by Jay Clark
Tops or bottoms first? It’s like the worst of both worlds. I reach around and find the clasp, fiddle with it for an anti-erotic eternity. Then I feel Abram beside me. He takes my hand, at first like a father figure because I’m so tense, until I can loosen my fingers enough for him to slide his between them.
“Still counts,” he says quietly, letting me know it’s okay to cheat. “Kept my underwear on.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding and start walking forward with him, both of us making a point of looking straight ahead, as if there’s no such thing as peripheral vision. How else could I see the curve of his calf muscle, the ridges of his quads, the V-shaped shadows pointing down toward his underwear? What does he see in me when there’s literally nothing to see besides a two-dimensional blond stick with goose bumps?
If I were him, I’d be over me.
ABRAM
HER BEAUTY MULTIPLIES when she’s vulnerable, makes her look like a beach angel who could drift off into the abyss if I’m not careful … hence the dogged persistence of my hand-holding. The majority of my focus is on not letting her become a danger to herself, as it should be; the rest is on making sure things don’t get too prominent down yonder. For once, I’m looking forward to the physiological effects of freezing water. It’s not like I’m trying to get on her in the Atlantic. All I really want is the chance to kiss her, whether that’s on land or in ocean, naked or clothed, makes no difference, not picky.
“I can’t feel my lower extremities,” she says.
“That’s not good. We can go back whenever.”
The appreciation flashing in her green eyes sparks my imagination, inspires it to read too much into things: Dude, look at the way her lips are parting, her head tilting to the side like she’s seeing you as her significant other for the first time—is it just me, or does she want you to kiss her?
Juliette
I COULD KISS HIM for that let’s-go-back suggestion … to be continued, again. My teeth have to stop chattering first.
“Doesn’t count until we’re swimming,” I say, dumbly wading onward, looking around for an iceberg we could float out on.
Hard to fathom why he’s waited so long for a measly make-out session with this, especially considering how many sluts there are in the sea. Would it kill me to be a whore for two seconds? Never mind, I’m dying, because we’ve reached the part where we actually have to support ourselves without walking. And now we’re kicking, floating, arms circling as our circulation cuts off, looking at each other and wondering what’s next. I swim closer, an inch or two away from his face, trying to steal some of the steam rising from his head. He’s attempting to be respectful by not pressing up against me, yet still keeping his skin close enough to keep mine as warm as possible. How did he know that’s his new job? The blue in his eyes is darker than usual, the ink of his pupils having taken over, blind in their mission to make the most of this misadventure all about me. And that really does make me want to do something interesting for him in return. I’m getting there, I’ve stopped shivering, our lips are as close as they’ve ever been … and that’s when I feel it … not Abram … a sea creature gnawing at my foot. I scream for my life—funny how much I suddenly care about it—then I groan for my death, because it’s going to be a stupid one featured on Shark Week, with bittersweet commentary from surviving loved ones. I can count on my dad’s refusal to be interviewed, but Heidi will cave and tell them everything, as will Abram’s aunt Jane, because that lady sounds like she was born to do shows in need of fringe opinions.…
Abram is repeating my name, waving his hand in front of my face to get my attention. “That was my foot,” he says, and it finally registers. I reach down to feel my leg, make sure there isn’t a hammerhead attached to it, and … I’ve just had a far-death experience. We’re laughing, practically fused together, as we swim to shore.
It’s nice to have the last laugh be about something funny, not final.
ABRAM
WASN’T JUST MY IMAGINATION. Definitely should’ve kissed her.
24
Juliette
RUNNING—THE HOUR UNGODLY, the sun barely up. It’s just me on this stretch of beach, and the sand is solid enough to keep my ankles from breaking, so those are two positives making it harder to complain about how I can’t sleep in South Carolina, either, for instance. Meanwhile, Abram’s still unconscious on the couch bed, recovering from his wild night with the new Juliette. That version is a nightmare, too.
