Cocktales

by The Cocky Collective

  “I wonder if he has a girlfriend back home.” This time, it was Charlotte who spoke. The leggy Connecticut beauty flung her mane of silky mahogany hair over her shoulder, training her pale blue eyes on me as she added, “I know his cousins in Darien.”

  There was something in her tone that made me feel as if she were staking claim on him. Inwardly, I laughed. She had just played her hand, showing me that she saw me as the biggest competition in the bunk for this guy Bray’s attention. All it had done was intrigue me more.

  Corn belongs on a cob. Or in my Gran’s Thanksgiving casserole. Or on a plate glistening in melted butter. The only other acceptable place for corn was as part of succotash. Period. It had no business being in a salad. But there it was.

  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised since corn had been served with fried chicken and mashed potatoes at last night’s dinner. This was repurposed corn, which made it that much more unacceptable in my salad. While I was picking it out, I decided that the vinegary banana peppers needed to go, too. It was a process, and I was close to completing it when Ashley and Becca suddenly jumped up from the table, their voices becoming high-pitched shrieks.

  Close up, his eyes were even more arresting than I’d suspected from a distance, drawing me in and daring me to look away. I didn’t dare. Totally entranced, I’d never seen eyes that were as pale and translucent as this boy’s. Green—a true green—rimmed with long, ebony lashes, and all I could think was that peridots, my birthstone, looked beautiful set against the creamy caramel of his skin.

  His bold gaze made me feel shy and insecure, two feelings that were generally alien to me. Yet, I still couldn’t help but smile. The boy was beautiful, and his eyes were radiating an inner warmth that I definitely was not used to. I did not expect to be dazzled by the smile he returned.

  “Hi. I’m Bray.”

  And I knew what all the fuss was about.

  “Nice to meet you, Bray. I’m Misty.” My accent was thick, and the corners of his mouth rose even more, giving me the impression that he got a kick out of it.

  “I’m guessing you aren’t from Brooklyn, Misty,” he quipped.

  “No. I’m from Jackson. Jackson, Mississippi.” I felt the need to qualify.

  He just nodded, ignoring the way Ashley and Becca were all over him. His eyes held mine until Charlotte stepped between us, her tall frame blocking my view of Bray.

  Our moment was gone. But I was pretty sure we had a moment

  Three

  Bray

  We were three weeks into the first four-week session of the summer, and I had yet to spend a moment alone with the elusive Misty Davis. Every time I thought we would have some private time, one of her bunkmates or mine would insert themselves, sometimes literally between us. To say I was frustrated would be an understatement.

  My plan was to change that at tonight’s campfire. Campfire nights happened every other Saturday and from Thursday on, you could feel the testosterone in the bunk rising and raging with the hope of copping a feel or, if you were really lucky, a hand job from a hand that wasn’t your own. Not that I was angling for one from Misty, not yet at least. I just wanted a chance to talk to her at the cookout and maybe grab some alone time during the campfire.

  The night began with a cookout with the girls’ groups. When they arrived, the girls’ looked like a parade sponsored by Juicy Couture as they sported an overwhelming number of T-shirts, announcing via some slogan, just how juicy they each were. A message to the guys, I wondered. Charlotte stood out from the crowd in a short tropical print sundress that accentuated her long, colt-like legs, which had turned golden brown in the few short weeks we’d been in camp.

  Trying not to be conspicuous, I made the most of my peripheral vision as I searched for Misty. I should have known that I didn’t need to be on the lookout, that I would just feel her arrival. And I did. But when she appeared, it was anything but a side-glance that I was giving her. Nope, I was watching her openly and appreciatively, admiring her soft white cotton, off-the-shoulder shirt, and frayed denim shorts. Where Charlotte’s long legs should have affected me and didn’t, the curve of Misty’s tanned shoulders did for me in spades. It was the first time I’d ever wanted to kiss a girl slowly from her shoulders to her neck. Turning around for a moment of privacy, I had to adjust myself and take a deep breath.

