PUBERTY
Two years passed before the next kiss.
In those two years, Priscila reached the age of fourteen—and almost fifteen—to the rhythm of ABBA, an old-fashioned choice considering the music of the moment revolved around Andy y Lucas, Black Eyed Peas and Estopa. But the Swedish rock band was her dad’s favorite and she had learned to love them, listening with him on the old record player they still kept in a corner of the living room. Priscila would move the needle up and down to find her favorite song, “Our Last Summer,” and listen to it over and over.
In those two years, Alex turned seventeen, but not before he became an international sensation when he represented Spain in the World Cup finals, held in Barcelona in 2003. He competed in his favorite style—butterfly, one hundred meters—against renowned swimmers like Michael Phelps, Ian Crocker and Matthew Wells. He was only sixteen years old.
The next year, in spring, he attended the European Championship in Madrid and managed to get on the podium.
And he qualified for the Olympics in Athens in August, returning home with an Olympic diploma.
The City Council organized a warm welcome for him and Alex was all over the news: the youngest Spaniard in history to obtain an Olympic diploma. They forecast the brightest of the futures for him.
That summer Priscila began to dress differently, exchanging those sunflower dresses full of ruffles for shorts and tank tops. Of course, she didn’t give up the bows and pompoms in her hair and on her shoes. She liked them too much.
It was also the summer that gave Priscila her first sneak peek of freedom—the freedom to go out with her friends, spend evenings and part of the nights out. Most of them had to be home by one in the morning but it was freedom anyway, even if almost everyone’s parents were hovering, enjoying the warmth of the summer nights walking and hanging out. But yes, in spite of that, she felt free.
One day in mid-September, Priscila and her friends were bound for an Irish pub that had just opened in town—the first one, and it’d be the only one over the years. It was opening night, and it had incited more expectation than the Spanish Christmas Lottery—half the town would attend. Priscila wondered how they were all going to fit in there.
The pub was located at the top of the town’s main street, one of the steepest, and Priscila and her entire gang decided to walk it.
It was almost a mile long, so by the time they reached the top Priscila was sweating all over: upper lip, neck, cleavage—which was finally showing—belly... even her ankles were sweating. She could feel her denim miniskirt clinging to her thighs and the black tank top was like a second skin. And, despite having spent two hours in front of the mirror straightening her hair, she’d had to tie it in a high ponytail; she had really long hair, it hung down to her waist. It was just too hot for that.
It’s a good thing we left our bikes on the beach, she thought. Priscila was used to pedaling up to her house every day, and she lived at the top of another hill, but hers wasn’t this steep—far from it.
As soon as they reached the top and turned the corner, Priscila found out how half the town was going to fit: they were all outside, plastic cups in hand, surrounding tables full of chips and olives set up on the sidewalk and even on the road, since that part of the city was closed to traffic at night.
After greeting their older brothers at the door, Adrián and Priscila went inside. It was crowded in there too, but it was nicer. They ordered their sodas—two for the price of one, an opening night special—and roamed around the bar, taking everything in and gossiping about who was drinking with whom.
After two drinks, Priscila had to go to the toilet. She left her brother and a couple of friends at the bar and headed off—far end, to the right, of course. She pushed her way through the crowd, but she didn’t reach her goal—halfway there, she bumped into her neighbor. Literally. Well, literally for her. For Alex, it wasn’t a random crash at all—he engineered it. He saw Priscila coming.
The girl looked up and met those so-familiar black eyes, although tonight they were slightly red. She had dreamed of Alex’s eyes, although she didn’t like to admit it, not even to herself. She looked him up and down—she couldn’t help it—and realized there was nothing left of the ten-year-old boy with whom she’d had her first kiss, in their swimming pool all those years ago.
“Do you want a taste, or what?” he said, mocking her, pleased to note the girl’s scrutiny.
Priscila heard his friends laughing in the background.
“Are you stupid?” Priscila replied impassively. The embarrassment phase was over now; she was herself again: the outspoken girl who didn’t mince words, the one she’d been before she’d turned eleven.
Who is this guy?she wondered. Why do they become such assholes when they’re in a group? Is it because he just won an Olympic diploma?
Priscila was tired of hearing the entire town talking about Alex St. Claire’s triumphs. Everyone worshiped him, thought him some kind of water god—a modern Poseidon in the flesh—but she saw him as she always had: as her neighbor, the guy who always made her heart bump.
“You were looking at me,” he clarified.
“You were looking at me too.”
“True.”
“May I continue on my way, please?”
“Where are you going?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Alex raised his eyebrows. He was so not letting her go with that attitude. This whole situation was so funny. And his neighbor was getting prettier every day.
“You’ll have to pay the toll.”