Which is why I’ve downloaded a self-help audiobook from the black cloud that stores files above my iPhone. The title is Silence Speaks, and what can I say besides it spoke to me? The message is very Buddhist in nature, meaning the author sure does love trees and each short chapter is punctuated by the plunk of a single raindrop. He frequently encourages me to “be still” (can’t, running) and process my surroundings “without attaching a label to everything” (not realistic). I wonder what he’d say about this mid-run pill I’m about to take? Probably something like, Is it you who thinks you need that pill, or is that your ego-run mind telling you a story about how Juliette, the girl who’s on Adderall, is due for her next one? My response to all this is to continue dry-swallowing the pill, but be a tinge more conflicted about it than usual. At the same time, the seagulls increase their cawing overhead, guffawing at how little I’m progressing, the desperate measures I’m taking by listening to this spiritual guru turn each sentence into something I want to be over halfway before he finishes.
“Remain present,” he says zenly. “Don’t let your life be run by the illusion of time. Quit examining the past for clues to your identity, looking to the future for your salvation.”
Know who doesn’t need an audiobook to remind him not to check his watch every other second? Abram. He doesn’t wear a watch; often forgets his cell phone in his car because it’s perpetually slipping out of his pocket, and still finishes the nothing he’s been doing once he realizes it’s gone. Just another one of life’s challenges he’s conquering better than I am by putting forth the minimal amount of effort.
“Where’s the nearest Starbucks?” I yell out to one of my best friends, startling the cute, old-ladyish runner I’m sprinting past. She points to her earmuff-sized headphones, thinking I was asking her; I point to my phone and mouth Siri. This doesn’t clear up the confusion, but she cares as much as I do about getting to the bottom of it, which is very little. I love her like an ancestor.
I veer off to the left, looking for the nearest yard to cut through.
* * *
I just ordered an iced coffee for Abram. What does that mean? I don’t know, but the green Starbucks straw complements his blue eyes, giving the flecks of kindness in them something to bounce off besides the emerald void of my irises.
“Can I have your name, please?” the Starbucks barista asks in the squeaky voice of a former Olympic gymnast.
“Sorry?”
“Your name?”
Starbucks’ customer-personalization policies aren’t—looking at her name tag—Janette’s fault, but I don’t see anyone from corporate to blame. Deep breath, calm down, remain present, what would Abram do? He’d answer her. Maybe even ask how brutal her day has been so far.
“Angela,” I inform her.
Janette’s marker squeaks across the side of my drink as she writes it. “You do kind of look like an Angie.”
Gross!
“I don’t really go by Angie,” I say, because Angela is one of those defensive girls who’s spent her entire life fighting the shortened version of her name—she’s awful, but I could relate to what she’s been through if people tried to call me Julie or, please never, Jules.
“No worries,” the barista says with a What is she on? look on her face that makes me like her more. I smile and wink like I was totally joking.
“You staying on the island long?”
“Yuck. Do I look like a tourist, Janette?”
She smiles. “Not at all. You have that glow about you.�
��
I hold up my arm, re-examining my stark-white tan.
“Ha, you know what I mean,” Janette says, like we’re in on something juicy together.
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“Is the lucky guy here with you?” she whispers, looking around the café.
I shake my head slowly, then force myself to acknowledge what she’s been getting at. “Still passed out on the couch, unfortunately.”
“Where’d y’all meet?”
“Oh, you know, we were both in the neighborhood,” I say, and there’s a throaty, womanly quality to my voice that catches us both off guard. It’s the her in me—kind of similar to when Kate Hudson suddenly sounds exactly like Goldie Hawn, but without their relatable qualities and unbreakable mother-daughter bond.
“Hello?” I say into my cell. It’s Siri. I make a regretful face to Janette, pointing to the phone like I have to take this call. She hands me a drink carrier and waves me away like these sorts of interruptions happen all the time. I’m grabbing a napkin to wrap around Abram’s iced coffee at the drink-doctoring station I typically avoid, when I feel her eyes back on me, if they ever even left. There’s something else in them besides curiosity, which has absolutely no business being there: my business.
