“Periwinkle” by Kimberly Surette

1971

The boy was crab fishing the first time she saw him. His skinny body bent, a jackknife over weathered wood, his focus deep in the river below. Bexley could not stop staring: his ridges of spine a mountain range, two sharp points of shoulder blade reaching in, nearly touching. The boy’s back and arms golden-brown, roasting under the relentless July sun, only the bare soles of his feet, rising as he stretched to the tips of his toes, left pale. 

The boy must have been close to her age, ten or thereabouts. His presence jolted her. She forced herself to look away the closer she got to him. First to the north, where the saltwater river wound through endless fields of marsh, then to the south, where the river ran away from the bridge and emptied into the sea.

He did not notice her or her grandparents, toting their bags and chairs and umbrella behind them. The boy retreated from the railing to push a piece of hot dog onto a sharp hook, fastened to a long string. His untamed mop of hair was chestnut brown, but as Bexley passed by, inches from his shoulders, she noticed it was much lighter at the crown, as if swept with a brush of bleach. The long, darker ends fell heavy with gravity, curling over his eyes, ears, and neck. How can he even see, she thought, shaking her head.

Bexley side-stepped his plastic bucket but could not help but tilt forward to look inside. Two crabs crawled over one another, jockeying for position in several inches of water. One crab looked directly at her. Let me out, his eyes seemed to say. Bexley snorted at the sight. This caught the boy’s attention for a moment—a mere half-swivel of his head—and he returned to lowering the string, hand over hand, the chunk of hot dog twirling below until it entered the rush of river.

The sun reflected sharply off the saltwater. Bexley squinted. She wanted to shove the boy, give him a good scare. She also wished he would turn and smile at her, offer a hot dog and a line of string. Papa moved ahead of her at the end of the bridge and led them over the crest of the dunes and down the other side. Papa sighed with satisfaction as an immense sea rose before him. They stepped carefully into the soft sand and threaded their way through blankets and protruding limbs until Papa found a clearing. He rested a moment to evaluate the spot, measuring the incoming tide. Bexley kept looking back until she could no longer see the bridge or the boy. Papa dropped their belongings onto the sand. 

“Right here, Bex,” he said. “This is perfect.” 

Nana spread the blanket and placed a shoe at each corner to hold it in place. Papa dug the umbrella deep into the sand, twisting and twisting, all the while humming a tune. Nana pulled sandwiches from the cooler. “Tuna,” she announced, passing one to Bexley and then to Papa when he finished twisting and humming. Bexley curled her legs beneath her and ate her sandwich while watching the waves. A few brave souls waded into the cold water, rocking side to side as they inched forward, exaggerating the lift of their feet, squealing with each step. 

“Can we go in, Papa?” 

“Yes, Bex,” Papa said, “soon.”

“You’ll need to digest your lunch first,” Nana said. 

It was Bexley’s first time at her grandparents’ cottage without her mom and dad. Her parents determined she was old enough to stay for two weeks without their continuous, watchful eye. Except for the weekend. Her father planned to close the office early on Friday to drive the family up—Mom and Bexley’s siblings, Kathleen and Luke. Dad would crack the car window open a few inches so that he could smoke, one cigarette after another, the entire way. Mom said this was his way of unwinding so he could enjoy a weekend with his mother-in-law. 

Suddenly the boy was there, running like a madman toward the ocean, spraying sand on their blanket, two other boys streaking behind. He splashed recklessly, all arms and legs, until the water reached his waist, and then pounced forward, a dive-flop, right in, as if the water wasn’t cold as ice. Bexley stopped chewing and lowered her sandwich to her lap to stare. The other boys followed him in, shouting when they emerged, hair dripping, pushing each other back into the water, again and again. Bexley finished her sandwich quickly and rummaged through Nana’s bag for her book. She needed somewhere else to look. The boys were loud and boisterous with their yelling, like the boys on the school playground, the way they took over as if no one else was there. 

Bexley loved her book, and it would keep her occupied. It was a story about a boy named Desmond. He was seventeen years old, traveling the world on a sailboat with his father. Every chapter revealed a new adventure about one of the fascinating places they visited on their boat. Bexley traced her finger over Desmond’s image on the cover for the thousandth time. It never failed to make her insides feel light, floating. She read and lost track of time. 

Des is at sea, smiling broadly, balancing on the tilted boat, one hand braced on a taut rope that leads somewhere high up on the sails. He is clad in a pair of cut-off jeans, the rest of his lean, tanned body left bare, as natural as the ocean that swirls behind him. His hair has not been cut in a long time, gold as gold can be. He is free, like the dolphins and sea birds, the endless schools of fish scurrying beneath the sailing craft.

