Until We Meet Again(6)

I decide to stay outside.

Ripping off the floral scarf and leaving it on a bush in a weak sign of rebellion, I wander onto the grounds. This house is too

fancy for a backyard. It has grounds. For the millionth time, I

wonder what possessed my mom to come here. Yes, it’s a gorgeous old home in a gorgeous location, but we don’t belong.

And we never will. No matter how much money Frank has.

We are Middle American, live-in-the-suburbs people. We don’t

have soirees out on the veranda. We have barbeques in the

backyard, where the men drink too much beer and the kids

play truth or dare in the den.

Illuminated by an orb of lantern light on the deck beyond me, the party group is laughing and talking about empty things.

The obnoxious truth jabs at me. I always smugly assured myself

that I didn’t belong in Ohio, that I was meant for greater things.

Now here I am, and I still feel like I don’t belong. Maybe I’m

just a hopeless snob who will be unhappy everywhere I go.

The impulse to do something stupid once again prickles through me. A small act of harmless vandalism, perhaps.

Maybe I’ll rip off my clothes and stroll back into the party,

naked as the day I was born.

I kick a rock near my foot, sending it skidding over the path.

What am I, twelve? Am I secretly trying to get Mommy’s attention because I’m worried she loves her new husband more than me? Properly shamed, I try to jam my hands into my pockets

until I remember I’m wearing a dress and don’t have pockets.

I find myself wandering past the lit water feature, past the rosebush-adorned gazebo, over a brick-colored path of flagstones, and across the meticulously maintained back lawn.

By default, I head to the estate’s private beach. It’s not a great

swimming beach—too rocky—and I don’t expect anyone from

the party to have wandered out there.

At the edge of the grass, a row of high, trimmed bushes act like a natural wall. Walking along the edge, I find my secret

shortcut to the water. I happened across it a few weeks ago. At

one point, perhaps someone had intended for it to be a paved

path to the beach, but that never materialized. Now the lawn

crew lets the branches grow just enough to hide the gap but

maintain the access.

The soft pound of surf reaches me before I see the water. The tang of salt is thick on the air. Growing up in Ohio, I didn’t

get much exposure to the ocean. The community pool was the

extent of my experience with water. Maybe because of that,

something about the size and constant motion of the sea both

intrigues and terrifies me.

A few more strides through the thick bushes, and I see the water ahead. It’s black and vast and in what seems to be in

perpetual motion. The white tips of breaking waves roll onto

the beach, lapping the gleaming sand. It’s a surprisingly long

stretch of beach. A cove, really. Perfectly enclosed by brush to

the back and rocky points to either side. Big rocks are scattered

in the water and along the shore, but there’s enough sand to sit.

It’s quiet and rugged and starkly beautiful. I draw in a breath of

night ocean smell and immediately decide that I should have

taken my brooding here from the start. This place is clearly

much better suited for the job than some stuffy party.

I flop on a sandy patch near a crop of rocks and stare out at the gently crashing waves. A salty breeze feathers my hair across

my face. I decide not to move it. I bet I look more pensive that

way. What I’m pensive about, I don’t really know. How pathetic

is that? I don’t even know why I’m angsty and sad. I just am.

I pull out my phone. Maybe I’ll send another text to Jade.

Hey. I’m at a lame party. Bored. I hope you’re bored too.

She won’t reply until sometime tomorrow. If at all. She’s certainly not bored. She’s too busy in Paris, “sucking the marrow out of life.” Relishing the challenge and excitement of the art

museum internship that I clearly would have applied for if

I’d known about it. Probably. I push my fingers into the cool

sand, grimacing.

I don’t know why it annoys me that Jade seems to have her five-year plan all worked out. I mean, can’t an artist just love

to create art? Why do we suddenly have to make a job out of

it? Part of me wishes things were simple. Like they were three

years ago, when Jade and I were stoked to be going to high

school. Then Jade wouldn’t have gone to Paris, and I wouldn’t

have come here with Mom and Frank. We would have stayed

with my dad, had slumber parties, and talked about boys, and

we wouldn’t care about anything.

Light catches my gaze. There, at the black-on-black line of the ocean’s horizon, is a wide, glowing band. It takes a moment

for me to realize what it is. The beginning of the moon’s rise.

I pull up the Farmers’ Almanac on my phone. Apparently the

moon will be full tonight.

I look back to the shimmering light. It’s magical and eerie at the same time. Hugging my knees, I nestle to watch. The first