by Juliann Rich
“Me either.” I jumped off the rock and walked over to him. Ian’s pale skin glowed to near transparency, making him look even more fragile than usual. He shivered though the night felt muggy. An urge to put my arms around him hit me.
“It’s official.” Ian stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. One quick yank and his oversized shorts fell around his ankles. He stepped out of them. He was going commando. “You’re not junior-counselor material anymore.”
I looked. You bet I looked. He was a thin torch, glowing in the moonlight. My stomach tightened. The palms of my hands throbbed and grew moist with sweat.
Ian stepped into the lake. “The water’s perfect.” He faced me, backing into the lake.
Turn away! Run! the voice in my head screamed, but I froze, eyes fixed on Ian. His whole body is covered in freckles, I thought. A reflection of the stars above. The water covered his ankles. Two steps back. His knees. Two more. His thighs. Three more steps. The shudder started in his belly and rippled up his chest. He gasped. I knew why. Every guy knows why. At least I could breathe again. He flung himself backward into the lake. His naked body cut the surface. He went under, immersing himself.
Now, move! I ripped off my shorts, my shirt, kicked off my sandals and plowed into the lake. My legs churned the water. It flew in every direction. I pushed against the resistance, leading with my heart until I reached him.
“Jeez! Be quiet, will ya? You sounded like a herd of buffalo splashing into the lake.”
Water lapped over my shoulders. We were two bobbing heads, one aflame. The other, dark as coal. I looked toward the remote beach for any sign of movement. “Do you think someone heard me?” Our clothes, indisputable evidence, lay crumpled on the shore.
“If they did, they’d probably just think a fish jumped. Or a thousand.” Ian rode the waves. Up and down.
“Let’s hope so.” We need to be quiet, I tried to convince myself, that’s the only reason we’re huddled so close together. My hands and legs fluttered. Keeping me afloat. Ian’s arm brushed against me as he swam in place. Shivers shot through me like a burst of adrenaline. The water swirled around me like a million naughty fingers. Beneath the water, I felt myself respond.
“So, now what?” I whispered. He drew closer. Our noses bumped awkwardly.
“What do you mean, now what?”
“I’ve never been skinny-dipping before. What do you do?” A wave swelled and caught me with my mouth open. “Yuck.” I spit out the lake water that tasted like worms and fish poop.
Ian grinned in the darkness. “You stop thinking for once and let yourself be a part of nature. It’s even better in the daytime. You don’t even need the lake. You just lie out on the grass and feel the sun on your naked body.”
“You’ve done this during the day? Walked around naked? Outside?” I pictured what would happen if I tried that in my suburban backyard.
“Sure. All the time. Dairy cows have tails…they don’t tell them.”
“Poor cows!” One strong thrust and I dunked him. He came up sputtering and retaliating. His thin arms and legs wrapped around me. I felt him, hot and hard, against my thigh. I struggled, but he was strong. The night sky and all its blinking witnesses disappeared as he pulled me under into a silent world. His arms changed from crushing to gentle; his head rested on my chest. He traced the small dip in my lower back with his fingers, sending shivers racing up my spine.
My head broke the surface, and I gasped for air. Ian emerged. He tossed his head, spraying me with lake water. Curls hung into his eyes that asked a question I had no clue how to answer.
“It’s late.” Beneath the water I traced his hip and thigh, soft just like I knew it would be. He pulled me close. I closed my eyes and felt his mouth on my neck, above my pounding pulse. Hot. Burning.
“Stay with me, Jonathan.” He pleaded with his eyes.
I broke away. My arms sliced the water, carving out distance between us. My feet kicked, desperate to reach the shore. I stumbled up the beach and pulled on my clothes.
I ran.
I tiptoed into the cabin, dark and silent as a tomb, and hung my towel on the railing of my bunk bed. I zipped myself into my body-hugging sleeping bag where I tossed and turned. Plagued by memories.
Trapped inside a cocoon, I felt myself changing.
But into what?
I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep, even dared to ask for the answer to the question. In the deepest hours of night, my pillow dampened from my wet hair and tears, the answer finally came to me.
