"Yeah, yeah. Well, you won't find any Backstreet Boys CDs in there, so pick one."
I flipped through pages and pages of CDs before a dark cover with a pale man's face looked up at me. "Disintegration," I read.
"Oh yeah, that's a good one. Skip to track two—you're going to like that one."
A hint of sea salt crept through the vents, and I realized we were on Ocean Parkway, headed for Jones Beach. There was nothing particularly special about Jones Beach—the water wasn't clear enough to see straight down to your toes, the sand wasn't so fine it felt more like sugar, and the boardwalk wasn't lined with souvenir T-shirt shops—yet it was magical.
Most people don't know Jones Beach is actually on Jones Beach Island, sandwiched between Long Beach and Fire Island. To get to it, you have to take the highway—either the Meadowbrook or the Wantagh—all the way down and then over a bridge or two until it turns into Ocean Parkway.
The lights and sounds and traffic of Long Island disappear and are replaced with this feeling that anything can happen. Not because it's nighttime and not because it's the beach, but because it's the one place where the world gets quiet. That's why every Long Island native loves Jones Beach.
Cole pulled into the middle of two parking spaces in Parking Field 4, rolled the windows down, and turned the volume up.
"Come on," he said, getting out of the car.
I unclicked my seat belt and followed him back toward the trunk. Cole tossed the jumper cables aside and tucked a towel under his arm. We walked around to the front of the car and he told me not to laugh as he rolled a faded Power Rangers towel over the windshield.
The hood was hot against my dress, which balanced out the cool ocean breeze coming in and out with the Jones Beach waves. We were lying on the hood as Disintegration started over. Cole sat up and reached into his pocket, pulling out a round, silver cylinder no taller than his thumb.
"You ever smoke before?"
"No," I said, wishing I'd lied.
"You wanna try?"
"Yeah," I smiled, sitting up.
Cole twisted the grinder as he surveyed the area for law enforcement and set it down between us. In his jacket pocket, he removed a box of E-Z Wider. He took a sheet and began making small accordion folds at each end before filling the paper with the grinder's contents. Cole then rolled the paper back and forth, licked the ends, and sealed it.
"You ever smoke, like, a cigarette or anything?" he asked, turning to me.
"Nope," I said, adjusting myself to face him.
I watched as he pushed each end of the joint in and out of his mouth before running his lighter along it horizontally.
"Okay," he said, lighting the end of the joint, "you're going to take a deep breath in." He inhaled, with me following suit.
"And let it out." He exhaled, and put the joint between his lips. "Then you're gonna inhale, hold it," he instructed through clenched teeth, "count to three, then," he let out another breath, and smoke along with it. I watched as he repeated the procedure, knowing I was definitely going to fuck it up.
"Now you try," he said, passing the joint to me.
I rested the joint on my lower lip and immediately coughed as the smoke made its way up my nose. He laughed as I continued to cough and took the joint back.
"Here. Wrap your pinky around mine—got it? Okay, now widen your fingers a little bit." We assumed the pinky-promise position, and for a moment I thought we were going to exchange secrets like lovers did. Instead, Cole showed me how to form a tunnel, pressing the edges of our pinkies together. "Good—I'm going to blow smoke through and all you have to do is breathe, hold it, and let it go. You ready?"
"Ready," I said.
The smoke came through fast and I inhaled deeply, trying to catch it. I let it fill my mouth and tried to hold on as tears welled in my eyes and the cough escaped my chest.
"That's it," he said, patting me on the back, "cough it out."
"Did I do it right?"
"Yeah—one more time, though. I don't know how much you got," he said, raising his pinky again.
"You feel it yet?" he asked after a few minutes.
"Yeah," I lied, "totally."
"Can't tell, huh?"
"Not even a little bit."
We'd whittled the joint down to a little more than half an inch. Most of the time, I just inhaled, held the smoke between my cheeks, and puffed it out.
"Okay, this is going to come really fast." Cole sat up and told me to face him. "When the smoke comes out, suck in as much as you can. You ready?"
