Swim the Fly (13 page)

“Okay, let’s focus, then.” Coop bounces the Ping-Pong ball over and over again on the table. The hollow click of it is driving me crazy. “But keep your mind on the game. Two more points and I win. You don’t want to go thinking about Kelly West jumping up and down on a trampoline.”

This makes Sean crack up. “Yeah,” he says. “And try not to imagine her doing it in a wet T-shirt. Because that would
really
distract you.”

I glare at Coop. “Are you going to serve sometime this century?”

“Wet T-shirt.” Coop grins. “Man, oh, man. What could be more distracting than that?” He gestures with his Ping-Pong paddle. “Unless, of course, it was a chilly day.”

“Ohhh.” Sean doubles over in fits, toppling out of the chair. “Do
not
think about that, Matt. Whatever you do.”

“Whenever you’re done,” I say.

“That’s just . . . wow,” Coop says, his eyes glazed over. He shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge the image he’s created. “Okay. Here we go.”

Coop wastes no more time. He rockets the ball over
the net with a ton of topspin, but it misses the end of the table and whirls around in the grass.

“Damn it!” he shouts. “I just psyched myself out.”

I retrieve the ball and get set to serve.

“Boiiing. Boiiing. Boiiing.” Sean makes hushed bouncing-on-a-trampoline noises.

“Okay. That’s funny,” Coop says. “But enough. Matt’s right. This is too serious for that kind of distraction.”

“
Now
who’s getting panicky?” I laugh.

“Please,” Coop scoffs. “I’m not the one who’s going to be walking around with a chocolamato mustache.”

“Of course you’re not,” I say. “Just put Kelly completely out of your mind and you’ll be all right. As long as you don’t instantly replace her with Mandy Reagan. And her beautiful marshmelons bobbing up and down in slow motion.”

Coop points at me. “Screw off, okay?” He drags his hand down his face, presumably to try and erase the image of Mandy. But I can tell it’s still there, because his eyes have a feverish glaze.

“My serve.” I flip the ball into the air and bat a nice, hard, low shot across the table.

Coop barely manages to get it back to me.

I pretend to slam the ball hard but instead just tap it lightly onto Coop’s side of the net.

He backs up, totally fooled, then tries to lunge for it. But it’s too late. “Crap!”

“Nineteen all,” I say, laughing.

“Man, you must really be under the spell of Mandy’s angel cakes,” Sean hoots.

“Zip it, Sean.” Coop grits his teeth. He glares at me. “Okay. We’re even now. Can we play the rest of the game fairly?” He rolls his shoulders and tilts his head from side to side.

I turn to Sean. “Are you listening to this? The cheater feels cheated.”

“I know,” Sean says with mock sympathy. “Look at him sweat. Imagine what would happen if we threw Miss October into the mix. And some hot oil. He’d probably have to concede defeat.”

Coop grabs his head and groans. “Stop it!”

“Stop what?” I say.

“You don’t want to win this way, Matt,” Coop whines. “You’ll feel guilty. And there will always be that nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Like you didn’t deserve the win.”

I look at Coop a second before completely losing it. Sean and I bust up.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’d feel awful.”

I take a breath and send a bullet Coop’s way. He smacks the ball back to me with determination.

But I’m totally confident now and I do this insane spin-o-rama move, swatting the ball high in the air.

Coop’s eyes follow the arc and I can tell he thinks it’s going to miss the table by a mile, so he lets it go, except it somehow grazes the side with a soft tick that makes him
fall to his knees.

“Holy shit!” I holler. “Someone call Sports Center. Point, nineteen.”

“Thanks a lot, Sean,” Coop says, wanting to blame someone.

“What?” Sean throws his hands up in surrender. “It’s not like you were ever going to return that.”

“Whatever.” Coop’s already retrieved the ball. He hurls it at me. “You think you can get that lucky twice in a row?”

I waggle my eyebrows. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Okay, then. Bring it.”

I smile and serve, and it’s like the Ping-Pong gods are killing themselves with laughter, because the ball is way overshot and still it brushes the edge of the table before coming to rest on the lawn.

“Second place is mine!” I whoop it up and throw my paddle high into the air.

Sean walks over to Coop and pats him on the back. “Sorry, dude. But better you than me.”

A few minutes later, we’re in Coop’s kitchen. He sits at the table, his leg jiggling, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. But me and Sean take our time getting everything ready.

Sean places the yellowed, plastic Adventure Town cup in front of Coop. I pour the Clamato slowly, plop by foul plop. Sean follows, doing the same with the chocolate milk.

“You have to drink it all,” Sean says when he’s topped it up.

“Good to the last drop,” I add.

Coop grabs the cup and cautiously brings it toward his lips.

The sick smell of it hits me in the face all the way over here.

“Clam, clam, clam,” Sean and I chant.

Coop nearly yaks after the first taste. That’s the worst part. It’s like a cold, rancid chowder. When I had to drink it last year, I had to pretend that I’d been poisoned, that the clam-milk was an ancient Indian recipe and it was the only thing that could save my life.

I find myself cringing as I watch Coop chug the rust-brown sludge. At one point I actually have to turn away.

When he finally finishes, he slams the cup onto the table. “Deee-licious,” he says, letting out a loud soggy belch. “That hits the spot.”

It only takes about five seconds before he bolts to the bathroom with his hand cupped over his mouth.

WHEN I ARRIVE HOME,
I hear Grandpa Arlo talking to someone whose voice I don’t recognize. I enter the kitchen and see him sitting at the table, having tea with Mrs. Hoogenboom.

“Hi,” I say, trying to smile.

Grandpa and Mrs. Hoogenboom both turn toward me.