I was becoming the stranger in my mirror.
*
Sleep did not come easily that night. Or the next. Or the next.
Trying to avoid Ian was impossible. I saw him everywhere. At Curtain Call. In the dining hall. Under the willow tree. Sculpting with Simon. In my dreams when I closed my eyes at night. Everywhere.
I tossed in my bunk, thinking of the gold coins that remained in my pocket. Only fifteen, and I couldn’t decide how I should spend them: running away from Ian or running toward him.
“Yo, Cooper, will you quiet down?” Jake’s voice boomed through the dark cabin, shattering the crickets’ symphony on the third night since the skinny-dipping incident. “What’s up with you tonight? Did you squat in some poison ivy or something?”
I finally broke free, struggled to my feet, and grabbed my jacket and flashlight.
“Everything okay, Jonathan?” Aaron’s voice in the darkness stopped me.
“Yeah, I just need to get away by myself for a bit. You know, think about a few things and pray.”
“Okay. Want company?” Aaron propped himself up on an elbow. Moonlight shone on his face.
“Not tonight. Thanks.” I walked out of the cabin and wandered through the dark forest. Hooting sounds echoed around and above me. I crawled through the opening to Porcupine Point and stepped into the refuge that had become, somehow, ours. Moonlight painted the clearing in broad strokes of blue and black. The flickering light from hundreds of fireflies guided me to the edge of the cliff.
There was no sky and lake anymore. Just one perfectly reflecting the other.
An image of Ian sprang into my mind. A breeze swept off the lake and penetrated my thin jacket. Shivers ran over my flesh.
“Lord”—I closed my eyes and prayed—“please hear my prayer.” I sat on the edge of the cliff, plagued by doubts. “All my life I’ve heard stories about You and how You love me. You’ve always been there for Mom and me. You’ve kept Dad safe. But I don’t know what these feelings mean. Lord, I am so confused.” Waves splashed against the rocks below me. The warbling hooting grew louder, closer.
“Come to me, Lord Jesus.” I sent the invitation out into the stars. The cool fingers of the night air caressed my face. Beneath me Spirit Lake hummed its constant song. The mismatched puzzle pieces of my life swam in my mind: Mom and Dad, Pastor Jim, the guys on my soccer team at East Bay Christian Academy, even dreams I’d had for my future. A girl in white walked toward me, holding a bouquet of flowers tied with a satin ribbon. She looked like Bethany. Other images came to my mind: Ian with his freckled nose buried in his notebook, the feel of his fingers as they traced the small of my back, his mouth on my neck, my lips. My head sank into my hands. Tears dripped between my fingers and plunged toward Spirit Lake. There were two puzzles. It was impossible to make them fit together.
All things are possible to him who believes in Me. The voice came to me on the night breeze.
“I do believe in You!” I lifted my head to Heaven.
The air around me stilled.
Nothing can separate you from My love, child.
The sound of rustling leaves from the bush with the hidden entrance broke the spell. Ian? I feared…I hoped.
“Boozhoo, Needjee.” Dawn and Bear stepped into our clearing. Dawn’s features disappeared in the darkness of the night, but Bear glowed like an angel.
“Hey, Dawn. What are you guys doing out here?” I wiped the tears from my eyes.
“It is? I never even knew about it. Ian found it.”
“Ian?”
“Yeah, my friend. The short guy with the red hair. The one that Bear likes so much.”
“Ah, I call him Migasowinini.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means fighter.” She frowned in the darkness. “Every time I see him, he is clenching his fists.”
The heaviness of my spirit lifted as Dawn walked forward and sat next to me on the edge of the cliff. Bear crossed the clearing in five steps, saw the earth plunge toward the lake below, and whimpered, refusing to go any farther.
“Coward.” Dawn laughed. “Stay there then, but you’re missing an incredible view.”
“It isn’t easy for Ian.”
“I assumed as much.”
“How do you do that, Dawn?”
“Do what?”
“Choose the perfect name for people.”
The moonlight revealed Waubun-anung to me. It glinted off her high cheekbones and shimmered blue on her rippling black hair.
