Learning to Swim

Learning to Swim by Cheryl Klam





For my mom,

with love



I would like to thank Esther Newberg,

Beverly Horowitz, and Claudia Gabel

for all their patience, insight, and expertise.

I would also like to thank Sadie and Lily for

allowing me to pull rank with the TV and the computer

(even though it wasn't really fair).

And finally, I would like to thank Brian

for just about everything.





PROLOGUE


Some mothers are alcoholics, some are druggies, and some are compulsive shoppers, gamblers, and/or liars. Mine suffers from one of those types of emotional, addictive diseases as well (although definitely not as serious as the ones I just listed). It's a relatively undocumented condition that I, Steffie Rogers, refer to as love lunacy.

In a nutshell: the victim of love lunacy goes from one bad affair to the next, hoping to find happiness, but usually finding the exact opposite. I've watched Barbie (Mom and I are so close—read: dysfunctional— that she insists I call her by her first name) suffer through so many heartbreaks, I could write a book on the subject. In order to help others (and myself) understand this annoying syndrome, I've mapped out the stages of the disease.

Secret smile. A weird lopsided, plastic-looking grin becomes plastered on Barbie's face, like she just found a stash of blue M&M's.



Forbidden phone call. A call that is so private Barbie must take it outside, away from me. Phone call is followed by a joyous mood.



Barbie bliss. May last as little as a couple weeks or as long as several months. Demonstrated by secretive movements, the humming of sappy love songs, and an almost manic burst of energy. During this period, Barbie will hint at positive things to come: “Maybe we should buy a place here and settle down,” or “How would you feel if I remarried?”



Hot-potato phone. Barbie suddenly becomes neurotic about her cell phone, constantly checking for messages and jumping every time it rings. This sudden obsession indicates that all is not right in Neverland.



Schizoid mom. Relationship is clearly on the rocks. Barbie's moods swing from ecstatic to dismal, good to bad, white to black.



The map. Fed up or simply dumped, Barbie pulls out her map of Maryland, closes her eyes, and drops her finger.



The finger move. Wherever the finger lands— we move.



Remission. Barbie promises to never even look at another (ahem—married!) man again.





Numbers six, seven, and eight have happened to Barbie fourteen times. As a result, I've lived in fourteen towns—and I've only been alive for seventeen years. I do the math in my head on a regular basis. The end product is always the same, and it can be easily described with the following made-up adjective: sucktastic.

In all fairness, though, Barbie's not a total lunatic. Unlike most alcoholics and druggies and compulsive whatevers, she has a handle on the basics. She puts a roof over our heads, earns a decent living, and contributes to the betterment of our household, and with a genuinely, if not freakishly, upbeat attitude, I might add. Consistent exposure to her sunshiny disposition can really affect a regular person's state of mind. Case in point: When school ended in mid-June, Barbie used her love-lunacy-influenced, mind-powered tractor beam (when used on men, it's boob-powered) and convinced me to work at her office over the summer so I could learn “fiscal responsibility” and save up for tuition at the crummy community college I assume I'll be attending.

Only, Barbie's office isn't an office. It's the bar at the Tippecanoe Country Club, where she's a cocktail waitress who stuffs tips in her bra. And what do I do at this giant, fancy rich-people hangout on Jones Island?

I'm a maid. A polyester-uniform-wearing, plungertoting maid.

Okay, considering that Barbie thought this idea would also lead to some wacky brand of mother-daughter “fun,” it's pretty obvious that she is a total lunatic. And to be honest, even though I love her, I don't want to be anything like her when I grow up. Especially when it comes to that hairy-chested testosterone-producing species that scientists and laypeople like to call men.

Right now, there's just one thing that stands in the way of my life's mission, which is to avoid love lunacy at all costs.

His name is Keith McKnight.

In fact, I can feel a secret smile forming on my face already….





1


The day started off like every other Monday. I was hunched over a vacuum cleaner, tidying up the carpet of the ornately decorated club room at Tippecanoe (which was designed many years ago by the same people who built the glamorous Waldorf-Astoria hotel in New York). The manager, Mr. Warzog, handed me a plunger and informed me that the toilet in the boys’ bathroom at the pool had overflowed. How typically sucktastic.

I would have to walk around the pool in my maid outfit, right past potential love lunacy candidate Keith, and every girl in my school. Yes, every girl in my school. Mora Cooper and her popular cheerleader crowd. Amy Fitz and her jocky soccer group. Even Rafaela Berkenstein and her punky friends with the dyed black hair who go around quoting obscure poets and talking about the meaning of life. They were all there, soaking up rays in their bikinis while I was walking around in my baby blue maid outfit and cleaning up stinky bathroom messes. This was not something I wanted to write about in my Good Times journal (which hadn't seen fresh ink since the fourth grade).