“Who is ready for an adventure?” Papa said.

His voice drew Bexley from a deep vacuum. Nana said she would stay at the blanket to keep watch over their belongings. 

“Don’t let her drown,” Nana said. 

Bexley dug her bookmark into the crease of pages and jumped up. She imagined her body to be Desmond’s—or even that boy’s—spirited, strong and agile. 

She would follow Papa anywhere. He entertained her with one remarkable story after another while searching for places to explore. He could find something to investigate no matter where they happened to be. He led Bexley back to the footbridge and the river, toting a fishing net with a bamboo handle. Bexley carried a plastic pail. The tide had receded, and Bexley was able to wade into the river, just above her waist. 

“There are treasures down there,” Papa said, looking through the clear water. The excitement and mystery in his voice never failed to thrill her. To Papa, a treasure could be just about anything. “See what you can find,” he said. He handed her the net. 

Bexley bent at the waist and peered into the water, scooping the silt and sand, wiggling it to see what she might unearth. She spotted something, a few feet in front of her. 

“There, Papa!” she said, pointing.

She moved forward tentatively. If she were to reach it, she would have to go deeper and it would be harder to see where to step, more difficult to navigate the current. 

“Go ahead,” Papa said. “You can do it. Your legs are strong. I’m right behind you.” 

Bexley took two more steps, cautiously, bracing her toes in the muck below, holding the net just above the crest of the river. The waterline crept up to the middle of her torso. Papa laughed. 

“Your Nana would not be happy with me,” he said. 

Bexley smiled. Papa never underestimated her. While other girls her age sat primly on their beach blankets, Papa expected more of her. She needed both hands to push the net under the water while the current attempted to tug it away. She held tight and lowered her face so close to the surface that drops of water clung to the tips of her eyelashes. She strained to see the bottom of the riverbed clearly. The world beneath shimmied and shifted above her toes, the movement of sea grasses and tiny, weightless pebbles like a bustling street corner. All in a hurry to get somewhere, she thought, the slightest movement of her feet raising a dust cloud. 

Bexley saw her mark: a periwinkle nestled in the sand. She pushed the metal edge of the net into the earth. The sea snail rose just enough to scoop under it. She lifted the net quickly, breaking through the surface of the water and into the air. She heard a howl of praise from Papa as water streamed from the net. 

“She’s beautiful, Bex!” Papa said. He showed her how to turn the net inside-out to place the marvelous living thing in her palm. 

Bexley steadied her legs against the current. She examined the brown-gray swirls of shell that covered the slimy dark being tucked inside. She touched its hard ridges. Sturdy, yet soft. The shell narrowed to a sharp, delicate point at the top. 

“Time to set her free,” Papa said after a few moments. “Protect her from the current by releasing her close to the bottom.” 

Bexley closed her fingers gently around the shell and lowered the periwinkle into the water.

“Bye,” she whispered as she opened her hand. “Be free!” 

Papa suggested they move to shallow water. There they would collect the prettiest shells and rocks and bring them back to Nana in the pail. Nana liked to place her treasures on the mantel above the fireplace when they returned to the cottage. The collection reminded Bexley of the schoolwork Mom taped to the refrigerator back home. 

“But the periwinkle will be our secret,” Papa said, with a wink.

They found Nana listening to music on the transistor radio, politely turned to the lowest possible level, just a soft whisper of melody, a song about silence. Her lips changed shape with the lyrics until she saw them coming. 

“Let’s see what you found!” Nana said. 

But Bexley was distracted, because somehow the boy had ended up in the sand right next to them, digging an unimaginably large hole, standing inside of it. Already his knees had disappeared. Bexley’s eyes were fixed on his bare chest and stomach, his ribs sparkling with sand, lungs heaving with effort. His bathing suit hung casually at his hips, revealing a ring of startling white skin. 

Bexley felt the material of her own bathing suit clinging to her body. It covered all her torso, trapped her beating heart. The boy chunked his shovel into the wet sand. The fingers of a cool ocean breeze reached him, raising little goosebumps where his skin baked in the sun. He is free, Bexley thought, free enough to float on that breeze, rise and soar with seagulls if he wanted to. Bexley remembered the periwinkle at the bottom of the ocean, nestled firmly under her shell. 

“Bexley?” 

“Oh,” she said, turning to Nana. “Here are the treasures I found.” 