Mrs. Hoogenboom has on a light purple dress with a tie at the waist and a gold dragonfly broach pinned to her chest. Grandpa Arlo is wearing his old faithful: a pale pink dress shirt, slacks, and a belt.

“There he is,” Grandpa says. “We were just talking about you. Edith came by a little while ago. She was wondering if you might know anything about a kitten that was dropped off at her house this morning.”

Mrs. Hoogenboom smiles at me while Grandpa shakes his head furiously behind her.

“A kitten?” I ask, stalling.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hoogenboom says. “Wrapped in Christmas paper, of all things.” Her voice is thin and wheezy. Like a kazoo.

“Huh,” I say. “Why do you think I’d know anything about that?”

“She thought maybe you might have seen something.” Grandpa takes a sip of his tea. “Or heard something from your friends.”

“I can’t imagine who would do such a thing,” Mrs. Hoogenboom says. “I don’t know if it was meant as a gift or some kind of practical joke. Either way, I just don’t know what to do with the poor thing. She’s such a dear. I’m calling her Daisy. Just for the time being. Oh, but I can’t keep her, can I? What if she belongs to someone else?”

I’m not sure how to play this. Grandpa Arlo is making all sorts of grimacing faces behind Mrs. Hoogenboom but I can’t tell what he wants me to say.

“I guess if it was wrapped up and it had a card on it, then it was probably a gift,” I say.

“Oh, yes, the card. ‘From Someone Who Cares.’” Mrs. Hoogenboom squints at me. “But how did you know about that?”

Grandpa Arlo grabs his forehead behind Mrs. Hoogenboom’s back, like he’s just had an aneurysm.

“I . . . umm . . . just figured, I guess, because most presents come with cards.”

“That’s true,” Grandpa interjects. Mrs. Hoogenboom
turns to look at him. “And if it had a card, the cat was probably a gift. Maybe from someone who knew you always wanted one.”

Mrs. Hoogenboom smiles big. “I do hope you’re right. I have sort of fallen for Daisy. And it would be nice to have some companionship. I just wish I knew who gave her to me.”

“I’m sure it was someone of great character.” Grandpa Arlo sits up tall. “Someone who understands how much you would enjoy some comfort right now. Probably someone who —”

“Doesn’t have the slightest clue how to take care of a living creature,” Mrs. Hoogenboom says. “I mean, any person who would put a kitten in a box and then wrap it up in that thick Christmas paper . . . The poor thing could have suffocated. I’d like to know who it was just so I could give them a piece of my mind.”

With this, Grandpa hoists himself to his feet. “Well, if we hear anything, we’ll be sure to let you know, Edith.”

Mrs. Hoogenboom takes the cue and stands. She taps her lip like she’s thinking. Then she nods. “I know. I’ll just visit Gracie’s Pets. I’ll bring Daisy there and see if she was bought from them.”

Grandpa’s face turns ghost white. I see his Adam’s apple bob hard in his throat. “Why, that’s a terrific idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” he says. “I think I’ll go with you. I could do with a drive.”

Grandpa puts his hand on Mrs. Hoogenboom’s lower
back and guides her from the kitchen. He looks back at me, with panic in his eyes. He makes a telephone out of his hand and fingers, holds it up to his cheek, and mouths, “Call the pet store.”

I wish Grandpa would get someone else mixed up in his schemes. It’s not like I don’t have enough of my own problems.

As soon as I hear the door close, I go over to the telephone and angrily flip through the yellow pages on the kitchen counter. I find the number for Gracie’s Pets and dial. As the phone rings, I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to tell them. Two old people will be coming in asking about a kitten, and could they please deny having sold it? They’re going to think I’m a prank caller.

“Gracie’s Pets,” a woman’s voice, cold and serious, answers. She sounds more like a Catholic school nun than a pet store owner.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “I was wondering . . . My grandfather bought a kitten from you recently . . . He gave it as a present to someone and . . . The thing is . . . The lady he gave it to is bringing the kitten back to your store —”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, sounding anything but. “We don’t accept returns on animals.”

“Oh. No. It’s not about returning it.” I switch the phone to my left ear because my right one’s getting sweaty. “This lady just wants to know if your store was the one who sold the kitten.”

“Why? Is something wrong? Our kittens are all thoroughly checked out before we get them. We can’t be held responsible for anything that happens once the animal leaves the store.”

“The kitten’s fine,” I say. “It’s not that.”

“Well, then, what’s the problem?”

“It’s a little complicated. You see, the kitten was a surprise. And my grandpa doesn’t want this lady to know that he was the one who bought it.”

“I’m not sure what it is you’re asking, young man.”

“Okay. Look. Is there any way, when the lady comes into your store with my grandpa, that you could tell her that you
didn’t
sell the kitten? That you never saw the kitten before in your life?”

A long, severe silence strangles the line like a boa constrictor.

“So you want me to
lie
?” the woman finally says.

Oh, crap. My neck and shoulders seize up. The phone is slick in my sweaty palm. I hold my breath, bracing for the onslaught.

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place? You got me all worked up for nothing.”

I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “So . . . you’ll say you didn’t sell the kitten, then?”

“Kitten? What kitten? We haven’t sold a kitten in months.”

I let out my breath. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Thanks for calling Gracie’s Pets.” And with that, the woman hangs up.

I put down the phone.

Now that I’ve solved Grandpa’s problems, I can get back to tackling my own. I look over at the rooster clock on the wall. Dinner’s not for another couple of hours, which gives me some time to search online for a new, less conspicuous pool to practice at in the evenings.

I can’t risk practicing at Rockville Avenue Pool anymore. Not after Kelly and Valerie showed up when they should have been eating dinner like everyone else. I need to go to a pool where there isn’t any chance I’ll run into someone I know. A pool where I can make an ass of myself in complete anonymity.