Summer on the Short Bus (11 page)

“Remind me what's on the agenda today,” I say to Fantine as we escort our small herd from the mess hall back to the bunkhouses.

“We're hitting the pool for a few hours, then it's free time till dinner,” she says.

“Really, the pool?” I'm feeling better with nine pounds of lard and a handful of Motrin in my gut, but baking under the sun doesn't sound particularly appealing. “Um . . . I think I might have just developed an allergy to Mexican food.”

She laughs before flicking my arm with her finger. “Nice try, Miss Pukes-A-Lot, but your ass is officially healthy now and you
will
be at that pool.”

On instinct, my bottom lip rolls out into a pout, but I don't say anything. With Fantine as my audience, I know there's no point.

“Damn, girl,” Fantine says while surveying my skimpy hot pink
bikini that Cambodian children probably slaved over. “If Quinn doesn't fall over dead when he sees you in that, then we know he's gay.”

I think this is a compliment, but considering she's standing in front of me with washboard abs and looking like a model in her gold bikini, I can't help but feel a tad insecure. At least my food baby is gone. “I probably should've brought a one-piece,” I say, tugging down on my top. “I had no idea camp would be, well, you know. It's probably not appropriate.”

“Are you kidding me? Wait until you see what they're wearing.”

She crosses the tiny space that makes up our bedroom and slides the curtain away from the wall. What she reveals is so shocking I have to blink hard to make sure I'm not hallucinating. Each of the five girls is sporting a bikini made of increasingly less fabric than the one standing beside it.

“Whoa. I never would have thought they'd be into making that big of a statement at the pool.” No matter how horrible a statement it might be.

“Oh, they are. They're all about turning heads and getting attention. They might be different than us on the outside, but they're really just normal teenage girls, too.”

I'm not sure what I consider these girls to be, but
normal
has never crossed my mind.

“All right, ladies,” Fantine says, striding into the main cabin area. “Let's hit the pool!”

“Do you work out a lot or something?” I ask Fantine. “Nothing on your body moves or shakes at all.”

“I guess that's what training for four hours a day will get you,” she says with a smirk. “Big muscles, ripped abs, and a tight ass.” She pats herself on the backside and generates a round of applause from some of the girls.

“What kind of training do you do?” I ask.

“Sheeeeeeeee's a sprinter!” Meredith says proudly, rolling between us and wearing a smile almost as bright as her orange bikini. “Sheeeee's going to the Olympics!”

“Well, one of us is,” says Fantine, high-fiving her two-wheeled friend.

“Wait . . . what? You're going to the Olympics? Like
the
Olympics?”

“I wish.” Fantine laughs. “The Olympics were my lifetime dream, but once I got a taste of college-level competition last year, it proved to be enough for me. This one, on the other hand, has already been to the Olympics and won a silver medal. Isn't that right, Meredith?”

“You did?”
I make no attempt to hide my shock.

“That was laaaast year. Next yeeeear I'm getting the goooooold!”

“Damn straight you are,” Fantine says.

I find myself nodding with an artificial smile, as I try to make sense of what I've just heard. At nineteen Fantine has already
pursued a lifetime dream. The only lifetime dream I have involves me and a limit-free Visa. But the real mind-number is that Hannah Montana and her wheelchair of doom has made it to the freaking Olympics. How is that even possible?

Before I have time to rationalize the absurdity of what I've just heard, my arms are loaded down with sunscreen and flotation devices, and I'm in the middle of a handicapped procession toward the swimming pool. Claire is on my right blathering on about some kid named James she can't wait to play Marco Polo with, and Meredith is rolling along on my left, whistling a tune I recognize from
The Sound of Music
. Ordinarily I'm not a big fan of whistling, but today it's kind of soothing. I'm probably still drunk.

When we arrive at the swimming pool, I quickly determine that it is far from the infinity-edge country club pool I'm used to. There are no waterfalls, no lounge chairs with WiFi/Bluetooth capability, and no bubbly waitstaff eager to bring me a lemonade. Instead, I get a rectangular-shaped hole in the ground with stairs at one end and a thousand-foot-long wheelchair ramp at the other. The glamour factor is staggering.

“What took you guys so long?” Quinn yells from the far end of the pool. As subtly as possible, I glance in his direction for my first sober glimpse of shirtless Quinn. Damn . . .

“Duuuh! Weee had to get beauuuuuuutiful,” Meredith answers in her most dramatic voice. With catlike dexterity, she manages to steer herself with one hand while simultaneously releasing her hair
from its pigtailed prison with the other. Her long red tresses fall easily over her shoulders, and she runs the fingers of her free hand through them very slowly, proving she's got a lot more game than I ever would have imagined.

“I told you they meant business,” Fantine says, giving her own tail feathers a dramatic shake while I surprise myself and actually laugh out loud.

