If We Kiss by Rachel Vail

at her.
    He is probably, like, twenty. She flashed him a smile and we ran into the women’s locker room.
    I opened my mouth wide at her.
    She shrugged. “He’s cute.”
    “Yeah,” I said. I shook my head and we found a locker that was empty. Guys who are possibly past being teenagers wink at Tess? “Wow,” I said. “Has that happened to you before?”
    “What?” Tess asked, and pulled off her shirt. She has no body-shyness at all, never has, as long as I’ve known her. She stepped out of her shorts and underpants, then yanked off her sports-bra and began getting into her bathing suit. “You gonna watch?” she asked.
    I sat down on the bench and took off my own shirt. My arms were heavy from earlier.
    “I was thinking,” she started.
    “Always dangerous,” I said.
    “Very true.” She was already shoving her hair into her bathing cap. “What if I decided to train for a triathlon?”
    “A what?” My bathing suit was a little pilly on the butt. My good one was already wet from before, and my medium ones were in the hamper.
    “Triathlon. You have to run, swim, and bike.” She pulled her goggles over her eyes. She looked like a bug.
    I smiled. “You’d win,” I said.
    “You’re the best,” she said. “Ready?”
    I followed her to the pool and we swam for a while. I was surprised I could do it, honestly. Maybe my muscles are building up. Maybe I could do a triathlon, too, if I could get interested in biking and running. Or maybe I could just be an Olympic swimmer. If the whole journalism thing doesn’t pan out, I could dedicate myself completely to swimming and not have time to waste thinking about which boy is cute, or who he likes, or what the hell is going on with my mother and his father. That might be a good goal.
    “I need a goal,” I told Tess, on the way to the locker room.
    “Goals are for soccer,” she said.
    We showered, dried off, got dressed in our already worn clothes and hiked back to my house. Mom was digging the big wooden bowl out of the cabinet when we walked into the kitchen.
    “Hi, Elizabeth,” Tess called.
    “Hey, Tess!” My mother always sounds so happy when she talks to Tess. Tess is my friend, I sometimes think of reminding her. She gave us each a kiss on our damp heads. “I’m making refrigerator salad.”
    Tess heaved herself up to sit on the counter and grabbed a string bean out of the bag beside her. “My favorite,” she said. In Tess’s family, like in my father’s, there is old-fashioned dinner every night: “three things on a plate,” we call it—a meat, a vegetable, a starch. Mom and I go for a more laissez-faire approach, which means, if my French is right (ouch, probably not) “let it be,” or possibly “they let do,” though, as has been proven, French is not my forte. Anyway, the height of our style is refrigerator salad, which means (and this I do know) any bits and pieces we have leftover in the fridge, tossed in a bowl, with lemon squeezed on top and a dash of best-quality olive oil.
    “Taste this,” Mom insisted, pouring a drop of the olive oil onto some bread she must have picked up on her way home.
    Tess opened her mouth and Mom put the bread in. “Yum,” murmured Tess.
    “There is nothing like excellent olive oil,” Mom said, giving me a taste, too. How generous, her own daughter.
    It was good. “Mmm,” I admitted.
    I got out three stem glasses, and Tess took down three of the big serving bowls we use for our refrigerator salads.
    “Oh,” said Mom, turning around. “Just two, tonight.”
    “Is one of us leaving?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t me.
    “I’m, um,” Mom said, “Going out. Tonight.”
    “On a date?” Tess asked.
    I like it that my friends are friends with my mother, but honestly.
    “Out with some colleagues.”
    My mother doesn’t go on dates. She goes to meetings. Occasionally a seminar.
    “Who’s the lucky guy?” Tess bit her lower lip, psyched.
    I gripped the counter for support.
    Mom grinned. “Tess!