Bexley knelt and poured the shells and stones on the blanket, facing away from the boy so she did not have to look at him. She organized her treasures in neat rows. Nana watched and listened as Bexley pointed out the various colors and shapes, explaining why she chose them from the endless possibilities offered by the river. 

Bexley took her book to the front, screened-in porch. She nestled between two pillows on a wicker rocking chair, legs curled beneath her. The cool breeze calmed the areas of her skin that had turned red from the sun. Nana clucked with unhappiness when she saw the redness. She could have prevented it had she watched more closely. The scent of Papa’s cigar drifted in from his perch on the steps outside the screen door.

It was Bexley’s favorite time of day, when the fireflies twinkled at dusk and she could drift away in a book. The plastic cover crackled when she opened it. She straightened the due date card in the cardboard sleeve. Bexley went to the town library every other week and left with her arms full of books, rarely needing an extension from the librarian to finish them. But this book she checked out three times in a row; she could not seem to part with it. She flipped to the page where her bookmark sat in the crease. The smell of the library rug lifted from the pages. 

Des ties the sailboat to a heavy anchor to keep the boat still. He is in Greece, in an old city that rises above the water, built into the cliffs by the ocean, boats bobbing in the harbor below. He wanders stone pathways in bare feet, between pastel houses and wood-shuttered windows. Potted plants fill the iron balconies; bicycles lean, unattended, against walls. An old woman sits nearby on a bench, watching. 

Bexley thought about all the boys she knew, their summer crewcuts and monkey bikes and truth-or-dares to do outlandish, stupid things. It was a marvel to think they could grow up to go on adventures like Des, traveling the world on a sailboat. She could only imagine them whacking an orange street-hockey ball on a dead-end street until it was too dark to see. And, of course, in their long robes at Mass on Sundays, altar boys, jingling bells as the congregation knelt before them.

✶

Bexley woke to the smell of coffee percolating in the kitchen. Nana would be there, puttering back and forth, preparing eggs, laying sugar-coated donuts on a plate. Sometimes Bexley closed her eyes at school to think of something peaceful. She imagined Nana doing exactly this, in her apron with tiny red checks. Bexley’s mother spent much of her time in the kitchen, too, although she didn’t wear an apron. Mom’s tasks were endless: cooking, washing dishes, wiping countertops, setting and clearing the table. In between she did laundry, hoisting baskets of clean and dirty clothes up and down the stairs to the basement. Bexley once asked her mother if she minded doing these chores, or would she rather have a job like her dad. Her mother said, “I do what needs to be done,” followed by a kind of “hrrrmph” indicating the conversation was over. 

Bexley shuffled to the kitchen, her flip-flops snapping on the linoleum floor. Nana was grumbling to Papa that the cabinets over the sink did not close properly. He feigned surprise, opening and closing the sagging wooden doors to test the hinges so many times that the creaking sound made Nana huff and Bexley giggle. Papa didn’t mind the cabinets, or the worn countertops, or the outdated table and chairs. “We have different priorities,” he said, tickling Nana’s waist before he left the room. Nana tried to maintain her scolding expression, but Bexley saw the smile underneath, attempting to escape. Bexley ate a donut and wet her fingertip to capture the tiny bits of sugar left on the plate. 

“Get your bathing suit,” Nana said. “We’re heading to the beach soon.” Nana was good at keeping everyone on track. 

Bexley headed to the backyard, and the screen door slapped behind her. The clothesline reminded her of an upside-down umbrella. She pushed the metal top so that it spun. She yanked off bathing suits and towels as they sped by. It was a game, to see how many she could grab in one spin. It was not easy to do because Nana had fastened them firmly with wooden clothespins so they could dry in the salty air. Her cousins’ bathing suits were there, too: Sean’s maroon shorts and Donna’s pretty, yellow bikini, the one with the white daisies. Her cousins were up for a day trip several days earlier, and their suits were crispy-dry. “Bring those in, too,” Nana called from the kitchen window. Bexley spun and tugged until she caught them all. She carried the pile indoors to Nana’s bedroom. 

She held up her bathing suit. It was a lime-green one-piece with belt buckle at the waist. Her mother had selected it from a stuffed rack at Sears. “This one will work,” she said when Bexley came out of the dressing room, a price tag dangling from below her armpit. Bexley stood there, goosebumps covering her arms and legs, while her mother examined the material. “We must be modest,” her mother said, adjusting the top of the suit with a firm tug though Bexley’s chest was still quite flat, nothing there to be modest about.