  I needed to get her alone.

  Ashley, Becca, and Charlotte joined me and my two closest buds, Tyler and Jake, at a picnic table for dinner. Not surprisingly, Charlotte took the spot on the bench next to me.

  “Misty,” I called out to her before raising my hand and motioning for her to join us.

  As she slowly made her way over with her plate in hand, a look of confusion created a crease between her pale eyes. “Oh, there’s no room for me here.”

  “Well, we’ll make some.” I jumped up from my spot on the edge of the bench. “Hey, can you guys squish a little?” I asked Charlotte and Becca. “Thanks.”

  Instead of sitting next to Charlotte, I slid my plate to the very end of the table and took Misty’s from her, placing it on the worn wood planks between my and Charlotte’s dinners. I waited for Misty to sit first and then I slid onto the bench next to her. We were so close that our thighs and shoulders were touching and there may not have been any other spot in the entire universe beyond where our bodies merged. I pressed my leg against hers a little, needing to send a message . . . to let her know. She had to know.

  Misty didn’t press back, but I watched her lips twitch, the corners raising slightly. And she didn’t pull her leg away.

  She knew.

  Now all I had to endure was the endless wait until nightfall for the campfire to begin. Campers had been eying one another for weeks waiting for this night. And I was no different.

  I was intrigued by this aloof girl who wasn’t tripping over her bunkmates to get close to me. My fear was that Charlotte may have led Misty to believe that there was something going on between us. But there wasn’t.

  That was long over.

  Four

  Misty

  As we warmed by the campfire, the last rays of rose-tinged light touched the pine tops before fading to inky blue and eventually to black. With the darkness, couples enjoyed a newfound freedom, wandering off on paths into the woods or down to the lake’s sandy shore. I was becoming more anxious as Bray’s arm, which was barely brushing against mine, was the only thing I could think about. Consciously focusing on my breathing, which had become shallow and labored, I tried to quell my excitement, hopeful anticipation, and above all, fear. I was afraid. Not of Bray, but of my attraction to him and the confusion that came along with it.

  I jumped when his shoulder nudged against mine, and he smiled as he leaned over and whispered, “Wanna go for a walk?”

  “Sure.” Standing and brushing the dirt from the back of my shorts, I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. I was so attracted to this boy that when he looked at me, the need to touch him was almost overwhelming.

  Under that, though, I felt guilt, and I didn’t know quite why. I knew that my parents would disapprove of him, so maybe that was why.

  As I turned to walk away with him, I didn’t miss Charlotte’s pointed glare. She was clearly not happy with Bray’s interest in me, and I could only imagine how she was going to take that out on me later.

  “So, what are you doing all the way up here in Maine, Misty?” We found an outcropping of boulders and climbed to the top, sitting with our legs dangling over.

  “I wanted to come somewhere different. Somewhere that didn’t look like home.” I shrugged before adding, “Somewhere not so darn hot in summer. So, I looked for camps in Maine and Minnesota.”

  “Are you just partial to M states?” He laughed.

  It took me a moment to understand what he was talking about, that he was joking with me, and then, as if I were on some kind of seven-second delay, I laughed with him. “I hadn’t even realized that.”

  “Well, you chose well. What
do you think of it up here?”

  “It’s beautiful.” Why was I so tongue-tied with him? I wanted to be engaging and quick and funny, but I couldn’t even form a complete sentence.

  “And?”

  “And the nights are so beautiful and cool. Down south, the summer is sweltering. You always feel like you need a shower, even right after you’ve taken one.” I was talking fast, trying to get as much out as I could before my brain shut down again. “I love how it stays light so late up here and then there are more stars than I’ve ever seen. I thought we had a lot in Mississippi, but it’s nothing like here. I don’t ever think I’d get tired of looking at the night sky up here.”