25
ABRAM
JULIETTE’S STANDING over the couch bed with her arms crossed, dressed in a pair of tight black workout pants and a matching black long-sleeve. No clue what time it is, but she’s about to tell me what I’m late for.
“We’re going for a run,” she says with extra intensity, handing me an iced coffee. Unexpected bonus: She’s already put the straw in for me. I take the water-beaded cup from her hand, thanking her, trying not to drain it in one gulp as she watches me bring the straw to my lips for three mini-chugs in a row.
She pulls back the blankets from my chin. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I’m in my boxer briefs. Thankfully, nothing’s escaped or excited or arranged at an odd angle. I sit up and start looking around the floor for the same clothes I wore last night. She points to the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace, having already laid out a clean pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and socks. She also found the remote control to the fireplace, because the flames are crackling. Through the window behind it, the sun is rising above the water.
“Don’t put on your shirt yet.” She walks over and starts spraying me down with enough sunscreen to make the ozone a moot layer. Not that I’m complaining, especially when she starts rubbing the spray gently into my neck, as liberally as she’s ever done anything when it comes to touching me. She even remembers the backs of my ears.
A short while later, we’re on the beach, running, and it doesn’t suck as much as I recalled, but I’m sure sucking a lot of air.
“You okay?” Juliette asks, with plenty of breath to spare.
I nod.
“Adderall?” she offers, as casually as one would an Advil. “I keep an extra underneath the insert of my shoe.”
Once I realize she’s not kidding, I shake my head no, and she looks at me like it’s my loss. Except it’s not, I tell her, because that tiny chunk of pill she gave me a few weeks ago, before eighth period, made my brain latch on to all kinds of to-do’s: Abram! You should make a bunch of lists and clean your locker and pick scabs that turn out to be freckles and trim your fingernails, but it’s essential that you do this all at the same time!
I consider anything related to me wanting to multitask a disorienting, what’s-happening-to-me? experience, and on that note, I should make sure I don’t step on a one-hundred-thousand-dollar sea-turtle egg.
“Can we take a break soon? Just a thought.”
She checks her iPhone. “It’s only been twenty-eight minutes and thirty-three seconds.”
I grab her hand and lead her back toward the house. Break time. She’s been needing to give herself one for a while now, anyway.
Juliette
ABRAM DOESN’T SEEM to have a plan, but he does find the exact spot of sand I would’ve chosen—a good distance away from that demented scene over there: a visibly happy couple making a sand castle with their bouncy, halterkini-wearing little girl. The two of us sit down, and then nothing happens. At least the sun feels like it’s burning the pale off my face, since I’ve stopped moving long enough to let it get a decent shot. Remind me why you quit running again? asks my brain, but instead of waiting for an answer, it releases a few more stress hormones. I’d worry about my health if I weren’t the type of lifeless person who lives forever. Guaranteed, I’ll be five hundred years old someday, the stereotypically bitter old lady down the road who refuses to croak out of spite toward people long since dead, and all I’ll have to show for my life is a bunch of check marks. Remember that one time I went to the beach with a cute boy, completed a bunch of self-given assignments, and vacuumed the fun out of everything? Granny would never admit to regretting that, so let’s talk about something you’re doing wrong. I won’t have any kids or grandchildren lighting candles around my deathbed, though, so I’ll just be lecturing my hospice nurse, mistaking her for my next of kin as she yearns to pull the plug.
The above out-of-control thought sequence is exactly what my new audiobook warns against.
“What do you think about just hanging out here for a while?” Abram asks.
“Okay,” I say, letting him do the thinking. He looks surprised. I wonder how long it will take him to realize this would be better with towels.
