The Meet-Cute Project

by Rhiannon Richardson

  “That was awesome,” someone says as Abby pulls me out of the pool after our first set of relays.

  I take off my goggles and wipe my eyes, to find a boy offering me my towel.

  “You’re Mia, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, drying my hand before shaking the one he’s holding out to me.

  We fall silent, and a familiar awkwardness comes over me.

  “This is Ritchie,” Victor says. I feel embarrassed that I didn’t think to ask.

  “Nice to meet you,” I tell Ritchie.

  “You too,” he says, smiling at me.

  Coach has us do a butterfly stroke relay and then tells us to pick our weakest stroke to practice for time. The times we set today we have to beat by Wednesday’s practice, so that we’re in good shape for our meet.

  Our junior varsity swimmers get out of the pool and let some of the boys’ team have a few lanes for conditioning. Two of them join Abby and me in our lane, and we time them first before taking over and timing each other. During my laps I catch Abby staring at Victor doing stretches a few lanes down instead of at the stopwatch.

  I finish and tap the time on my Apple Watch, thankful that I was keeping track on my own, before calling out, “Earth to Abby.”

  She quickly clicks the timer and reads my time out to me. Three seconds off. I smile and shake my head as I climb out of the pool.

  “You’re gonna feel sore tomorrow,” she tells me.

  “Yeah, and what are you gonna feel?” I ask, teasing as I wrap my towel around me.

  “Hopefully still full from a well-deserved dinner,” she says, laughing.

  There’s a team dinner at Maria’s house tonight, and her mom always goes all out. We review what we think she’ll make for us as we walk to the bleachers to watch the boys do their conditioning. She had a pasta night last year. Make-your-own-pizza night the year before, when the boys’ team didn’t join us. She even made cauliflower crusts for all of us so that we wouldn’t carb load before the meet.

  Abby’s eyes stay fixed on Victor, as he swims and while he keeps time for his partners.

  I scan the pool, watching more of the recruits slip into the water as the rest of the girls finish their laps. Ritchie and his partner catch my eye as they start practicing in the lane closest to the bleachers. I’m surprised when he breaks away from the wall with good form. There’s confidence and familiarity in his stroke.

  “Where’d that guy come from?” I ask, nudging Abby.

  As if he heard me, Ritchie turns to the bleachers as he’s getting out of the water and waves.

  “You mean Ritchie Hutchins?” she asks, waving back. When she turns her attention to me and Ritchie keeps smiling, I realize his smile is for me.

  “Yes,” I say, looking away. I keep my hands tucked inside my towel and pull it tighter around my shoulders.

  “I think he’s new, like he transferred schools,” she admits.

  “So, he’s not a freshman?” I ask, watching him crouch on the block, ready to dive over his partner.

  “I don’t think so,” she says, still watching Victor. I watch her eyes flick to Ritchie’s lane and follow him as he does a really good breaststroke. “It’s obvious he’s not new to swimming.”

  Coach blows the whistle, and everyone gets out of the pool. Before people start toward the locker rooms, she reminds us about the team dinner and says that Maria’s mom has invited the boy recruits to attend so that they can see what swim team is about outside the water.

  Victor comes up to the bleachers, smiling hugely. “I have intel,” he says, looking back and forth between Abby and me.

  “What’s your intel?” Abby asks.

  Victor looks around to make sure no one is within earshot before whispering, “Richie Rich has the hots for you know who.”

  “You don’t have to say ‘you know who’ when you’re talking to ‘you know who,’ ” she tells him.

  “Who is ‘you know who’?” I ask.

  They ignore me.

  “What do we know about Richie Rich?” Abby asks Victor. They tilt their heads together, and I feel a little awkward. Nevertheless, I still listen.

  “He’s been a swimmer for—I think—four years. He transferred from Holloway Charter school because his parents got a divorce. He lives with his dad who owns, like, four Taco Bells. He’s really good at Halo—”

  “Intel we can use?” Abby cuts him off.

  Victor pauses before saying, “I believe he’s single.”