Bexley picked up Donna’s yellow bikini top. Four strings attached two small triangles of material, two strings to tie behind her back, the others to reach and fasten behind her neck. Donna was older, so the two patches of material were slightly curved. One day Bexley would need a top like this. A lump was building in her throat, the kind that meant she was going to cry. She dropped the top and picked up Sean’s suit, extending her arms so it hung in front of her by the drawstrings. She looked at the slack material that drooped below, the netting inside. 

Bexley turned and locked the latch on Nana’s door. It would only take a moment. She shed her pajamas in a hurry. She must see. She pulled on Sean’s bathing suit, tying the strings loosely in front, allowing the shorts to fall slack at her hips, below her belly button, the way the boy at the beach wore his. She remembered his tan line, the tiny strip of white skin like the belly of a fish. 

She rushed to Nana’s mirror to look. Her arms and legs had a bit of color from long days at the beach, but the rest of her torso, usually covered by the lime-green bathing suit, was ghostly white. She looked at her nipples. Only recently have they appeared slightly raised. She reached her left arm across her chest to cover them, folding her fingers under her right armpit to hold her arm in place. She could ignore her chest this way. She used the fingers of her right hand to touch her stomach, hips, and lower back, assessing their contours. Firm and strong, like the boy’s when he lifted the shovel full of sand. Exhilaration rushed through her veins. 

The rattle of the doorknob and Nana’s voice startled her. 

“Is this door locked?” Nana called from the other side. 

Bexley wiggled out of Sean’s suit, dropping it quickly around her ankles and kicking it away, just in case. 

“I’m changing,” she shouted back.

Bexley and Papa searched for plovers on their adventure later that morning. They walked far from the crowd, peering through binoculars into the dunes to try to see them. Papa explained that plovers were like very small seagulls, with long spikes for legs that helped them run quickly. A  rare and wonderful species. Bexley looked at Papa and thought you are rare and wonderful, especially the Scottish intonation that clung to his speech from childhood. She was proud to be named after his mother’s family.

“We must look for clues,” Papa said, his voice lifting with excitement, “a clump of twigs or a rock they might use for shelter.” 

Even when they did not see a plover, Bexley felt as if she learned the secrets of their world. Habitat, Papa called it.

Bexley read her book on the porch while Papa smoked his cigar. Nana thumbed through a Sears catalogue, folding the corner of the page each time she spotted something they needed. There were a lot of folded pages. Each time Papa heard the crunching of gravel, he said, “Here come some folks, walking home from a good day at the beach.” He was very happy. 

Des is in Sicily, standing in the narrow alley of a street market between awnings and the shouting of vendors. Before him is a mountain of tomatoes and green peppers, garlic in netted sleeves, baskets of eggplants and green beans. A man offers him a crate to fill to his liking, to bring back to his boat. The boy smiles and reaches; he already has his eye on the blood oranges.

Bexley looked up from her book. 

“Papa,” she said, “are we going to the fireworks?” 

“You better believe it,” he said. “I know just where to sit for the best view.” 

“Not too close,” Nana said.

“Not too close,” Papa echoed. 

Bexley ran to her room to change. She had already decided what to wear. Sean’s long-sleeve polo shirt, the one she found in a heap on the closet floor. All afternoon she had been thinking about the bathing suit she tried on and the idea of wearing the polo shirt to the fireworks, even if the sleeves fell a bit long at her wrists. It was faded orange with a white collar and a wide, navy-blue stripe that ran down one side. She loved the heaviness of the material. She pulled it over her head. If she had a polo shirt like this, she would never take it off. She could play rough-and-tumble in the yard all day long and it would hold up.

“You’re not going out in that, sweetheart,” Nana said when Bexley walked into the living room. “Go get the sweater your mother packed for you.” 

A well of anguish rose from the pit of Bexley’s stomach. It had been building for hours, anticipating Nana’s reaction. She parted her lips but could not bring herself to argue. She always behaved. She held back her tears and retrieved her sweater. It was the color of cream, with delicate loops of lace trim at the collar. She pulled her arms through the sleeves. 

“Very neat, very pretty,” Nana said, smoothing the shoulders and kissing Bexley on the top of her head.

The parking lot at the beach was closed off by police and road barriers. Bexley walked in front of Papa. His hand was on her shoulder, to guide her while she took everything in. A man plucked an upright bass on the bandstand, brightly painted carousel horses heaved up and down, a popcorn cart sat, tilted, on two large wheels. A cloud of smoke lifted from the hamburger and hot dog grills, drifting inland with the ocean breeze. 

