by Don Calame
Sean grabs the door handle and takes a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.” He pulls the door open and ushers us in. “Ladies.”
Coop stands up tall and struts inside. I can’t believe he can be so confident. I’m starting to pit out my dress; I can feel it. Girls don’t sweat this much. I bet my makeup will start to streak soon. All of a sudden I know we’re going to get caught.
“Go,” Sean orders through clenched teeth.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I say.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Sean whispers. “Nobody’s going to notice anything. Unless of course you draw attention to yourself. Like you’re doing right now.”
“I can’t do it,” I say.
“Just think of Mandy Reagan. Totally nude,” Sean says. “And if that’s not enough, think of that picture my sister has of us.”
I close my eyes. There’s no choice, really. I step through the door and Sean follows.
We make our way toward the front desk and I relax a bit when I see that someone other than Mom is manning the computer. It’s some guy I don’t know. He’s got earbuds in and is reading a beat-up science-fiction paperback.
You’re supposed to scan your membership card before you enter, but most of the time no one pays any attention and you can just walk by and go straight into the locker rooms. People do it all the time.
Things look pretty good for us, what with this guy so involved in his book and everything.
Coop leads the way, strolling by the desk like he’s done this a million times before. Sean and I follow, trying to act just as casual. It’s a breeze making it by the front desk, and we’re almost at the door to the locker room when the guy calls to us.
“Oh, girls,” he says.
Oh, crap. He knows. Of course he knows. We might look like girls, but we sure don’t walk like girls. We should have practiced that. He’s going to call the police or something. He’ll take us into the office and my mother will be there when they pull the wigs off us and I’ll be forced to tell her everything. I knew this wasn’t going to work.
Coop, Sean, and me turn around and shuffle toward the desk.
The guy squints at us. He pulls one of the earbuds from his ear. “You think you could just walk right by me and I wouldn’t notice?”
The three of us stare at the ground.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
My eyes dart over to the front door. I think about making a run for it.
“I put a lot of work into this new schedule,” he says, pulling a hot-pink piece of paper from a display on the desk. “The least you girls can do is take one.” He holds the sheet out to us.
Sean cautiously reaches up and takes the page. “Sorry,” he says, using a fake girl-voice that sounds more like Mickey Mouse than anything else.
“It’s all right.” The guy shrugs. “But make sure to tell your friends. There’s a lot of great new classes this summer.”
“Mm-hm,” we all say, smiling.
“Okay, well, have fun.” The guy tucks the earbud back into his ear, sits down, and picks up his book.
We have to swallow our laughter as we enter the women’s locker room.
It looks like we’re the only ones here right now, which is good. It’ll give us some time to scout out the best viewing location. The women’s changing room is way different from the guys’. For one thing, it’s all pale yellow. The tiles, the lockers. And it smells way better, too. Not like a ripe hockey bag. The towels are all rolled up and stacked on the counters. There are potted trees in the corners. There are even private shower stalls.
We’ve got about five minutes until Mandy Reagan’s class is over, which is just enough time for me to use the john. My gut is back in action and I want to be able to enjoy my first naked girl sighting without these annoying cramps.
“Don’t rip the carpet too loud,” Coop says to me. “Girl farts are different. They’re more like mouse squeaks. You go letting off sonic booms and we’ll be found out for sure.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I make my way through the maze of lockers and toward the bathroom in the back corner. The door leading to the gym and the studios is just down the hall.
I’ve never been in a girls’ bathroom before, either, but here it’s not so different from the guys’. There are no urinals, sure, but it’s just as much of a mess. Wet paper towels flung all over the sink counter. Toilet paper on the floor.
I’m still marveling at all this when a toilet flushes. I’m not so nervous now that we fooled the guy at the front desk.
I take a deep breath, smile, and start toward the stalls.
And that’s when one of the stall doors opens —
And Kelly West steps out.
I get that plane-suddenly-dipping feeling. Sweat on the back of my neck. Thrumming in my temples.
“Hi,” Kelly says, barely glancing at me.
“Hi,” I say with the same bad Mickey Mouse voice Sean just used.
Kelly stops and looks at me. “Do I know you?”
I shake my head.
“You look so familiar,” Kelly says. “What’s your name?”
“Topaz,” I say softly, looking down. “Excuse me.” I move past Kelly, toward the farthest stall.
“Wait,” Kelly says.
I stop but don’t turn to face her.
“Did you take ballet?” Kelly asks.
I shake my head again. My intestines seize. I’m going to die if I don’t go to the bathroom right away.
“This is going to bother me all day. I know you from somewhere.”
I shrug and reach for the door to the stall.
“Just turn around. Let me see your face again.”
If I can just relieve some of the pressure in my gut, I could deal with this situation better. I figure I can safely let off some quiet gas at this distance.
I relax just a bit and realize instantly that this was a mistake. There’s nothing quiet about it. There’s a rumbling thunderclap in my boxer briefs followed immediately by full deployment.
“Ohmygod,” Kelly says, her voice horrified. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t have to turn around to know that she’s already gone.
