“What?”
“Come on, Captain. Jump on.”
“I’ll break your back.”
“No you won’t.”
So I hitch up my dress to mid-thigh and climb on. We almost tip over because one of my legs is flailing around and the other is hanging on to him, and I’m practically strangling him with my left arm while the right one is grabbing at the air. I send up a silent prayer: Please don’t let me break his back. Please don’t let him wonder what the hell I’ve been eating to make me weigh this much.
I’m finally secure, and he’s got his arms hooked under my legs. And he’s wading right through the water, which barely brushes my toes. I lean into him. Too soon we come out onto a great, wide expanse of beach.
He throws down the bundle he’s been carrying and I pull off my shoes. He does a handstand while he waits. Hangs out for a couple of seconds, legs in the air. And then he’s right side up again and we start walking.
I wait for him to take my hand. To kiss me. To try to get it on with me right here under this moon on the blanket he brought.
Instead he says, “Want to walk?”
“Yes.”
So we do. The waves catch us sometimes and the water is warm. There is no one awake but us, and we are the only ones in all the world. Jeremiah Crew and Claude Henry. Just the two of us. We bump into each other, arms brushing, close together, but we don’t hold hands.
After a while he says, “We don’t have to talk about your parents, but if you need to, this is a good place to do it. I’ve had a lot of conversations with myself at night on this beach.”
And, like that, I can feel it all wanting to flood out—the same things I’ve already told him and more. But I also want to preserve this night, protect it from anything sad or painful, which is why I tell him about my parents Before, how they never fought, how they always got along. How it was always the three of us, all of my life, which is why I never noticed the plumes of smoke or the earth tremors.
He says, “People can be really good at only showing us what they want us to see.”
“I think I’m learning that the hard way.”
Then he tells me about his mom, who has to go to bed for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, and about the way he’s had to take care of her for the past five years and raise his four sisters. When he talks about his mother, I can hear the heaviness in his voice—burden, love, responsibility, resentment, protectiveness. All these things weighing it down. And then he tells me about his sisters, one by one, and his voice goes light as a balloon floating up into the sky. I learn that Kenzie and Lila love to read. That Kenzie is already winning awards for her photography, and Lila has seen Harry Styles in concert three times. I learn that, at twelve, Ally already has a serious boyfriend, and Channy, the youngest, is the star of her soccer team. I ask him about his brother, and he tells me he served two tours in Afghanistan.
“That’s enough about me,” he says. “You know, for now. There’s, of course, so much more you’ll want to know, but I promise it’s worth the wait.”
I roll my eyes.
He laughs. “So tell me about your friends back home.”
I tell him about Saz and Yvonne and our nightmare phone call. When I’m finished, he says, “It sounds like Saz is on her own island right now. You just have to give her time.”
This is so similar to what my mom said that it catches me off guard.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing. That just sounded pretty wise.”
“Because I am.” He runs a hand through his hair and I stare at the anchor on his wrist.
“What’s up with the tattoos?”
“This one”—he holds up the anchor—“is to remind me where I come from. The compass on my shoulder reminds me that I’ll always find my way. And this one here…” He turns his other wrist over. Joy. “Because it’s what I’m looking for.”
Not a girl after all.
I say, “My mom is joyful. She makes things brighter just by being her. My dad hasn’t always gotten that. He can be funny and fun, but also moody.”
“Some people just aren’t built that way. My mom, for one. Or maybe they are but something gets in the way. Like depression or loss. I work hard for joy, if that makes sense. Because I’m built for it but not built for it.” He rubs at the tattoo.
“With my dad it’s more than that. It’s like sometimes he, I don’t know, almost doesn’t want to let himself be happy. It’s hard to explain.”
And even though I’ve always known that my mom and I are a lot alike, this is something I can see more and more, the farther I get from Ohio—Claudine and Lauren, Lauren and Claudine, the Llewelyn women. My dad, more like a guest star, making an appearance now and then.
Miah goes, “I don’t know the guy, but I kind of feel sorry for him.”
“You shouldn’t. It’s his choice, right? Not just ending their marriage but kind of, I don’t know, removing himself when we were still there.”
“Yeah, but he’s missing out. He’s missing out on you.”
“I don’t think he feels that way.”
We walk, not talking, his arm brushing mine again, my arm brushing his, and my heart flutters under the moon. Suddenly I’m sorry I said anything about my dad. I don’t want him on this beach with us.
I change the subject. “Where do you think you’ll end up?”
“In the world?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, ultimately?”
“Sure.”
“Well, the odds say prison or rehab. But I don’t know. For now, here’s where I’m supposed to be. Shirley says the island has this way of giving you what you need.”
“All it’s given me is a bad haircut and bug bites that look like leprosy.” And this night, and maybe you.
“Maybe that’s exactly what you need.” He bumps my arm with his and I bump his back.
“What about the end of summer? Where are you going in four weeks?”
“To join the CIA.” He grins down at me. “What about you?”