  “Richie Rich is single?” Abby asks, jumping up and down. Victor joins her, and they hold hands like two sorority girls before turning to me. “He’s single!” Abby repeats.

  “Ritchie?”

  “Yes!”

  I start to ask why we care that Ritchie is single, but Abby shushes me. She and Victor wave someone over, and I turn around to see Ritchie coming out of the boys’ locker room.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, and smiles, not sure at first if we’re looking at him or if someone came out of the locker room behind him. He shuffles over to us so as to not slip, before asking, “What’s up, guys?”

  His hair is still soaking wet and plastered to his forehead. He’s wearing a gray-and-red Holloway sweatshirt and a pair of Adidas slides that squeak with each step.

  “About to go change for the dinner,” Abby tells him.

  “Do you have a ride?” Victor asks.

  “I don’t even have the address,” Ritchie admits, glancing toward me.

  I smile politely, but feel exposed when he keeps staring.

  “Why don’t you ride with us?” Victor asks.

  “Yes! You can meet us at Mia’s house, and we can all drive over together,” Abby says, catching me off guard.

  “That would be awesome. I mean, if you guys have enough room,” Ritchie says, looking from them to me.

  “It’s not my car,” I tell him, but Abby pinches the back of my shoulder, so I add, “But it’s cool with me either way.”

  “Great. Victor will text you Mia’s address,” Abby says. “We’re going to go get dressed and then head over to her place, so let’s aim for, like, twenty minutes?” Victor gives her a look, but she glares him down before he can ask why we wouldn’t just go straight to the dinner.

  I wait until the door closes behind Ritchie before turning to Abby and Victor.

  “This is great,” Victor sings.

  “Good looking out, babe.” Abby wraps her arms around Victor, and they sway to some imaginary victory song in their heads.

  “Wait, so is this your meet-cute?” I ask.

  Victor smiles nervously, not revealing anything. Abby tells him that he should go get changed so we can go get changed, but I know it’s because she wants to talk to me alone for a few minutes. She holds the door to the locker room open for me and immediately starts explaining.

  “We’ve been scouting material together, and I figured his perspective could help. I want to do the meet-cute thing, but a lot of guys don’t care about bumping hands over a glove or picking up stuff that girls drop on the floor,” Abby explains. “I want this to be fun, but I also want it to work.”

  “Okay,” I say, keeping up with her as I turn my shower on.

  “Ritchie wasn’t a planned meet-cute. Tonight wasn’t planned at all. But, I mean, he likes you. It’s obvious he likes you, and I think since there’s some natural momentum, it can’t hurt for us to take advantage of the opportunity and help you see where this goes.”

  We finish rinsing and head over to our lockers to dry off.

  “He seems cool,” I say. He’s slightly taller than me, definitely able to balance out a wedding photo. But I’m interested to see if he can hold a conversation. “I guess this could work.”

  We get dressed, leave the locker room, and cut through the school to the student parking lot. I used to find the empty school weird and off-putting, but after so many club meetings and late swim practices, it’s become comfortable. I like knowing that the school gets to rest when we’re not around
.

  We are hit with a wall of October chill when we step outside. The air mixes with the exhaust from Victor’s 2012 Ford truck idling at the curb.

  “Do you want a ride to your car?” Abby asks me.

  “No. I’ll just see you at my house.” As the words leave my mouth, I remember the other weird part about tonight’s arrangement and ask why she decided not to head straight to the dinner.

  “So that you can change and look cute for your meet-cute,” she says, smiling. “See you soon.”

  I cross the nearly empty parking lot to my car. On the drive home I try to imagine what Ritchie might look like when his hair is dry and combed out of his face. I try to picture him in a tux with a carnation and white rose pinned to his pocket. It’s not an atrocious image, but definitely one that might take a little getting used to.

  I park behind Sam’s car in the driveway and take a moment to look up Ritchie on Instagram. His profile is public so I can see everything he’s posted. His page bleeds the red and gray of his Holloway school. They wore uniforms and even had matching school scarves in the wintertime. He definitely would look good in a tux, but he comes off as preppy. I’m more into someone who doesn’t wear brands or logos, whose clothes are able to show who they are without representing someone else.