“I guess it runs in my blood. My grandmother was the name giver in our tribe.”
“Name giver?”
“The Ojibwe believe that a name captures the spirit of a person, so a name giver is consulted when a child is born. Gichi-manidoo, the Great Spirit, gives the perfect name to the name giver in a dream or a vision.”
“Are you a name giver too?”
“No, I don’t have visions, but sometimes when I’m thinking of a person I hear a name whispered on the wind.”
“Who talks to you in the wind? Gichi-manidoo?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“But Dawn, aren’t you a Christian?” I swallowed hard, not wanting to offend her.
“Needjee, does God change just because people call Him by different names?”
“No, I don’t suppose so.” I thought of all the names for God I had heard growing up in church: God the Father; Jesus Christ, His son; the Holy Spirit; Abba; Yahweh. Why not Gichi-manidoo for Dawn and her people? God is God.
“You make it sound so simple.” I looked up at the sky and saw constellations of freckles on pale, gleaming skin. Nothing in my life was simple. Not anymore.
“People make things complicated. Not God.” Dawn put her hand on my shoulder. A high-pitched shriek broke the quiet of the night. It came from the tree under which Ian and I had shared pie and kisses and fallen asleep in each other’s arms. “Gichi-manidoo has sent gookooko’oo to watch over you tonight.”
“Gookooko’oo? Oh, you mean the owl? Yeah, he’s been talking to me all night.” I peered through the darkness, searching the tree, but he stayed hidden. Bear found some courage and inched his way closer to Dawn. He curled his body next to her.
Dawn ran her fingers through his long white fur. “Did you know that owls are important to my people? Some believe that the owl brings a warning that you are surrounded by evil, possibly death. But to others, and I believe this, it is a sign that you will be a great spiritual leader someday. The owl’s call still signals a death, but it is your old thoughts that must die in order for Gichi-manidoo to give you a new vision and way to believe. My mother would say that your guide has chosen you.”
“What would you say?”
“How do I know? The owl brought rescue for Makwa. A new life snatched out of the hands of death. I do know that you’re not alone. Like Makwa, you have a friend watching over you.” She stood up. “I’ll leave you to your prayers now.” Bear jumped to his feet and gave a yip. He bounded ahead of her toward the small opening in the bush, squatted on all fours and army crawled through the opening, his white tail waving good-bye.
Close, so close I could feel his presence, the owl hooted.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning Ian budged in line for the canteen just so he could talk to me. “What gives? Did I contract the plague and nobody told me?”
“Twizzlers, please.” I handed a gold token to Aaron and turned to face Ian. There were words I needed to say to him. Words that sounded like This has got to stop in my head.
We walked in awkward silence through the forest. A mouthful of Twizzlers is a great excuse not to talk, by the way. Unfortunately they were gone when we reached Porcupine Point. I strode to the edge of the cliff where I searched for the right words.
“So, spill. What’s wrong?” Ian stood next to me. We had a perfect view of camp life: Sara and Sean, in miniature, hung out by the boathouse; tiny Simon painted in the arts-and-crafts pavilion; a small white blur told me Bear was running loose. Again.
The words lodged in my throat. I jammed my hands deep into my pockets and rocked back on my feet.
“Do you suppose this is how God feels when he looks at us? Like, from His perspective we’re so busy scurrying around, arguing about the small stuff all the time, that we’re missing out on the big picture?” I asked.
“If I believed in God, I suppose that’s exactly how I would think he’d feel.” Ian crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“What do you mean, if you believed in God?”
“I mean I’m not sure what I believe when it comes to God. Why? Is it important to you?”
“Yeah, I guess it is. Are you like an atheist?” I turned to look at him. Shocked.
“Relax, Jonathan, you don’t go to hell just for saying the word.” Ian stepped away from the cliff and sat down on a fallen birch log. “And no, I’m not an atheist. I am not ready to say that there is no God, but if he does exist and he created this world, then I’m not too impressed. So when I say that I don’t believe in God, I’m saying that I don’t buy the party line.”
“What do you mean, the party line?” I swiveled to stare at him.
