close to eleven and the waterproof mascara Frankie combed over my lashes feels heavy and goopy. I worry that all the good spots on the beach are gone, but Frankie assures me that there will be plenty of spots when we get down near the alcove and away from all the "old people."
The other end of the beach is actually a whole different beach -- an entirely separate stretch of sand with no water buoys, hot dog vendors, lifeguards, or people.
It does have one thing conspicuously absent on our beach -- a No Swimming sign.
"See?" Frankie asks. "Totally private. No screaming kids or annoying families."
"Or witnesses."
"Don't be a baby, Anna."
"Frankie, it says No Swimming for a reason. Sharp rocks? Sharks? Undercurrent?"
"It says No Swimming because it's not a public beach, so they don't have a lifeguard," she says, crouching to unfold the beach blanket. "It's the same water, Anna. If there are sharks here, there are sharks at our beach, too. It's not like they read signs."
"How do you even know about this place?" I ask, dropping my bag and with it, the shark debate.
"My brother," she says. "He used to come to the alcove sometimes."
The beach is always crowded, he told me last year, a few nights before their trip. We were alone in the living room, pretending to watch a movie while Frankie dozed on the chair next to us. But there's this one spot I like farther down. Sometimes I just go there to read and think. The ocean is good for clearing your head.
And for looking at girls, I said.
Well, sure. He laughed. But not that part. No one goes there except for occasional surfers. There's no lifeguard. Just the water and the rocks. One time I sat there for three hours, just listening to the water and wondering what was underneath.
I look out over the water and wonder the same thing, trying hard not to think about the fact that I might be standing in the exact same spot Matt stood, looking out at the same blue sea, wondering the same endless, unanswerable questions.
What would we see if they drained it like a giant bathtub?
I curl my toes into the sand, waiting for Frankie to say something else.
"Here, help me with the blanket." She hands me a corner and lies down on the other side.
"Okay, blanket is secure," I say, still fighting the image of Matt on the couch that night, telling me his favorite things about California. "Now what? Just lie here all day until something exciting happens to us?"
Frankie inches and wriggles until she is strategically positioned in her most flattering pose -- stomach flat, parted lips glistening, legs bent slightly, bosom heaving. "You'll see."
"You're really just going to lie there?"
"That's why they invented the beach, Anna."
"What about the water?"
"Are you kidding? We just did our hair!"
She used to love swimming. She and Matt would tell me about it in their postcards -- all the hours they'd spend in the water, skin pruned and eyes burning from the salt, swimming and riding waves and playing Frisbee with summer friends, or sometimes just floating out there on their backs.
"Frank, let's just go in the wa --"
"Oh my God, Anna. Hotties, ten o'clock."
"What?" I turn my head to see what she's looking at, which is more in the direction of two o'clock, but who's counting?
"Don't look !" She swats my thigh. "Just act natural. Here they come."
I lie beside her, trying to guess what "act natural" means. I decide on mimicking her position, only I keep my sarong securely fastened and my arms folded over my chest. To the average onlooker, if anyone other than the rapidly approaching boys is looking on, I probably look cold. Or extremely pissed off.
"Oh, Anna," Frankie says in an exaggerated voice when the guys are within earshot. "I'm really hot. Pass me a water?"
Is she kidding?
She looks at me expectantly, eyes bulging, bordering on annoyed.
She's not kidding.
I sit up and fish a bottled water from my bag. The boys are about twenty feet away, staring at us with open mouths as Frankie
The other end of the beach is actually a whole different beach -- an entirely separate stretch of sand with no water buoys, hot dog vendors, lifeguards, or people.
It does have one thing conspicuously absent on our beach -- a No Swimming sign.
"See?" Frankie asks. "Totally private. No screaming kids or annoying families."
"Or witnesses."
"Don't be a baby, Anna."
"Frankie, it says No Swimming for a reason. Sharp rocks? Sharks? Undercurrent?"
"It says No Swimming because it's not a public beach, so they don't have a lifeguard," she says, crouching to unfold the beach blanket. "It's the same water, Anna. If there are sharks here, there are sharks at our beach, too. It's not like they read signs."
"How do you even know about this place?" I ask, dropping my bag and with it, the shark debate.
"My brother," she says. "He used to come to the alcove sometimes."
The beach is always crowded, he told me last year, a few nights before their trip. We were alone in the living room, pretending to watch a movie while Frankie dozed on the chair next to us. But there's this one spot I like farther down. Sometimes I just go there to read and think. The ocean is good for clearing your head.
And for looking at girls, I said.
Well, sure. He laughed. But not that part. No one goes there except for occasional surfers. There's no lifeguard. Just the water and the rocks. One time I sat there for three hours, just listening to the water and wondering what was underneath.
I look out over the water and wonder the same thing, trying hard not to think about the fact that I might be standing in the exact same spot Matt stood, looking out at the same blue sea, wondering the same endless, unanswerable questions.
What would we see if they drained it like a giant bathtub?
I curl my toes into the sand, waiting for Frankie to say something else.
"Here, help me with the blanket." She hands me a corner and lies down on the other side.
"Okay, blanket is secure," I say, still fighting the image of Matt on the couch that night, telling me his favorite things about California. "Now what? Just lie here all day until something exciting happens to us?"
Frankie inches and wriggles until she is strategically positioned in her most flattering pose -- stomach flat, parted lips glistening, legs bent slightly, bosom heaving. "You'll see."
"You're really just going to lie there?"
"That's why they invented the beach, Anna."
"What about the water?"
"Are you kidding? We just did our hair!"
She used to love swimming. She and Matt would tell me about it in their postcards -- all the hours they'd spend in the water, skin pruned and eyes burning from the salt, swimming and riding waves and playing Frisbee with summer friends, or sometimes just floating out there on their backs.
"Frank, let's just go in the wa --"
"Oh my God, Anna. Hotties, ten o'clock."
"What?" I turn my head to see what she's looking at, which is more in the direction of two o'clock, but who's counting?
"Don't look !" She swats my thigh. "Just act natural. Here they come."
I lie beside her, trying to guess what "act natural" means. I decide on mimicking her position, only I keep my sarong securely fastened and my arms folded over my chest. To the average onlooker, if anyone other than the rapidly approaching boys is looking on, I probably look cold. Or extremely pissed off.
"Oh, Anna," Frankie says in an exaggerated voice when the guys are within earshot. "I'm really hot. Pass me a water?"
Is she kidding?
She looks at me expectantly, eyes bulging, bordering on annoyed.
She's not kidding.
I sit up and fish a bottled water from my bag. The boys are about twenty feet away, staring at us with open mouths as Frankie
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