  “I know what you mean. Even after five years, I’m blown away every night. We don’t see many stars where I’m from, so for me, this is like being in a planetarium every night.”

  Sitting back on the boulder, we both gazed up into the darkened sky, quietly enjoying the arch of stars above us.

  “Do you find people different up here?” Bray broke the silence.

  I was surprised by how intuitive he was. “Yes, everyone up here says what they think for the most part. I’m not used to the bluntness,” I confessed.

  “Blunt as in offensive or refreshing?” He smiled.

  I didn’t answer for a moment because I was transfixed by his smile and his dimples. Could this guy be any cuter?

  And then as if snapping out of a fog, I shook my head. “No. It isn’t offensive at all. Just different.” I needed time to pull myself together, so I threw the conversation back to him. “So, tell me about you. I know nothing about you, except that you are Mr. Popularity around here.” I bumped my shoulder against his and was met by some unyielding muscle.

  He smiled again, and I had the urge to run the tip of my finger down the groove of his dimple.

  “Well, I’m from New York City. Born there. Live there. Go to school there.”

  “What school do you go to?” I asked. I needed to know the details about him. He was not like anyone I’d ever encountered in my social circle in Jackson, which were the children of my parents’ friends, so their social circle was mine, next gen. I had never been given my own choice of friends or activities or camps until this summer. For the first time, I had gotten to choose who I wanted to be close to, and that person was Bray.

  “Dalton.”

  I nodded. “I’ve heard of that.” It wasn’t a lie, either.

  “We have a few famous alums. Chevy Chase went there.” He smiled.

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “No. Just me.”

  They got it perfect the first time.

  “Are your parents originally from New York?” I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live in such a big city.

  “My mom is from Connecticut. She’s a van der Heyden.” He laughed. “Actually, she’s a disowned van der Heyden.”

  “Oh no, what did she do to get disowned?” I was enjoying the sparkle in his eyes, and I could tell he loved this story about his obviously rebellious mother.

  “She married my father,” he said, matter-of-factly, picking up a small pebble from our boulder-seat and tossing it into the air a few times before he threw it into the darkness.

  “And her family disowned her?” This was going to be juicy.

  He nodded. “Well, you’ve gotta understand the family history. Like I said, my mom is a van der Heyden. They came here from Holland back when New York was New Amsterdam, like in the 1650s with the Dutch West Indies Trading Company. They were fur traders. So, she’s old money, a debutante, Miss Porter’s, the whole bit.”

  “Okay.” I was taking it in, and I could totally picture his mother.

  “And my dad, well, my dad is a cardiac surgeon. He’s department director at New York-Presbyterian Hospital, which if you are going to have a heart problem in New York, that is where you want the ambulance to take you.”

  “I’ll remember that.” I laughed. “I don’t really understand, though. Why did your mom got disowned for marrying a cardiac surgeon?”

  Smiling, Bray shook his head and then looked me straight in the eye before he spoke. “My mom got disowned for marrying an African-American cardiac surgeon.”

  Ah. I got it. Dutch society blue blood on one side and African-American on the other. I could just envision the scandal that might have caused. Amongst my parents set in Jackson, it would have been more than just grist for the gossip mill. All of society would have shunned the poor woman, and she would have forever been talked about in whispers.

  “Wow, her family just abandoned her?” I felt terrible for his mother.

  “No. Not everyone. Just my grandfather, who is a well-known racist and bigot and keeps everyone in line by threatening to cut them out of the will. My grandmother and my uncle, my mom’s brother, never severed ties. But the old man cut her out of a serious inheritance.”

  “That’s crazy, but really cool that she walked away from it for love.” My heart was swooning. It was like abdicating a throne or something.

  “Yeah, well, my dad makes enough that it isn’t like she was plunged into poverty.”

  “Have you ever met your grandfather?” I couldn’t imagine a life without my grandparents in it.

  “Nope. Never.”

  “Well that’s his loss.” I was indignant. How could he not want to meet his own grandson just because he was biracial?

