Seven

I’m wearing the swimsuit my best friend, Mel gave me. It’s a yellow that’s brighter than the sun. When she gave it to me she said she was saving my life because if I was ever drowning, people would be able to see me easily. That’s for sure. It attracts a lot of attention, so I decided to wear the black cover-up that my dad bought me in an attempt at bonding or something.

I haven’t seen Mario since last night. I’m not sure if I can face him after that. He’s not at the pool right now, but it’s pretty early in the morning. (Like promised, my family got me up at an ungodly hour this morning). So, to avoid any possible awkward conversations, I’ve decided to just hike back up to good old room 514 and call Mel.

I turn a corner and start walking on the sidewalk to the front doors when something catches my eye. I turn to look at it and three things happen at once.

One: I see that it’s a lizard.

Two: A guy (who was obviously not paying attention to where he was going) collides into me and spills his drink all over me.

Three: I scream (because of the lizard and because of the cold wetness).

The guy’s jaw drops. “I’m so sorry!” He looks around frantically, spots a towel nearby, and hands it to me. “I’m so sorry!” he repeats.

His spastic behavior causes me to let out a chuckle. I mean really, it’s just a swimsuit. I’ve got six others. And besides, the black cover-up my dad got me basically blocked all the sticky mess. I accept the towel and start drying myself off, but it’s not really working because it’s all sticky and gross. I frown.

“God, this always happens,” the guy says. He’s pacing the length of the sidewalk in a few easy strides. He has impossibly long legs. Long arms too. He’s a very tall person. Lanky, too. But it works for him. He runs a hand through is already messed up hair and peers at me. He seems genuinely sorry.

“It’s okay,” I say calmly. When he continues to pace and look like a lost puppy I say, “Seriously, it’s no big deal.”

He ignores me. “Did it get on your swimsuit?” he asks. “Or just that black shirt thing?”

“Um . . .” I peer down my top at my radioactive swimsuit. “I don’t think so.”

When I look back up, his face is unnaturally red and he’s looking everywhere but me. I realize a little too late that I probably shouldn’t have just basically exposed the whole world with a nice view down my shirt.

“You know what? The hotel has a washer and a dryer. In the basement.” He starts to look a little hopeful. “Just take off your top and I’ll wash it for you!” he says, then turns beet red again as he realizes what he just said. “I mean—uh, well—not your top—just—that, uh—”

“Okay, okay,” I say, trying to save him from his embarrassment. “Just show me the way.”

He takes a deep breath and smiles at me. His teeth are crooked but I decide that they look good on him. We walk through the doors, past the lobby, and into the elevator. He presses the button for the basement (which I would never have even dreamed of going to on my own. Hotel basement? Horror movie, much?) and we descend with a little jolt.

“I’m Jared,” he says and holds out his hand for me to shake. Just a little bit weird. He can’t be any older than me, still a teenager, and teens don’t really shake hands unless they’re at a job interview. Do they? Or is that just me? I really don’t think that is normal. But who knows what state/country this guy is from.

“Violet,” I say and tentatively shake his hand. His fingers are long but cold despite the warm air.
The doors open and I see that this isn’t a normal hotel basement. It’s carpeted and furnished and well-lit. Of course.

“Over here,” Jared says, walking through a door to the right. I almost have to run to keep up with him and his long legs but soon we’re in a small room decorated with a washer, a dryer, and a coin machine.

He averts his eyes as I take off the black swimsuit cover Mel gave me before we left. “Now what?” I ask, because I have no clue how to work these things.

“Here,” he says and holds out his hand for my top. I give it to him and he tosses it into the washer. Then he takes the laundry detergent and pours some in. He digs in his pocket for a while and eventually comes up with 75 cents. “The least I can do is pay for it,” he says with a smile. Then he presses a few buttons and before I know it, the washing machine is making normal washing machine sounds.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re thanking me?” He laughs.

He has a point. But still, I say, “Well I’m sure a lot of guys would have just said ‘oops’ and walked away.”

“I don’t think a normal guy would say ‘oops’, especially in front of a girl like you,” he says with a laugh as he looks up at the bright fluorescent lights above us.

A girl like me? Is he hitting on me?

And what does that even mean, “a girl like you”? Should I be offended or flattered?

I think of the bright sun and the blue ocean just outside. This is Mexico. This is my vacation. This could be fun.

So I look at this Jared boy standing in front of me who couldn’t be a day older than seventeen, and I decide that I could have a little fun with this. Or a lot of fun because he seems like a nice boy, paying to wash my top and all, and he’s definitely good looking. I mean, the whole clumsy, too many limbs thing really works for him.

And now I have forgotten what we were talking about so I just look at him and try to send him a message telepathically. Something along the lines of kiss me, fool. All in the name of fun.

I think it’s working. He’s leaning in a little, going for the kill. Or maybe it’s just because I’m staring at his lips. I’m pretty sure that’s a good indicator that someone wants to kiss you.

It’s not that I want to kiss this clumsy boy specifically. I just want to have fun, and kissing perfect strangers is—as I figured out last night—in that category. Until you sneeze all over them.

But Jared’s eyes are closed and he’s going to miss my lips entirely—which, even though I’ve known him all of five minutes, seems like just the type of thing he would do—so I put my hand on the back of his neck and guide him in the right direction.

Jared isn’t a good kisser. He’s not a bad kisser either, he’s just okay. There’s too much tongue and at times, I just plain feel like I’m drowning. And he’s kind of just standing awkwardly in front of me with his arms at his sides, so I lightly run my fingers down his bare arms. A little sound escapes his lips as he goes for my ear. I don’t know how to describe the sound. It wasn’t a moan or a groan, it wasn’t a chuckle or anything like that. It was just a little Jared sound.

But he’s going for my ear? Ow, ow, ow, what is he doing? I place both my hands on his face and steer him back toward my lips.

Then—horror of horrors—I hear footsteps and the sound of the doorknob turning slowly. We jump apart and just as a little old lady with a cane walks in, Jared says, like we had been talking the whole time, “You see, it depends on how many clothes you’re washing. You have to make sure you measure it just right—oh, hello. Do you need to use the washing machine?”

I am in shock. Jared should pursue acting, because even I believe him and I was the one making out with him.

The lady looks at us and smiles sweetly, like she doesn’t suspect a thing. We’re just two kids on vacation, washing some clothes. “Oh, no,” she shakes her head. “If you’re using it, I’ll come back later.”

As she makes her way to the door, I look over at Jared and raise my eyebrows. When the lady finally shuts the door behind her, I say, “Impressive.”

“The kissing or the acting?” he asks with an easy grin.

I was talking about the acting, but I say, “Both,” and smile back at him.