chocolate chip banana bread would bake eventually in a parked car on a day this hot, if we could find all the ingredients and a pan.
Our phones all buzzed simultaneously when we were a few minutes outside town: BE THE FIRST TEAM TO TAKE A BUBBLE BATH AT THE SHALIMAR AND WIN 200 POINTS.
We didn’t even have to talk about it.
Patrick said, “On it,” then stepped on the gas and Winter said, “We need soap. Bubbles.”
“The 7-Eleven,” Dez said. “It’s on the way.”
“We never emptied the shampoo from Eleanor’s,” I said. “It’s in the trunk.”
“Just drive!” Dez yelled.
Patrick made a sharp right turn and I screeched, “What are you doing? The Shalimar is that way!” I pointed.
“Mary,” he scolded. “Calm down. I know a back way.”
So I said a prayer that he wasn’t about to screw this up that went like this:
Please, God
,
let him not screw this up.
And then, sure enough, the glowing gold lights of the Shalimar—the very catering hall and ballroom where prom had been held—came into sight around the bend in the wooded road and we pulled into the circular driveway out front. It was eerily still, even with the fountain pulsing. There was no one around.
Dez said, “Holy shit. We really did it,” and I grabbed the shampoo bottle from the trunk and Patrick and I headed for the fountain. Winter and Dez quickly undressed down to their underwear and hid in the bushes lining the Shalimar’s circular drive, and I knew it was mine and Patrick’s turn to strip down to our intimates as soon as the fountain looked amply bubbly.
We’d taken a picture first of the non-bubbling fountain and sent it to the Yeti, then we’d sent another one of Patrick with the shampoo bottle. One more pic after we got into the water and we’d be done. I felt giddy that we’d actually succeeded in getting there first and giddier, still, that we might be able to flaunt our success to other teams who were still on their way here.
We needed a new team name.
We were no Also-Rans.
“Is it just me,” I said to Patrick, “or is the water getting bluer?”
He studied the plumes of water and then the frothy bath by our knees. “Definitely bluer,” he said. “Like a nice shade of toxic.”
“What is this stuff, anyway?” I tried to read the label on the bottle in his hands so that I could see the brand name. “People wash their hair with this?”
“Explains a lot, really.” He gave the bottle a squeeze.
“Like what?”
“Like why old ladies have blue hair.”
The thundering fountain filled the air around us with mist and Patrick dunked the now-empty bottle under the water and then poured it out. “I guess I just don’t understand,” he said, and I braced myself, knowing he wasn’t still talking about blue shampoo or hair. “We share everything. We’re closer to each other than we are to anyone else by a long shot, and I mean, why not at least give it a shot?” He shook his head. “So what if it doesn’t work out. At least we tried.”
“I’m
really sorry
,” I said slowly. “But I just don’t feel that way about you.”
“Is it because of prom?” He seemed to, well, stiffen.
“No.” I shook my head.
“Because guys get hard-ons, Mary.” His eyes bore into me. “Deal with it.”
With that, I kicked off my shoes and walked around to the other side of the fountain, where I’d be hidden by its plumes as I stepped out of my shorts as fast as I could then stepped into the fountain. I slipped off my top just as my underwear got submerged, and lifted it off over my head just as my bra went in and tossed it aside and went underwater,lying back like I really was in a tub. I stayed under as long as I could, fountain jets pulsing against me, eyes closed against the toxic blue. I wanted to stay under longer—maybe look for some secret passage to the
We didn’t think of anything better—though we did argue about the best place to get a 12-pack of Bounty, and whether or not chocolate chip banana bread would bake eventually in a parked car on a day this hot, if we could find all the ingredients and a pan.
Our phones all buzzed simultaneously when we were a few minutes outside town: BE THE FIRST TEAM TO TAKE A BUBBLE BATH AT THE SHALIMAR AND WIN 200 POINTS.
We didn’t even have to talk about it.
Patrick said, “On it,” then stepped on the gas and Winter said, “We need soap. Bubbles.”
“The 7-Eleven,” Dez said. “It’s on the way.”
“We never emptied the shampoo from Eleanor’s,” I said. “It’s in the trunk.”
“Just drive!” Dez yelled.
Patrick made a sharp right turn and I screeched, “What are you doing? The Shalimar is that way!” I pointed.
“Mary,” he scolded. “Calm down. I know a back way.”
So I said a prayer that he wasn’t about to screw this up that went like this:
Please, God
,
let him not screw this up.
And then, sure enough, the glowing gold lights of the Shalimar—the very catering hall and ballroom where prom had been held—came into sight around the bend in the wooded road and we pulled into the circular driveway out front. It was eerily still, even with the fountain pulsing. There was no one around.
Dez said, “Holy shit. We really did it,” and I grabbed the shampoo bottle from the trunk and Patrick and I headed for the fountain. Winter and Dez quickly undressed down to their underwear and hid in the bushes lining the Shalimar’s circular drive, and I knew it was mine and Patrick’s turn to strip down to our intimates as soon as the fountain looked amply bubbly.
We’d taken a picture first of the non-bubbling fountain and sent it to the Yeti, then we’d sent another one of Patrick with the shampoo bottle. One more pic after we got into the water and we’d be done. I felt giddy that we’d actually succeeded in getting there first and giddier, still, that we might be able to flaunt our success to other teams who were still on their way here.
We needed a new team name.
We were no Also-Rans.
“Is it just me,” I said to Patrick, “or is the water getting bluer?”
He studied the plumes of water and then the frothy bath by our knees. “Definitely bluer,” he said. “Like a nice shade of toxic.”
“What is this stuff, anyway?” I tried to read the label on the bottle in his hands so that I could see the brand name. “People wash their hair with this?”
“Explains a lot, really.” He gave the bottle a squeeze.
“Like what?”
“Like why old ladies have blue hair.”
The thundering fountain filled the air around us with mist and Patrick dunked the now-empty bottle under the water and then poured it out. “I guess I just don’t understand,” he said, and I braced myself, knowing he wasn’t still talking about blue shampoo or hair. “We share everything. We’re closer to each other than we are to anyone else by a long shot, and I mean, why not at least give it a shot?” He shook his head. “So what if it doesn’t work out. At least we tried.”
“I’m
really sorry
,” I said slowly. “But I just don’t feel that way about you.”
“Is it because of prom?” He seemed to, well, stiffen.
“No.” I shook my head.
“Because guys get hard-ons, Mary.” His eyes bore into me. “Deal with it.”
With that, I kicked off my shoes and walked around to the other side of the fountain, where I’d be hidden by its plumes as I stepped out of my shorts as fast as I could then stepped into the fountain. I slipped off my top just as my underwear got submerged, and lifted it off over my head just as my bra went in and tossed it aside and went underwater,lying back like I really was in a tub. I stayed under as long as I could, fountain jets pulsing against me, eyes closed against the toxic blue. I wanted to stay under longer—maybe look for some secret passage to the
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