“Well, you did a good job,” Quinn says behind squinted eyes. “Isn't that right, guys?”

“Agreed!” Colin calls from the opposite end of the pool. A few pathetic whistlers chime in while Oven Mitt offers up his best catcall.

The girls giggle at the attention, and I find myself smiling—forgetting for a brief moment that these people are not actually my friends.

“Why are they such pathetic creatures?” Fantine says under her breath.

I peer over my lenses and see that every male eye in the pool, even the googly one that's usually looking elsewhere, is trained on us.

“Boys are silly sometimes,” Claire says behind a schoolgirl grin. Without a shred of modesty, she steps out of her tent-size cover-up and presents herself in full, barely covered glory. From behind the safety of my glasses, I wince as her gleaming white butt cleavage makes its debut around the thin strip of neon fabric. Much to my
surprise, no one laughs or makes jokes at this nightmarish display. Instead, there's just one stuttering voice rising up from the back of the pool.

“C-C-Claire! Are y-you ready to p-p-play?”

“Yes!” she screams, thundering her way across the cement. “I'm coming for you, James!”

Ah-ha. James—aka Oven Mitt.

Claire plunges into the pool with the grace of a hippo, while I'm left to wonder what sort of alternate universe I'm living in. Girls with no legs win Olympic medals and girls whose asses have just eaten their own bathing suits aren't made fun of.

“Coooome on, Cricket!” Meredith calls from the pool's edge. She's dragging her hands through the water while her legs dangle in the water below her. “The waaaaater is great!”

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” I shimmy off my cutoffs, and am just pulling my tank top over my head, when I see Meredith face-plant into the water. “Oh my God! Is she okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, I race toward the pool's edge, prepared to jump in after her.

“Cricket, wait!” Fantine's instruction grabs my attention only a moment before I feel her death grip on my arm.

“She's going to drown!” I say, trying to wiggle away from her.

“No, she's not,” Fantine says, in a voice that seems much too calm given the circumstances. “Look at her.” With her free hand, she points toward the deep end of the pool where two pale arms
are cutting through the water.

I blink hard to make sure I'm not seeing things. “Holy crap.”

“Pretty amazing, huh?”

Amazing is David Beckham in an underwear ad. This is something entirely different.

“Yeah,” I say, my head shaking in disbelief. “It's . . . wow. I had no idea you could swim without, uh . . .”

“Legs?”

I look down to find Quinn staring up at me. His tanned arms are crossed on the lip of the pool, and the smile on his face is radiant.

“Yeah,” I admit with a shrug. “That's probably really stupid of me, huh?”

“Nah,” he says, and now it seems his eyes are smiling, too. “Most people probably can't swim without the use of their legs. But Meredith is pretty exceptional. Most swimmers at her level have some use of their legs, but not her—all her power comes from her arms. She's got some serious guns to contend with. I'm pretty sure she could take me.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” I say, admiring the beads of cool water glistening on his firm shoulders and perfectly defined biceps. Zac Efron has nothing on Quinn in the muscle department.

“So what about you, do you swim?”

“Well, I
can
,” I say, tossing my tank to the ground. “But I don't do it competitively or anything.” Like I do anything competitively.
“I guess I'm not much of an athlete. What about you?” Although he's subtle, I still catch him taking a glimpse at my bikini. I can't help but smile. Claire is right, boys are silly sometimes. “What about you?” I ask again.

“Huh? Oh yeah,” he says. “I . . . play soccer.”

“Soccer. That's right. Fantine told me about the scholarship. That's awesome.”

“It's only a partial, but it helps. Without it there's no way my parents could afford to send me there.”

I think back to the T-shirt I woke up in. My heart starts beating a little faster. “DePaul, right?”

He nods. “It's got a solid engineering program and it's not too far away, so it worked out well.”

“So that's what you want to do then? Be an engineer?”

“Something along those lines,” he says. “I've always liked piecing things together—constructing things and stuff. There are a lot of different fields I can get into with an engineering degree, so I figured it was a good fit. What about you? What are your plans after graduation next year?”

His question catches me by surprise. Not because I haven't been asked about it before, but because for the first time I feel like I should know the answer. Or might actually want to know the answer.

“I'm still debating,” I lie. “I have a couple different things in mind but I'm not ready to say anything for sure.”

“Holding out for a big announcement, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say. Or a revelation.

“Do I even get a hint?”

I stare down at the cute little wrinkle that has suddenly formed in the center of his forehead, and wish I could. Other than trying to land that striped Burberry bag I spied last month, I haven't given much consideration to my future at all.

“Nope,” I say, shrugging off my insecurities with a smirk. “You'll have to wait like everybody else.”

“You're no fun,” he says, and splashes my legs with water. “Well, I'm sure whatever it is it'll be great. I can't wait to hear what it is.”

“Yeah,” I say.

You and me both.

ELEVEN