I nodded and braced myself as Cole inhaled deeply and stuck the lit end of the joint into his mouth, clenching what remained of it with his teeth. He folded his lips over it and cupped my chin with his hand, guiding me toward him and placing my lips around the joint. Then he exhaled. The smoke came quick and hot as I pulled it into my mouth.
My eyes began to water, and my throat burned as the smoke snaked its way into my lungs. The cough was worse than before. Cole flicked the roach away and kept telling me to "cough to get off." Eventually, the cough faded, and I lay down beside him.
I felt the condensation from the hood of the car coming through my skin, into my blood. The sea salt in the air danced on my body as the streetlights from the parking lot grew brighter, blurrier.
I held my arms above me to see my hands, and waved them back and forth, giggling as they moved through the air, leaving parts of themselves behind. Cole snatched one and kissed it.
His lips traveled from my palm up my arm, tickling my neck. "Kiss me."
* * *
"You were right," I said, when we finally stopped kissing and lay back again, gazing up at the stars. "I do really like this song."
"Told you."
"How'd you get into their music?"
"Tom introduced me to them."
"Who's Tom?"
"He's my best friend. Well, he was. He killed himself last year."
"What?"
"Yeah."
"I'm so sorry," I said, reaching toward him.
"It's fine," he said, shaking off my hand. "I don't really talk about it."
At fifteen, I hadn't known anyone who'd died, let alone anyone who had taken their own life. Death had always seemed so far away. I was desperate to be older—able to move out, to drink, to live. And yet, Tom had chosen to die. I wondered what had happened.
The whoop-whoop of a state trooper cruiser pierced through "Lullaby." I saw red and blue lights flashing across my dress. I was suddenly aware I was alive—that the reason the trooper was here was because the booming of my heart must have been disturbing everyone within a hundred-mile radius. It dawned on me I was also about to be thrown in jail. I'd committed a crime—I'd used an illegal substance. Mom was going to be pissed.
Cole turned to me, seemingly unphased, put his hand on my hand, and whispered, "Be cool."
Inherently uncool, I panicked and doubted my ability to act cool now that I was about to be facing three-to-five.
"Evening, officer," Cole said, sliding off the hood.
"You kids aware this area is closed?" the trooper responded flatly.
"I'm sorry about that. We were just hanging out."
"Hanging out?" the trooper repeated, shining his flashlight in my eyes. "Anything else going on here?" he asked, surveying the area.
Cole nodded and continued, "We were just heading out. Sorry, officer."
The trooper inched closer, no doubt moving toward the thumping of my heart, which I was certain had started to come through my ribs and out my chest.
"You kids look all dressed up."
"We just came from a dance," Cole said, stepping back to maintain distance from the man who was about to put us in the slammer. Did people even call it "the slammer"?
"How about you get her home?" he said, shining the light in Cole's eyes. "It's late. And, like I said, this area is closed."
"Again, really sorry about that, officer."
"Don't let it happen again. Drive safe."
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Cole walked back to me, gave me a thumbs-up, and gestured for me to get back in the car. My palms squeaked as I slid off the hood and scurried back into the Buick, heart still pounding.
After the trooper drove off, Cole and I shared a look and began to laugh. We laughed until our stomachs reached our spines and the air had gone from our lungs. Our eyes watered and our hands clapped together until we came to.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'm starved."
* * *
"I'll have waffle fries with mozzarella cheese, no gravy, and a Coke, please," I said, handing my menu over.
"We don't have Coke, we have Pepsi—is that okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
"And for you, sweetheart?"
"Can I get the short stack of pancakes and a side of sausage?"
"Anything to drink?"
"A chocolate milkshake—no whipped cream, though."
"Coming right up."
She walked away with our menus and Cole turned back toward me, asking if I was upset about leaving the dance early.
"No way."
"Okay, cool. It just isn't my scene, and honestly, I was getting a little weirded out."
"Really? Why?"
"I don't know. I guess it's just that you're so young—"
"Oh my god, I'm not that young," I laughed. "You, like, just graduated."
"Last year, but . . ."
"But what?"
"It'd be different if you were a senior or something. Then maybe we could—never mind."
"Then we could what?"
"Nothing, forget it."