“Ever since I was little, I always knew I wanted to go to California. It was so big and so far away and seemed full of, well, promise. Saz and I planned to go there together and be writers. But I decided to go to Columbia and she’s going to Northwestern.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen someday. And it doesn’t mean you can’t go there on your own. I don’t see the future as this road that’s all laid out neat and organized: school, work, relationship. I think the future’s kind of like the ocean—more, I don’t know, fluid.”
“Wow. That’s pretty deep.”
“Is it making you want me?”
“Not really.”
“Just wait. I tend to have a delayed effect on women. It’s part of my charm.”
We turn around and start walking back the way we came, every single inch of me focused on this beach, the water washing over my feet, the night air, the moon, this boy.
Next to me Miah pulls off his shirt. “This spot right here. This is the one.” And then he’s pulling off the army shorts, and his clothes are lying on the beach, and he’s fully naked. He walks away from me, straight into the ocean.
I stand there realizing I have a choice. I can sit down here on the sand and wait. Or I can take off my dress and go in. It feels like a pivotal moment in my life. Stop thinking so much, Claudine.
I wait till his head disappears under the water and pull off my dress. I drop it on top of his clothes, and now I’m in panties, no bra. I leave my bottoms on, cover up my chest with my hands, and half skip, half walk to the water before I can change my mind. I wade in until I’m up to my waist and then crouch down so that the ocean covers me.
Miah is a dark shadow in the distance, diving in and out of the waves like a dolphin. I crouch-walk a little farther and then remember Danny
and the rip current and the fact that this is apparently a breeding ground for sharks. I stop and wait, heart pounding louder than the surf. A minute or two later Miah swims toward me. I crouch lower, trying to gather the water over me and around me. He comes up for air two feet away. In the light of the moon, he is glowing.
“See?” He grins. “Delayed effect.”
We tread water, eyes locked. For some reason, it feels momentous.
He says, “Jesus, you’re beautiful.” And kisses me.
And then he’s under the water again, and I swim after him until my feet can barely touch the bottom. The water is warm and gentle. The surface of it catches and holds the moon.
I think about the future being fluid like this ocean, and then I imagine myself part dolphin, part mermaid. I swim to Miah and wrap my legs around him, and even though I’m not naked, he is, and somehow this feels like the closest I’ve ever been to a boy. His arms are around me and we bob and float like this, my cheek to his, my chest to his, my heart to his, for a long time.
* * *
—
He walks naked all the way back to the pile we’ve left in the sand, and I can’t help but sneak peeks at him, lean and gold, wet skin glimmering in the moonlight. When we reach our things, I pull my dress back on, and it sticks to me like seaweed. He grabs a towel and offers it to me, and then grabs one for himself. And that’s when I let myself really look at him—all of him. And it’s very, very clear that our time together in the water has affected him.
So now I’m trying to look everywhere but at him.
“What’s going on, Captain?”
“Nothing. The moon is just so beautiful.”
He laughs and finally he pulls on his shorts. We sit down on the blanket he’s brought and drink the sodas he’s brought, and I don’t want the night to end. I think, I could stay here. I could live right here. And then for some reason I’m thinking about the Claude I was before this summer, the girl who didn’t know that people go away and love can change its mind. This is how I feel in this moment on this beach under the moon with this boy—like me again.
We sit side by side, arms touching, and we don’t say a word. We watch the water and wait. The waves are rolling in and out, and in the dark, in the black of the night, they sound ominous, like thunder. I shiver, and without a word he hands me his shirt. I pull it on, even though the night is so warm that my skin is damp from the air, not just the water, and my hair is sticking to my forehead.
We sit there for maybe an hour or longer. I lose track of time, and I like the fact that it could be midnight or it could be two a.m. Time doesn’t really matter here, no matter what my mom says.
We sit like this, both of us staring out at the ocean. My arms wrapped around my knees, his propping him up as he leans back, long legs stretched out in front of him. I’m filled with this feeling of apart but together. We are the only two people in the world sitting here in this spot on this island waiting for the turtles to emerge from the sea.
At some point, I think I see one down along the beach. I lean forward, and I know he sees it too because he sits up. Together we hold our collective breath, but it turns out to be some other sort of creature, a raccoon, maybe, something low to the ground that scuttles along out of sight. Miah settles in and we wait and watch some more. I’m aware of everything, my body on alert, my skin at attention. The night air, the soft but scratchy feel of his shirt on my skin, the way the shirt envelops me and smells like him. The sand under my legs, the sand surrounding my feet as I bury them in the beach. The smell of salt water and the sound of the waves reaching for us, pulling back, reaching for us, pulling back. The bright of the moon and the stars and the fact that there are more of them here than I’ve ever seen, even in Ohio farm country. I am memorizing all of it, taking it into me, where I will keep it forever and be able to bring it out again someday, long from now, when I am far, far away from this island. That summer boy, what was his name? I might not remember, but I won’t ever forget waiting with him on the sand for the turtles to come.
