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AT THE SWIMMING POOL. PRISCILA IS SEVEN YEARS OLD (ALMOST EIGHT, AS SHE LIKED TO SAY), AND ALEX IS TEN.
Every day throughout the summertime months, Alex swam tirelessly up and down, up and down the swimming pool. He was already a member—and had been for two years now—of the San Vicente Swimming Club, one of the most prestigious clubs in the area; the only one, indeed. His swim coach poured praise into his ears, assuring him if he worked hard and put a lot of effort in, he could go a long way. But Alex didn’t let it go to his head; it only spurred him on to train more and more. He alternated laps with apnea practice to develop his underwater breathing and increase his lung capacity. And he did it all with relish, because he loved it.
Priscila watched, not understanding what Alex was doing. Day after day, she saw him sink under the surface near the swimming pool steps and vanish for long stretches of time. When curiosity got the better of her, she crept up to the pool and stepped in, opening her eyes under the water, trying to make out what was happening. But she could barely see a shadow, so she got out, put on her purple diving goggles—with the matching snorkel—and sank again. Then, at last, she saw him.
Alex was kneeling on the blue mosaic floor, one hand gripping the stair rail, his eyes closed. He seemed... relaxed.
When he opened his eyes and lifted his head to break the surface, he found himself face to face with Priscila. They brought their heads out of the water at the same time and stayed there, a hand each on the rail.
“What were you doing down there?” she asked.
“Holding my breath.”
She was still just as confused, but it seemed her neighbor had the ability to do anything. Surely he was also proficient in that thing her friends whispered about in the schoolyard. And her brothers too, from oldest to youngest; everyone was talking about it.
Kisses.
It was a frequently recurring word during that summer—the summer of No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak,” Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” and “Solo se vive una vez,” by Azúcar Moreno—and Priscila was curious. So she gripped the metal rail tightly, and asked him.
“Do you know how to kiss? Boyfriend and girlfriend kisses, I mean?”
Alex was surprised by the question, but he recovered quickly. He had a pretty quick mind. “Of course I do.”
“How is it done?”
“You have to close your eyes and join lips.”
“I’ve seen my brother River do that, with many different girls. It’s disgusting.”
“Is River the one with the computer?”
Whenever Alex saw that particular neighbor, he was either tangled in the guts of an old computer, or staring at the neighborhood windows. Odd.
“Yes. He wants to be a computer engineer when he grows up.”
“Well... he doesn’t just study computer guts, you know?”
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter. I was going to tell you that you have to clean your mouth after kissing. To get the other’s drool off you.”
She’d known her neighbor would be an expert, despite his standoffishness. He was quite aloof—observed everything, didn’t talk much. Her brother River used to say “When he grows up, he’ll be a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” but she didn’t understand what that meant.
“Have you ever kissed anyone?” Priscila asked curiously.
“Many.” And he wasn’t lying. Alex was a very handsome boy; he’d been getting mouth kisses since he was five years old. “Have you?”
“No. Never.”
“Never?”
“No.”
Alex would never understand what prompted his next words, but the truth is that they did come out of his mouth. And honestly, Priscila had been catching his attention for a while now.
“Do you want to try?”
“With you?”