* * *
The waitress set the faux-leather check presenter between us after the plates had been cleared. I went to grab it, as Dad had instructed. I had just slipped my fingers underneath and was lifting it upward when Cole laughed and said, "Hey, what are you doing? Gimme that."
He opened the check presenter, then his wallet. As he thumbed through fives and singles, I reached into my purse.
"Hey, put your money away!" That's two.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," he smiled, slipping two twenties into the plastic flap and closing it. "I got it. You ready?"
Cole opened the door for me to exit, and I started to understand what he'd meant about the three-year gap between us. More than just years separated us. I couldn't drive, I couldn't vote, I couldn't drink. We, and whatever was between us, could only exist in the Journey's stock room.
"Do you like me?"
"Of course I like you. I wouldn't hang out with you if I didn't like you."
"Would you ever, like, date me?"
"I—I don't know."
"Because I'm not old enough?"
"Well, yeah! And you're my best friend's cousin, and you're probably going to be going to college soon, and—"
"So? I could go to college here."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"Look, you're a cool chick and I like you, but you're always going to be Chris's little cousin."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"And I'm sure your parents wouldn't be cool with it. Your mom didn't seem to think me not having a major was a great idea."
"Yeah," I said. Why did Mom have to ask so many stupid questions?
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'm good."
After Cole started the car, I was convinced the clock was wrong—there was no way it could be 12:13 a.m. I slouched in my seat—the night had been a waste. We'd barely danced two slow songs, gotten in trouble with Sister Margaret Anne, Cole wasn't going to be my boyfriend, and I'd missed curfew.
Maybe it was because another hour wasn't going to change anything. Maybe it was because I felt the night owed me more than two slow dances and glassy eyes. But really, I just wanted to prove I wasn't a kid.
"Hey, put your seat belt on," Cole commanded, looking to make sure no one was behind us.
Instead of a center console, the Buick had a seat between the driver and the passenger. I slid myself across, into the nook between Cole's bicep and underarm.
"Wait," I said.
He put the car in park and let me kiss him. Between kisses, I opened my eyes to see the windows had begun to fog. I decided this was my chance and straddled him. I didn't stop his hands from fondling my breasts, squeezing my ass.
I could feel his penis begin to harden and placed my hand on it.
"Wait," he said. "Wait a second."
The more I touched it, the harder it became.
"Rowan," he said. "Rowan!"
"It's okay," I assured him.
"Wait!" he said angrily, firmly placing his hands on my hips, and relocating me to the middle seat. "I can't do this."
"Why?"
He didn't answer me. He didn't look at me as he turned on the defroster and rolled the windows down.
* * *
When we pulled up to the house on Elderberry, the light from my parents' bedroom went on instantly.
Cole walked around to my side of the car and opened the door. We walked side by side up the path to the front door, lights flicking on as we approached.
"Are you in trouble or something?"
"Yeah . . . probably."
"Look, I'm really sorry about that thing in the car earlier."
"It's okay."
He gave me a quick peck on the lips, thanked me for the invite, and told me he'd see me around. I watched his tall, slim silhouette move down toward the sidewalk, unaware of how he'd continue to walk away in the coming months.
"Rowan Joy Kelly," Mom called from the back door. I knew I was doomed when she used my full name. "Get. In. Here. Now."
Mom stepped into the driveway, setting off the sensor. Under the spotlight, she stood arms crossed against her chest, wearing the red terry-cloth bathrobe and matching slippers I'd gotten her last Christmas. She'd stopped coloring her hair in the summer. Naturally, she had been a blonde, but her roots had gotten dark and given way to grays, which seemed to shimmer under the light.
As I walked toward her, I thought of all the excuses I could use—we lost track of time, the waitress wouldn't give us our check, Valentina's date needed a ride home—when it occurred to me this was all her fault. It was Mom who asked about Nassau, it was Mom who gave me a curfew . . . it was Mom who set all these dumb rules about dating. It was Mom who'd gotten in the way of Cole wanting to date me, and I was going to make her pay for it.