“You know it better than I do. You sing it and dance it and walk it and talk it. You hallelujah and amen in all the right spots. You know, the party line.”
Each word was a punch to the gut. “That’s not a party line, Ian. It’s what I believe.”
“Are you sure?” Ian looked me hard in the eyes.
I shifted my weight. “Of course.”
“See, I think you can tell me what you’ve been told to believe, but I don’t think you’ve ever asked yourself what you do believe. Because I swear, you don’t know. I see it whenever you look at me. Whenever you touch me.”
“What do you believe then?”
He turned to look at Spirit Lake. “I believe in things I can see. Assholes like Jake, for example. I know they’re real. I believe in things that I feel. Like a fist connecting with someone’s face, but mostly, I believe in words. No matter what happens, it’s always better when I write about it. No matter how much it—”
“Hurts.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that what you want to be? A writer?” I sat next to him. My head told me to pull away. My heart drew me closer to him.
“Maybe.”
“What else do you write besides poetry?”
“Short stories mostly. Then there’s this book I’m working on.”
“Get out of here! You have got to let me read your book.”
Ian looked away. “I don’t let people read my writing.”
“Not even me?”
“I’ll think about it. What about you? Are you going to be a photographer?”
“I doubt it. My dad is third generation career military. He’s already talked to a Marine recruiter. Mom wants me to be a youth minister. I guess that’d be okay.”
“You know what I think? I think you should be a photographer if that’s what you want to be. It’s your life.”
The words I’d been trying so hard to find slipped away. They floated on the wind. Over the cliff. Into the lake where they sank. “Maybe you could write a book, and I could take the pictures for it.”
“The perfect coffee-table book. I can see it now.” Ian laughed.
“We could call it A Study of Porcupines, Up Cl
ose and Personal by Ian McGuire.”
“With award-winning photography by Jonathan Cooper.”
“On clearance for ninety-nine cents at Barnes and Noble!”
“If we’re lucky. Probably more like ten cents at Half Price Books.” Ian got both of us laughing, and it felt so good. So natural. “Man, I miss bookstores.”
The soft wind stirred the trees. Their leaves fluttered and spun, catching the light and revealing the subtle layers of their color. I listened to the soothing sound of Spirit Lake as it rolled against the rocks.
“What’s it like, living on a farm?” I asked. Ian and cows just didn’t compute.
“It sucks.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I live in the armpit of Wisconsin in a dinky town where the population scored negative three on the intelligence scale. Everyone there wears Carhartt jackets and hunts. They listen to country music—voluntarily, mind you. It’s a joke. They’re—”
“Cheeseheads.” I laughed.
“Yup, and you know what? I have a serious case of dairy intolerance. For real, man, I hang around those idiots too long, and before you know it I’ve got the trots. I just want to run and run and run, right out of town.”
“What about your family? Wouldn’t you miss them?”
“You mean my foster parents.”
Foster parents. I’m nobody’s kid. His words came back to me. Questions I didn’t know how to ask ran through my mind.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For whatever took you away from your parents.”
“Don’t be. I’m not. My parents emigrated to the Land of the Forever Fucked Up. I’m better off, believe it or not, stuck in Cheeseville than I was before.”
I believed him. “I’m still sorry.” I placed my hand on Ian’s.
“It’s just…” He held his breath.
“It’s just what?”
“I used to live in Madison. There was a bookstore I loved. I couldn’t afford to buy the books, but the lady who owned it let me read for as long as I wanted. I used to lose track of time and get into trouble actually. I miss that bookstore.”
I thought about my own parents…my father, George “Butch” Cooper. That’s Gunnery Sergeant Cooper to you, cadet. Deployed for the third time one month ago. My mother, Linda Cooper, devout Sunday school teacher and maker of hot dinner every night at 1800 hours. My house, the little story-and-a-half bungalow in Minnetonka, white with black shutters and a cranberry door. The first floor belonged to them; the upstairs half story was mine. Half and incomplete. Sure, they’d given me a solid beginning, but an ending I could live with? No, there was no hint of that in my half story with the slanted roof.