The cesspool stink smacks me in the nose like a baseball bat and I feel the warm stew seeping down my legs. I waddle into the stall and stand there in complete shock.
What the hell do I do now?
I SNAP MYSELF BACK. This is not one of those situations where you want to stand around for any length of time considering your options. You need to do damage control as fast as possible.
I lock the door, lift my dress, and step out of my underpants before all is lost. I take a seat on the toilet and release the hell hounds. It’s the worst case of the sputters I’ve ever had.
It’s lucky I’m not wearing regular old loose boxers or things might be beyond repair. My tighter boxer-briefs have kept most of the evil contained. It’s nothing I can’t deal with. Things will be all right. I just need a few minutes.
Someone comes into the bathroom and starts gagging. “Jesus.” The voice is muffled like the woman is speaking through a cupped hand. I hear her turn and leave. Thank God.
I’ve been breathing through my mouth ever since I got the first whiff, but I know that the smell is toxic, because I can taste it and I have to use everything in my power not to puke.
My initial thought is to put my underwear in the garbage, but I’m afraid that will foul the entire locker room and ruin our chances at seeing Mandy.
It’s probably best if I just flush everything, briefs and all. That way the evidence will be gone and the air will eventually clear.
I stand up, lift my fully loaded shorts, and plop the whole filthy package into the bowl. I flush the toilet with my sandaled foot, and everything starts to swirl around and down and I thank God I’m rid of it.
I reach down and grab some toilet paper to start cleaning myself up, but it’s the really thin, cheap kind
and the roll is jammed into the holder so the tissue keeps breaking off into tiny half sheets. It takes some effort to unfurl a wad that’s big enough to be of any use.
As I’m wiping up, I notice that the murky brown water in the toilet is still whirlpooling. It’s spinning around and around, but it’s no longer going down. In fact, it’s rising. And fast. Before I know what’s happening, the water completely fills the bowl and starts cascading over the rim. I hurl my muddied mass of toilet paper at the swell but it just floats over the edge like a barrel over Niagara Falls.
I haven’t even come close to finishing the cleanup, but there’s no time. I whip around, unlatch the lock, and tear open the door.
The dark water bleeds out of my stall and into the others. It won’t be long before the entire bathroom is flooded. I bolt out of there with a who-me? quick-stride and then weave my way back through the lockers.
When I reach the guys, Sean and Coop are waiting on the benches.
“What took you?” Sean asks in a hushed tone. He glances at his girl watch. “Mandy’ll be here, like, any second.”
“We have to go,” I say, sneaking a look over my shoulder. “Now.”
“Christ, what’s that stink?” Coop says, covering his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow.
I’m about to say something, but I don’t get the chance.
“Overflow!” a girl yells, sprinting by us, holding her nose.
The brown water has seeped from the bathroom and is now puddling out over the locker-room floor.
Sean scowls at me. “What did you do?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I say through clenched teeth. “Let’s just leave.”
There are screams and shrieks and splattering footsteps as the girls from the tae kwon do class bolt right past us. Mandy Reagan is the last to run by. I’d forgotten just how big her breasts are and how absolutely gorgeous she is.
“Goddamn it,” Sean says, slapping the bench and standing up.
We hightail it out of the locker room just as three staff members wielding a plunger, a toilet snake, and a giant wrench storm by in the opposite direction.
Outside, we slog toward home, the fog of disappointment surrounding us. I give Coop and Sean the short version of what happened, leaving out a few of the more embarrassing details.
“I’m really sorry,” I mumble, surreptitiously pulling the back of my dress away from my sticky butt.
“Don’t sweat it.” Coop claps me on the shoulder and laughs. “It’s pretty friggin’ funny, dude.”
“You won’t be saying that tomorrow,” Sean pipes in, “when Cathy sends that photo of us to the whole swim team.”
Coop shrugs. “We’ll just say she Photoshopped it. No biggie.”
Sean’s face brightens. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s right. You can do anything with pictures on the computer these days.”
I haven’t told them yet about Kelly. How she saw me. And how when she sees the photo she’s sure to recognize me as “that girl who crapped herself in the women’s bathroom at the Community Center.”
And then I get the mother of “Oh shit!” electric jolts up my back.
I freeze. “We have to go back.”
“What are you talking about?” Coop says. “No one’s getting naked in that sump you created.”
“No. My underwear. I have to go back and get them.”
“The ones you plugged the toilet with?” Sean snorts.
“They’re going to know they’re mine.”
Coop breaks up. “Dude, relax. They can’t ID skid marks.”
I run my hand down my face. “You don’t understand. My name is in them.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Coop says.
“My mom sewed my name into my underwear when I went on the school’s Easter break trip last year.”
Coop and Sean lose it. Spit flies from their lips. They double over.
“It’s not funny,” I say. “When they wash your clothes, they need a way to know whose is whose.”
“Did she sew the days of the week into them, too?” Coop crows.
“Do you see me laughing about this? They’re going to pull those boxer briefs out of the toilet and they’re going to see my name on the waistband and then they’ll show them to my mom and I’m totally screwed.”