  He was staring straight ahead, and I had a feeling the hurt went deeper than I could ever imagine or than he would ever admit.

  “That’s what my mom says. She also says that my never having met him is no great loss.”

  “And you? What do you think?” I reached out and slipped my hand in his.

  Turning to look me in the eyes, he tightened his fingers around my hand and shook his head. “I don’t know if it’s just curiosity or if I just want to have the chance to tell him that I’m just as good as his other grandchildren.”

  “What a jerk.” It was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  Bray burst into laughter. “My, my, Misty Davis. That is the last thing I expected out of your sweet Southern mouth.”

  I was glad he couldn’t see the heat rise in my face, because I was sure I was beet red. Still, I was mad as hell. What kind of grandparent refused to meet their own grandchild? And in that moment, my stomach knotted because I knew both my grandparents, and my parents, would react the same way. They would totally pass judgment without ever getting to know him. I suddenly felt sick.

  “What about your grandmother?” I asked.

  “I’ve met my grandmother. We see her a few times a year. And my uncle and his family are around all the time. So, I do know my cousins from that side of the family. It’s just the old man.”

  “Jerk,” I repeated to make Bray laugh.

  And he did, throwing in a shoulder bump for good measure.

  “What about your dad’s family? Where is he from?” I wondered if it would be as juicy as the disowned heiress.

  “My dad . . .” He turned to me and smiled. “My dad is from Harlem.”

  Bray’s reaction told me I had not done a good job of keeping a poker face. His green eyes widened in surprise, and then I was gifted with another flash of his dimples.

  “You’re picturing the mean streets. My dad at twelve, flipping open a switchblade, fighting for his life. Oh, Mississippi Misty—” He paused as if in deep thought and then raised an eyebrow at me. “Hmm, I think I’ll shorten that to Miss-Mis. So, Miss-Mis, Harlem is actually really cool. A lot of the blocks are brownstones that are very nice. Pretty much looks like where I live on the Upper East Side. People think it’s the slum, and it has quite the reputation, but it’s actually just another neighborhood. I mean, yeah, there are rough areas, but there are some really beautiful ones, too. My grandma still lives there.”

  “Are you close to her?”

  “She’s my girl.” The pride and love in his voice was unmistakable.

  “It sounds like someone’s been spoiled by
his grammy.”

  “Oh, no doubt. She was a single mom, raising two kids. Always worked two jobs. Her thing was to make sure my dad and my aunt got a good education.”

  “She sounds like a smart lady and your dad definitely did well in school.”

  “Yeah, he’s something of a Brainiac and definitely has that God complex that doctors have.” Bray paused, the look on his face told me he was taking a moment to formulate what he was about to say next. “So, Miss-Mis, let me ask you something. Have you met many people like me before?”

  His bluntness took me aback. The elephant had been led to the center of the room.

  “Like you, meaning . . .”

  “Parents of different races,” he clarified.

  My first inclination was to deny it and tell him that he was just like the people I knew back home, but somehow, I knew he’d see right through me.

  “My school and my neighborhood are mostly . . .” I had no idea how to address this in a way that didn’t make me come across as uppity and sheltered.

  “White?”

  Wanting more than anything to look away, I forced myself to look directly into his eyes, and nodded.

  Squeezing my hand, he admitted, “So are mine. But I think it might be less of a big deal in New York City than in Jackson, Mississippi.” Pausing for a moment, he added, “Or Connecticut.”

  “Jerk.” I knew that would make him laugh.

  “Are you going to keep surprising me with that sassy Southern mouth?”

  I responded with a playful shrug.

  After that, we sat in silence for a long time, my hand still nestled in his. I wondered what was going through his head and hoped he didn’t think I was too different. If I were to tell Mother and Daddy that I’d met the son of a wealthy socialite and a cardiac surgeon, they would love that. I just feared what their response would be if they learned his father was African-American. But I already knew the answer to that.