The First Session

What. Are. You. Doing. Here?

The burning words snake out in all caps out of Carol Smith's mouth. Carol is wearing short shorts and a sexy sleeveless shirt, something you'd wear to the beach, and she's wearing no makeup at all. Her hair's still almost dripping wet, as if she had hurriedly stepped off the shower. Does Carol live here? With Brad?

"I could ask you the same thing," Sophia hears herself say.

Behind them, the cook is cleaning up the mess with the turkey. She's cursing in French, accentuated by the clanging of silverware. Sophia had apologized for the turkey, explaining that bit about being an "esteemed guest" in the house, yet it did little to uplift the cook's mood.

"I'm Brad's tutor," Carol says.

"Tutor? In what?"

"I'm teaching him synchronized swimming."

In Sophia's mind: is this a joke? How do you teach a single person "synchronized swimming"? With whom do you "synchronize" him?

Sophia realizes she's actually said these words when Carol actually answers, "With me, silly. We're a duet. The two of us are competing in the regional synchronized swimming competition. We're the school's official bets." A pause, as Carol looks at her, her head tilted to an angle. "And what are you doing here? Aside from the obvious?" Her pout points at the turkey.

Sophia hesitates. She isn't sure which to address first. Her sense of dignity refuses to acknowledge Carol's insinuation about the rape of the roasted turkey, and she doesn't feel like it's her obligation to explain every bit of her life to Carol, or to any bitch who has always treated her with contempt. But the clouds part, a sweet voice behind them sing-songs, "There you are!"

It's the young attractive secretary, obviously relieved to find her. She actually says, "I'm so relieved to find you, Miss Masterson!"

Carol's gaze ping-pongs from Sophia's face to the secretary, then back. "What's happening?"

"I'm tutoring Brad Silverstone."

"Tutor in what?" Carol runs after them, but the secretary closes a door. She's sure Carol must be breathing fire in envy. She will have to contend with it on Monday. Not now, not here.

The young woman leads her to a long corridor lined with framed artwork and delicate-looking antiques without Sophia needing to utter anything, not a word. But Sophia's hardly a "visitor"—she's here for strictly professional reasons—more and more, she finds herself repeating that phrase like it's in danger of being wiped out of her system, acutely aware that Brad's presence threatens to blur the line between professional and deliciously personal.

Sophia had vacillated between coming here and just spending Saturday afternoon reading a book. She could have easily cancelled. But the prospect of being this close and alone with Brad secretly excited her, and the excitement gives her a pang of guilt. Even now, her heart so eagerly explores emotions that her brain refuses to name. Even so, Sophia pretends nonchalance when they emerge into what turns out to be an Olympic-sized indoor pool. Brad is standing at the far end, poised to jump. He acknowledges their arrival with a slight nod. His ripped body briefly arcs in the air, then he's knifing through the water with surprising speed. Before long, he's climbing out of the pool, a breathtaking vision of a Greek god, ready for war. The young, beautiful slave hands Brad a towel before disappearing into a side door, leaving Sophia in the company of a dripping wet, swimming-trunks-clad Brad Silverstone. He gestures towards a chair, and Sophia sits on it, her heart pounding, unable to look at Brad in the eyes. She doesn't even notice Brad is slightly smiling as he pats the towel on his chest, as if dealing with people in an almost naked state is a normal part of his workaday.

"I thought you were ready," Sophia says.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Brad says, not sorry at all. "It's just that I like doing two things at the same time. I don't always get a chance to work on my swimming skills. And we've scheduled this on weekends, so I thought, why not swim and learn English stuff from Camden High's most beautiful English teacher?"

She wants to ask him about Carol, yet the mere idea of Carol Smith, in her mind, is so toxic Sophia decides against it. She crosses and uncrosses her legs. She's uncomfortable to be alone in Brad's semi-naked presence, and the more she realizes it, the more she betrays herself.

She uncrosses her legs again as she places her bag on the table. "Alright, let's start with the lessons, shall we?"

Her voice is louder than normal, and Sophia has that growing awareness that Brad knows how nervous she is. Knowing that Brad is sensing her inner struggle makes her more nervous and self-conscious. This is embarrassing, she thinks. I must appear like one of those silly teenage girls. She brings out notebooks, workbooks, stuff from her bag without really thinking about it.

Brad grunts, the towel draped over his shoulder. "Do I get a lesson on how to apply proper eye shadow, as well?"

"What?"

"You've brought out your beauty secret."

A moment of confusion. When she realizes she's also brought out her makeup kit, her purse, her small bottle of perfume, she almost shrieks. She quickly grabs her personal things and stuffs them all back in her bag.

Brad watches her calmly, that mischievous smile on his face. "You remind me of myself when I was younger."

"And how's that?"

"I was also so nervous when I was alone with someone I like for the first time."

Red flashes in Sophia's head. Me, nervous? The nerve of this kid! She snaps, "One, what makes you think I'm nervous? And two, do you sincerely believe I'm acting like this because I'm 'alone with someone I like?'"

"I don't mean to offend—"

"You know what, I believe we'd proceed more smoothly if you're properly dressed, and not like we're in a...in a...nudist camp or something!"

Brad laughs. "I'm sorry. I thought you wouldn't mind."

Brad taps his knuckles on the table—so "classy," this boy, Sophia thinks, knuckling tables like a hooligan—and out the same side door shuffles the same pretty secretary, pieces of clothing on her arms. Brad excuses himself. He stands up, and to Sophia's horror, Brad takes off his swimming trunks. He is fully naked, acting as if Sophia isn't there. The boy takes his own sweet time choosing what to wear. Why in hell is he doing this? Sophia thinks. But even as the question—merely rhetorical, for all she knew—forms in her head, she's aware of the sense of power and privilege evident in Brad's every gesture, every swagger, every subtle intonation of command, of displays of power masked as pseudo-apologies. Oh, I'm sorry for chatting with you in my bulging swimming trunks, right here in my kingdom, where I can very well do anything I please. It gives Sophia a strange thrill, a longing she dares not name. Sophia cannot help but occasionally look at Brad's naked manhood—which invariably makes her gulp for air—yet she tries to mask this by grabbing a book and pretending to read it. When at least Brad is able to choose a pair of comfortable-looking pants and the kind of shirt that flatters and emphasizes his well-sculpted physique, Sophia focuses intensely on the page she's reading, even trailing a finger at the lines, quietly mouthing the words.

"I didn't know you can read upside-down?"

"What?"

Brad gestures toward the book she's holding, which to her horror is indeed upside-down.