Sing by Vivi Greene Page B

get ready, hoping he’d sneak me a piece of candy before lining up in formation. Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday, although in recent years I’ve moved on to more elaborate traditions. Last year I convinced Jed to throw an epic party at his house in the Hamptons, complete with water slides and private fireworks over the water. It was two hundred people I barely knew, but I loved every minute of it. It’s strange that I can be equally satisfied, dressed to the nines and hosting a catered affair, or gleefully blowing into a plastic party favor as I cheer on a town parade.
    The guys—who have been busy reminiscing about the years they marched as Boy Scouts or captains of varioussports teams—join us on our side of the balcony. As Noel passes, he finds my hand for a clandestine squeeze, and I feel a thrilling jolt. He whistles to a pair of old ladies, inching past in a vintage car. They honk and wave, and I find myself enthusiastically waving back, as if I’m front row at somebody else’s concert, giddy to be part of the crowd.
    Night falls. Birds quiet, cicadas hum, the sapphire sky turns purple, then black. I sit alone on the screened porch with my journal, working out new lyrics. I had the idea on the way home from the parade. The song is called “July,” and it’s about the joys of unwrapping candy, sparklers and fireworks and the ways the holiday changes as a girl grows older. It’s about innocence, and finding what’s been lost. I’m half-singing the melody when Tess knocks on the door, her dark hair wavy and wet from the shower.
    â€œYou’re sure you don’t want to come?” she asks, folding a thin quilt and stuffing it into a bag over her shoulder. Sammy appears behind her, adorable in a white skirt and red-and-white-striped halter. Her freckled skin has turned a light bronze, her strawberry hair lightening to blond at the tips.
    The guys told us about a spot on the point whereeveryone goes to watch the fireworks. I’d thought it would be the perfect place for Noel and me to sneak away—we could duck behind the lit-up dunes and share a secret kiss to the soundtrack of the booming lights and ooh s and aah s of the crowd on the beach. But after we left, Noel texted that he had other ideas.
    I check the time quickly on my phone, then nod at my guitar on the cushioned bench beside me. “We’ve got work to do,” I say. “But you guys go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
    Sammy gives me a thumbs-up and follows Tess outside. Once their headlights have disappeared, I pack up my guitar and fold my journal shut. My heart feels heavy. As much as I’m trying to avoid it, there’s a distance growing between my friends and me, and it makes me feel unsteady, like I’m walking a tightrope, constantly lunging from one side to the other, desperate to stay upright.
    But as I speed-walk down the moonlit trail, squinting toward the rickety dock where Noel and his boat are waiting, the guilt and discomfort fade away, an eager, bubbling anticipation filling me up in their place.
    Noel waves, and I start to skip toward him, holding my hands out like I’m flying. When I reach him I wrap my arms around his sturdy waist. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, slightly out of breath.
    â€œSkipping’s hard work,” he teases, ruffling the top of my hair.
    He helps me onto the boat and we motor away from the shore. There’s a cluster of boats gathered around the harbor, mainlanders coming to anchor for the show. Noel steers around them toward a secluded spot farther away. When there’s not another boat or building in sight, he cuts the engine, and we bob in the quiet on the calm waters.
    â€œMy dad used to take us out here,” he says, twisting the top of a thermos and handing it to me. I take a sip: warm cider, with hints of orange and cinnamon, perfect for the chilly night. “I used to hate it. All my