  When I walk into the house, I nearly don’t hear Sam calling my name from the kitchen. I’m still staring at his profile, scrolling down to a football game from last year. He’s posing with a petite brunette from his school. Their sweatshirts match and he has his arm around her waist—not her shoulders. I wonder if this is what he’s used to, someone who wears lipstick and heavy eye shadow, whose hair is curled to perfection and long enough that it falls halfway down her back. Even her nails are perfect, painted a deep brown, curled around a Starbucks coffee cup.

  “Mia,” Sam says, snapping her fingers impatiently.

  I look up in time to see her opening her wedding binder.

  “Thank goodness you’re finally home.”

  As she takes a deep breath to—no doubt—give me a mouthful of wedding-related problems to solve, I take the opening to say, “I’m here for five minutes. Then I’m going to a team dinner.”

  “You always have team dinners. You never eat dinner at home anymore.”

  “You’re being dramatic,” I tell her.

  I start toward the stairs, Sam’s flats clicking along the hardwood floor behind me.

  “I need you tonight,” she says.

  I try to close the door to my bedroom behind me, but Sam catches it and follows me inside.

  “What about Mom, Dad, or Brooke?” I ask as I start unloading my notebooks onto my desk.

  “They’re not you. You’re my sister,” she pleads, sitting on the end of my bed.

  “And Mom is your mom and Dad is your dad and Brooke is your best friend. All of them should be more qualified to help you than I am,” I say, forcing a comb through my wet tangled chlorinated hair.

  I hadn’t even thought about what I should do with my hair. Usually we head straight to team dinners from practice. That way we get first pick of the food. My hair is always a mess, and I just put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt. If Ritchie needs a cute dress instead of a sweatshirt, he’d probably prefer fruity-smelling dry hair to this nest.

  “Mia, you’re not funny,” Sam says, an edge in her voice.

  “I wasn’t trying to be,” I snap back.

  I turn around to find Sam bent over her binder. Her glasses are sliding down her nose, and she has a dark blue pen uncapped, poised over her paper. The blue pen means she’s working on the menu. She starts biting her nail, and I can’t take it anymore, so I dare to ask what the problem is.

  I sit down next to her and see that she’s circled a picture of shrimp on the cocktail menu.

  “Geoffrey’s cousin is allergic to shellfish. Like, deathly allergic.”

  “So, you get rid of the shrimp,” I tell her, standing up when the doorbell rings.

  I bend over and push all my hair up on top of my head. I gather it into a ponytail and ignore the knots forming as I twist it into a bun.

  “Mia, it’s not that easy,” Sam says as Abby materializes in my doorway.

  Abby tosses me a balled-up mass of fabric. I catch it and hide behind my closet door to change.

  “What’s another popular finger food?” I ask as I peel my swimsuit off.

  “Pigs in a blanket?” Abby answers.

  “I’m not serving pigs in a blanket at my wedding,” Sam hisses.

  “What about cheese, grapes, crackers, and tiny cuts of meat?” I ask, pulling at the hem of the dress, surprised it’s not longer.

  “You mean charcuterie?” Sam asks.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly, looking down at the deep V neckline dancing on the edge of dangerous. “Hey, Abby?” I ask, stepping out from behind the door so I can look in my mirror. “Are you sure this is my size?”

  I stare at my reflection and see Abby and Sam analyzing me in the mirror. Sam’s face is how I feel on the inside, confused and slightly horrified.

  Abby, on the other hand, is smiling. “It’s perfect.”

  The dress is short enough that I won’t be bending down for anything tonight. And the neckline makes me regret calling those light scarfs Sam used to push on me stupid.

  “I think it looks nice,” Abby says, nudging Sam when she sees me still frowning.

  Sam pushes her glasses back up her nose before saying, “I think it looks young.… Like, you look like a teenager.” The way she says it, I can’t tell if that’s a good thing, since that’s what I am.

  “Okay, good,” Abby says, grabbing my mini backpack off the floor and tossing it to me.