Suddenly, he stands and extends a hand. And I don’t want to go, but I let him pull me up because it had to happen sometime. I follow him around the dunes and down the path, away from the beach. I want to go back and sit there till dawn, not talking, not touching, but together.
At the tree line, he turns and looks at me, traces the line of my jaw and chin with a single finger. It happens swiftly. His mouth is on mine, and he’s pulling me in or maybe I’m pulling him in. Whichever way it happens, we kiss and kiss. When we finally break apart, he says, “Wow.” Just like before, only not like before.
“Wow,” I repeat.
“Wow,” he says again.
DAY 6
The next day, I sit inside the general store and make my weekly phone call to my dad. The last time I talked to him was in the guest room at my grandparents’ house in Atlanta. I asked to go home early, back to Mary Grove, and he said no. I imagine all the things I want to say to him now. Mom isn’t sleeping. I hear her at night because I’m not sleeping either. We’re just in Addy’s house not sleeping, waiting for you to change your mind and tell us to come home.
But our conversation goes like this:
“How’s the island?”
“Fine.”
“Is it hot?”
“Yes.”
“How’s Dandelion adapting?”
“Okay.”
(Many awkward pauses in here.)
“Bradbury wants to say hi.”
And then I hear Bradbury panting into the phone, and all of a sudden I need to hang up or I will splinter into a thousand pieces. But first I say, “Bradbury, I want you to listen to me. I’ll come back for you. I promise. Don’t think we left because we don’t love you.”
Now Dad is on again and we talk about nothing of consequence for a minute or two more—he mentions some movie he just went to see and tells me about the marathon he’s training for, and finally he says, “I love you, Clew.”
It takes everything I have to say, “I love you too.” And I do. It would be so much easier if I didn’t.
* * *
—
That evening, everyone on the island descends on the inn for what they call a low-country boil, which is potatoes, corn, sausage, and shrimp boiled up in this giant outdoor cooker. While my mom mingles with the adults, I find Jared serving food. As he fills my plate, he says, “So the note I delivered. Did it live up to all your hopes and dreams?”
“Some of them.”
He grins, and I can’t help it: I grin too. And even though I’m younger than he is, I feel older-sisterish. I say, “What about you? Are you dating anyone?”
“I wish.”
“What about Wednesday?”
“I’m not really her type.” For some reason this sounds weighted, but then Wednesday appears, as if we conjured her, and says to me, “Hey, Mainlander.”
I tell them I’ll see them later for the fireworks, and find a spot on the grass near my mom. I eat silently while she talks with a trio of older women, all with sweet Southern accents. The photographer stands nearby, his back to us, and I think, I dare you to come over here. He doesn’t. Afterward I meet Jared, Wednesday, Emory, and the other staffers on the beach. I look for Miah but he isn’t there.
We huddle at the edge of the dunes and watch fireworks over the neighboring islands. There is something comforting about the crackle and pop and hiss as the air explodes with stars—blue, red, green, gold. I think of all my Fourth of Julys, and my parents are in every one. The three of us in Rhode Island, watching from the dock with a hundred other people. The three of us in Atlanta, eating a picnic in Piedmont Park under a sky of sparkling color. The three of us in Ohio, drinking fizzy lemonade with Saz and her family.
There is a sonic boom and gold rockets shoot into the sky.
Wednesday says, “Would yo
u rather have penises for arms or tree trunks for legs?”
I say, “What kind of trees?”
“Live oaks. No—palm trees. The really tall ones.”
Jared goes, “Penises for arms.” And then he does his best impersonation of arm penises, which sends us laughing uncontrollably.
After we wind down, Emory sighs. “I need to get laid. There aren’t a lot of options on an island.”
“Thanks,” says Wednesday.
“You know what I mean.”
“What about our neighbors across the water?” I nod in the direction of the fireworks.
“He’ll never leave here.” Wednesday turns her face up to the sky.
Emory says, “I might have to. I’m not cut out to be a monk.”
“I’d like to be in love.” Jared says it in his upbeat Jared way, but a sigh escapes at the end of it. “Like, I wonder if sex is really different when you’re in love with someone.”
And even though I’m a virgin, I want to say sex is just sex. It doesn’t matter who you do it with, as long as you have their consent and they have yours, and as long as you like their hands on you and their mouth on yours. As long as they are all sorts of possibility and almostness and maybe.
But other than the consent part, I’m not sure I believe this anymore.
“I don’t know.” Wednesday stretches her arms out, like she’s trying to grab the fireworks. “I want to see what it’s like with different people. See what I’m like with different people. People of all genders. To have the chance to love who I love, and if I actually do fall in love, great. If not, at least I’ll have some fun. The thing I know is that I don’t want to get hung up on any one person right now.” For some reason she’s looking at me. “Because it always ends the same, right? You have a good time and they have a good time and everyone’s having fun, and then once the chase is over, suddenly they start chasing after someone else like you never existed. Besides, I like being me too much.”
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