When I reached her, I turned to go up the stairs, only for her to block my path. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I don't know," I sighed. "You wouldn't buy me a Baby-G watch so—"
She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin, and pulled me up the stairs before hurling me into the laundry room and slamming the door behind her, shaking rolls of paper towels off the shelves.
"What did you say to me?"
"What are you, deaf?"
"IT IS ONE O'CLOCK IN THE GODDAMN MORNING!" she screamed, following me into the kitchen. I'd decided I wasn't going to fight her—I was going upstairs to bed. "YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HOME AT ELEVEN O'CLOCK!"
"Actually," I said, turning and pointing to the clock above our kitchen table, "it's 12:53 in the morning."
Mom charged me and banged her hands against the table again and again. "I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHAT TIME IT IS—"
"THEN WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME ABOUT IT?!" I shouted back.
"BECAUSE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HOME TWO GODDAMN HOURS AGO AND I'VE BEEN—I'VE BEEN . . ." The top part of her body collapsed onto the table, her bottom half still holding a firm stance, and she began to cry. The entirety of her body began shaking, as if her rage had reached its maximum and was trying to make its way out. Her sobs were guttural, the volume and intensity of her screams were starting to catch up with her. I went to touch her, and she snapped back, her finger pointed in my direction. "I HAVE BEEN UP, WORRIED SICK—SICK TO MY GODDAMN STOMACH, ROWAN!"
Dad shuffled into the kitchen and went to put his ar
ms around Mom. I didn't know if he'd been watching us the whole time or if he'd been awakened by our fight. "Rowan," he said, shaking his head, "your mother's right. You were supposed to be home at eleven p.m., it's now one in the morning. Where were you?"
"None of your business," I snapped.
"Oh," Dad laughed, "yes, it is my business. You're my daughter, you live in my house, you are my business."
"It doesn't matter," Mom said, placing her hand over her heart, "because whatever she says won't be the truth. Isn't that right, Rowan?"
I said nothing.
"She doesn't know how to tell the truth. Everything out of her mouth is a lie."
"Then why are you asking me?" I laughed.
"DON'T YOU LAUGH AT ME!" she said, pushing past Dad and coming right to my nose. "BECAUSE I AM YOUR MOTHER! I AM YOUR MOTHER, ROWAN, AND I HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW WHERE YOU WERE, GODDAMNIT!"
"We were with Valentina at the diner and—"
"Oh no," she laughed. "Stop, just stop, okay? Valentina has been home since midnight. See? Do you even know how to tell the truth? Seriously, do you?"
"Yes," I spat back.
"Oh yeah? Let's go down the list. You tell me you're going somewhere, and then Mrs. Kirk catches you at the movies with a boy—"
"YOU WOULDN'T LET ME GO IF I TOLD YOU WHERE I WAS GOING—"
"BECAUSE THERE ARE RULES IN THIS HOUSE AND YOU DON'T NEED TO BE GOING TO MOVIE THEATERS WITH BOYS!"
"What are you so afraid of? That I'm going to get pregnant? I'm not stupid, Mom!"
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" she shrieked, tears streaming down her face, snot bubbling from her nose. "THAT IS NOT THE GODDAMN POINT! You are my daughter, I—I . . ." She took a seat on the bench and sank her head into her palms.
Dad rubbed her back and tried to soothe her: "Okay, okay, shhh. I think it's time we all go to bed. Rowan, we'll talk about this in the morning."
Mom perked her head up and added, "You are done for the weekend, you understand? No phone, no TV, no stereo, no mall—nothing. You hear me? NOTHING! You will not leave this house for three months. THREE MONTHS!"
"I hate you," I said plainly.
"Oh yeah?" she said, wiping tears away. "Well, I love you. Because that's what mothers do."
"Then I wish you weren't my mother," I said, marching up the stairs.
As I lay awake in bed that night, I listened to Mom's sobs from down the hall. I didn't know the dark places her mind had gone to before I came home—how she feared me beaten, raped, left for dead. How she thought back to my first steps, the first time I called her "Mama," the look on my face on Christmas morning. I didn't know a mother's greatest fear is her child never coming home. I didn't know there'd be nights where I'd be wishing to be in my room, in the house on Elderberry, safe and sound with Mom down the hall.
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