  I fill it with my phone, keys, ChapStick, and a travel-size lotion.

  “We have to go. They’re waiting,” Abby says.

  “They?” I ask as we leave my room.

  “Victor and Ritchie,” Abby clarifies as we run down the stairs.

  “Who’s Ritchie?” Sam asks, right behind us.

  “A new kid on the swim team,” I tell her.

  “A potential date.” Abby tells her the truth.

  “Mia, what about my cocktail hour emergency?” Sam asks, stopping us at the front door. Abby waves to Victor from the porch, and the cold October breeze sneaks in and kisses goose bumps onto my bare shoulders, making me realize I forgot to grab a jacket out of my closet. I shiver.

  “How about I brainstorm more cold appetizers that fit your Asian-fusion theme and text you the list in the morning, and in the meantime you can Pinterest cocktail hour menus?” I say, trying to find some compromise so Sam won’t feel completely abandoned.

  “Fine,” Sam says, sighing. She sets her binder down, pulls her sweater off, and drapes it over my shoulders. “Have fun,” she whispers, looking down at the neckline of the dress again as if to reaffirm that it wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

  I mouth Thank you to her before following Abby down the front walk. Even though the sweater helps with the chill, it does nothing for my legs. Abby is wearing a dark green circle skirt with a cropped black hoodie. She also put her hair up into a bun, but it looks a lot neater than mine.

  As we approach Victor’s truck, the back door flies open. Ritchie is smiling at me, his wet hair combed back from his face. He traded his wet trunks and Adidas slides for a pair of jeans and New Balance sneakers. He’s still wearing his Holloway hoodie, though, which makes me think back to that girl in the football photo.

  “What took you so long?” Victor asks, pulling away from the curb the second my door closes.

  He immediately busts a U-turn, flinging me back against the door and then throwing me forward into the seat when he straightens out the car. I plant my hands down so that I don’t tumble all the way into Ritchie’s lap.

  “You might want to put your seat belt on,” Ritchie whispers to me. His teeth reflect the streetlights in the darkness of the back seat. His smile makes me feel a little less embarrassed.

  I tak
e his advice and feel ten times more comfortable knowing I won’t get flung all over like a pinball for the rest of the ride.

  “He is a bit of a crazy driver,” I whisper back, thankful for the heat inside the car.

  Ritchie laughs a little, and I can feel him staring at me across the silence between us. As I stare out the window, I try to think of what to say. All I know is that he used to go to a charter school, his parents are divorced, and he plays Halo. I guess the only thing we have in common is swimming. I wish Abby had told Victor to pick me up first. At least that would’ve given me a chance to hear what she was thinking.

  “You look nice,” Ritchie says quietly, his voice above a whisper.

  I catch Victor’s eye in the rearview mirror, and he quickly looks away.

  “Thank you,” I say, reminding myself to smile.

  I take the opportunity to really look at him, since he’s already staring at me. His olive-tone skin makes me wonder if he has Mediterranean heritage. He has light-brown eyes, and the contrast in them is electrifying. Or maybe it’s his unbashful smile with perfect teeth that’s electrifying. Or the fact that his eyes and his smile and his entire body are turned toward me.

  I wonder how Abby would’ve planned our meet-cute. Am I supposed to trip into his arms at some point in the night? Do we reach for the same fork at dinner, and that’s the first time we touch? Should I fling a piece of chicken at him across the table?

  “Ritchie,” Abby says, the silence probably making her uncomfortable. “We were trying to figure out how many years you’ve been swimming.”

  “I already told you,” Victor says. “Four.”

  “You said you think, not that you know,” Abby snaps, before turning to look at us between the seats.

  “This will be my fourth year,” Ritchie says. “I picked it up at the end of middle school.”

  “That’s cool,” Abby says, glancing at me before adding, “Mia’s been swimming since she could walk.”

  “That’s impressive. It makes sense, though, since you’re really, really good,” Ritchie says, making be blush.

  The attention makes me nervous, so I tell him that Abby’s been swimming just as long as me.