ABRAM
WE’RE RELAXING ON THE BEACH, sprawled out side by side on the towels we just fetched, without a responsibility in the world besides all the ones we’re putting off back home. Juliette keeps asking if she’s tan yet, holding out her arm for my “brutally honest opinion.” To be honest, we’ve only been lying still for twenty minutes, but I prop myself up on my towel so I can better assess her pigmentation. Eventually, my eyes wander over to her smooth, taut stomach with its tiny little belly button that I’d like to do a shot of something out of someday, even if it’s saltwater, and what was her question?
“You’re at least as tan as me,” I confirm.
She sighs. “I want to be as tan as you two years ago.”
“Ah-ha, so you did see me as you were running by the courts pretending to ignore my shirtlessness.”
I’m guessing the W she draws in the sand next to me stands for Whatever.
She sits up and takes off her sunglasses, looking over at me. “Not that it matters, but I could never tell who was winning … you were both so good.”
“Dad usually won in practice.”
“What about in a match?”
I hesitate. Feels almost like a betrayal to show off my bragging rights, tout my official tournament victories over my dad or whatever—the last of which was on this exact island, at the club across the street, after we won the doubles together. I confess my guilt about this to Juliette, and she reminds me he would’ve been a lot more upset if I’d let him win. Very true.
“I want to see you play again,” she says.
“Naw, we should just take it easy this afternoon.” When she responds by putting her sunglasses back on, I sit up straighter and remove mine. “You’ve already scheduled something, haven’t you?”
She puts her hand over her heart in a sarcastic gesture of innocence, then tells me we have four o’clock reservations at the club across the street.
26
Juliette
“WHEN’S THE LAST TIME you played?” Abram asks as we step out onto the court together.
“Can’t remember,” I say, like it’s the funniest thing. It’s not—I took a few mother-daughter tennis lessons a year and a half ago. Mom’s idea. Her bribing me with Adderall was mine. I spent most of my time on court making snarky comments under my breath about Mom’s sudden interest in the sport. I remember hitting exactly one forehand when we were playing doubles together—the ball only smacked the back of her arm, but in that particular moment of resentment, it felt like my first Wimbledon
title.
“What about you?” I ask Abram.
He pops the lid off a can of tennis balls, tearing off the metal seal. “Here … last year,” he says, then bends over and starts tying his shoes. I recognize more and more of our surroundings from the picture on Abram’s refrigerator—the one of him and his father holding a trophy.
Maybe I should stretch a bone or two? I grab my phone, reach down, and touch my toes, letting the blood rush to my head as I send Heidi a text asking for some last-minute tips. Her immediate response of Get it!!! is not relevant, but it’s incredible how she keeps finding a way to use the phrase, regardless of the context. Do I have to give her props for that? Anyway, it was nice of her to let me re-borrow the Maria Sharapova dress I wore to her party. This time, though, I’m pairing it with Chris Evert’s frosty eye daggers. The look is vintage bitchy couture. As for Abram, he’s dressed in the same pocket T-shirt he probably would’ve worn if we’d just sat back at the house staring at each other, although the shorts he’s wearing are a bit shorter than his others, his legs looking tanner and therefore more muscular by the minute.
We walk back to our respective baselines, and this surface underneath my feet … Abram calls it “green clay,” but it’s basically a bunch of tiny rocks that hop up into the backs of my shoes whenever I take a step. Abram’s already sliding around like he’s rediscovering his childhood sandbox, which is exactly what he should be doing.
“Ready?” he calls out, his voice echoing off the tall backstop behind him.
“Yes. No, sorry, hang on.…” My grip feels weird, slippery. Need to get in my ready position, which is the same as my other ramrod stance only with a light swaying back and forth like I’m about to produce some tennis. I signal for Abram to bring it on. The ball pops off his racquet, spinning, spinning, landing a few inches in front of me and bouncing three feet higher than expected. My racquet connects with the ball, but I’m not even sure where I hit it.