Coop shakes his head, trying to catch his breath. “It’s a hell of a way to go down, Mattie.” He grabs my shoulder again. “I feel for you, dude.”
Sean is lost in fits of laughter when all of a sudden he stops. His expression clouds over. “Goddamn it,” Sean says. “I just realized. Matt’s underpants don’t just incriminate him. It’s exactly the proof Cathy needs to verify her picture. Why else would Matt’s underwear be in the women’s locker room unless we all dressed up and snuck in?”
“You’re nuts, dude,” Coop says. “You think an overflowing toilet at the Community Center makes the front page?”
“No,” Sean says. “But this is Lower Rockville. And it’s just the kind of story people tell their friends at parties. It’ll get back. You’ll see. Way to go, Matt.”
“This was your stupid idea, Sean.”
“To see Mandy Reagan naked. Not for you to crap your pants and then try to flush them down the toilet. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Fine. I’ll go back myself.” I turn to go.
Coop grabs my arm. “You go back there and for sure you’ll be caught. Your only prayer is that they just don’t look too closely. They find the underwear and say, ‘Here’s the problem,’ and then throw them away. I doubt they’re going to bring in a detective.”
I sigh. “I hope you’re right.”
We continue home, with me tugging at the back of my soiled dress and cursing my life the whole way.
SEAN, COOP, AND I MAKE IT back to Sean’s house to clean up and change into our own clothes. It takes way longer than I thought to get all the makeup off. Even after I shower, I have to scrub my face raw to wash away all traces of Topaz. Sean’s sister isn’t around, thankfully, so we don’t have to explain why we don’t have the pictures of Mandy or why I threw her sundress into the garbage.
I bike home, taking my time, zigzagging from curb to curb.
As I approach my house, I’m prepared for the worst. I expect Mom to be standing just inside, clenching my soggy, soiled underwear in her fist, screaming bloody murder. I put my bicycle away in the garage, leaning it carefully against the wall. Just right. Check the tire pressure. Check out an old scratch on the frame.
When I run out of things to inspect on the bike, I head out of the garage. I get to the front door of our house and open it slowly, bracing for the onslaught.
I look around.
Nothing.
Mom is nowhere to be seen.
The only sound is Grandpa Arlo mumbling to himself from somewhere inside.
I make my way down the hall and enter the family room. Grandpa’s hunched over the computer, hunting and pecking at the keyboard. I can’t make out what’s on the screen, but I could probably guess.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I say.
“Jesus Christ!” he cries, jolting in his chair. He scrambles for the mouse and quickly shuts the Web browser. “What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me like that? You want to give me a heart attack?”
“Whatcha looking at?”
“None of your goddamn business is what I’m looking at.”
“It kind of is,” I say.
“And how do you figure that?”
“Because you’re going to get another virus on the computer and then blame it on me. Again.”
“That was your brother who did that,” he says, his eyes sliding to the side.
“Grandpa, Pete’s got a girlfriend. He doesn’t need the Internet.”
“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All.” Grandpa reopens the browser and finds the Web page he was looking at. “There. Happy?”
I move in closer and have a look. TheFrugalRomantic.com. The top ten most economical gestures to woo that special someone.
“It’s stupid,” Grandpa mumbles. “But I’m desperate.”
“Which one are you going to do?” I read down the list. “Are you going to give Mrs. Hoogenboom something handmade?” I suppress a laugh. “Like a Popsicle-stick picture frame? Or a handprint turkey?”
“I’m glad you find this so funny.”
I read through a few more ideas. “All right, how about sending flowers?”
“You don’t think she got enough of those when Ray died?”
“Candy?”
“Diabetic.”
“A beach picnic?”
“Anyway.” Grandpa sighs, slapping his hands on the desk. “Now that you’ve sufficiently embarrassed me, I think I’ll go for a walk.” He stands and pushes past me.
I follow him to the front door. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s going to be late. Some crisis at work.” Grandpa sits down in the chair in the foyer and uses a shoehorn to guide on his loafers. “Which reminds me. Some Tim or Tom from NutraWorld called her. If she gets home before I do, tell her that they need her entire shipment of protein powder and fiber laxative back ASAP. Stupid bastards got the labels mixed up.” Grandpa snorts as he stands. “I’d hate to see the sorry chump who drinks a tall glass of fiber laxative thinking it’s a protein shake. Gives a whole new meaning to squat thrusts.”
“Yeah,” I say weakly, forcing a laugh. “That would be pretty bad.”
Grandpa opens the front door. “It’s just you and me for dinner. Peter’s gone over to Melissa’s. But don’t wait for me to eat. I may be a little while.” And with that, he leaves.
I make my way into the kitchen and throw some blueberry Pop-Tarts into the toaster. I should probably take this free time to go practice my butterfly. But I’m wiped.
I think I’ll just crash in front of the TV, holding my breath until Mom comes home.
THE ROCKVILLE SWIMMING ASSOCIATION is a joke, when you really think about it. We only have three swim meets all summer. The relay challenge, sectionals, and championships. Which is already three meets too many, if you ask me. But for all the swim practice they have us do, you’d think that they’d want us to compete more than every few weeks.