“Italian ice?” Nana asked. Bexley’s favorite. They paid the man who doled out cups of strawberry and lemon, leaning over his cooler. They sat on benches facing the ocean, eating the flavored ice while watching people mill about, trying games of chance and games of skill. 

That was when she saw the boy again, in line for the rope ladder climb, its angled ropes rising high above the crowd. He wore an oversized sweatshirt over his bathing shorts, the stretched-out neck drooped below his collarbone. He held a floppy bunch of licorice sticks in his hand, using his teeth to yank pieces off. He chewed them carelessly and with his mouth open. 

“Can I do the rope ladder?” Bexley said.

“That game is for boys,” Nana said. “Older boys. You could get hurt.”

“Let her try if she wants to try,” Papa said. “Do you want to try it, Bex?”

The rope ladder waggled and swayed under the boy’s weight as he stepped on. He struggled to keep his balance, climbing. The object was to get to the top without falling and ring a bell. The angled ladder could easily pivot and invert the climber at any moment. 

“I think so,” Bexley said, less sure. Her hands were sweating. She wiped her palms on the sides of her shorts and joined the line of boys waiting for a turn.

The boy was nearly halfway up when the ladder suddenly twisted. With a violent lurch his body was thrown upside down. The boy hung on; his long, wild curls of hair extended down like seagrass swaying deep in the sea. He lost his footing and clung to the rope with his hands, his body dangling perilously above the sand. He used his strength to swing himself forward, and his sneaker caught a rung. He hoisted himself back into place, laughing, and then shimmied and pulled his way up to the bell. He let out a loud whoop when it rang. 

Bexley moved forward with the line. Her heart was stuck in her throat. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Nana said. Papa held her by the elbow gently, keeping her from stepping toward Bexley. 

“You can do it,” Papa called, although he was no longer smiling. 

Nana stood very still. The boy worked his way back down the ladder and was ten feet from the ground when he let go and fell into the sand. His buddies hovered over him, clapping his back as he stood, wiping the sand from his shorts. 

One boy to go before her. Bexley chewed her lip. She had good coordination but didn’t know if her arms were strong enough. She looked back to Nana and Papa. They would understand if she stepped out of line. The boy ahead of her was long and lanky. He scampered to the top and rang the bell.

Bexley stepped forward to the young man who told each person when to go. He had a hawk nose and lots of acne.

“Sorry,” he said, holding his arm out to block her. “No girls.”

There was a burning sensation very deep in her chest. What was fear had turned to shame and anger. Papa put his arm around her and tugged her close as they walked away. She struggled to hold back her tears for the second time that day. The first of the fireworks crackled in the sky, a spray of red and green light, embers falling. 

Bexley read in her bed with a flashlight, long after Nana turned the light out.

Des is in Tunisia. He boards a shabby bus with his father to travel inland. His father wants to show him the ruins of an enormous coliseum, a place where ancient chariot races were held. They pass many palm trees on the bus. The sight of the coliseum is magnificent. Later they sit on the seawall and look out at their boat, and the boy tastes mint tea for the first time. 

Bexley wanted to see the world, wear the rugby shirt, climb the rope ladder and ring the bell. Something was about to explode inside of her. Her parents were coming that weekend, and she did not think she could stop the explosion from coming.

✶

Bexley’s father insisted the whole family attend Mass every Sunday, including vacation, unless you could prove you were very sick using a thermometer. And you had better be on time or he would shout. They piled into three cars: Bexley’s parents and Kathleen rode in the first car; Bexley and her little brother Luke slid into the backseat of Papa and Nana’s car; her aunt, uncle, and Donna followed them in their Cadillac. Sean was an altar boy and so he was already at the church preparing for Mass.

At the church, Bexley was sandwiched between her parents, expected to sit very still on the hard, varnished seat of the pew. Her muscles ached to sprint and jump. Sean held the chalice on the altar and handed it to the priest. He had an angelic look about him, but Bexley knew he couldn’t wait to shed the robe and dive into the ocean the moment Mass was over. 

The altar boys lit candles and rang the bells. Bexley knew the Mass by heart. It frustrated her when the priest had to stare at Sean or one of the other boys, reminding them to ring the bells, while they fidgeted on their knees, distracted. Bexley would never forget to ring the bells. She loved the familiar rhythms of the readings and prayers; the precision and routines of Mass have always appealed to her. The job of a priest was appealing, too; it seemed like a very good way to help people, explaining what bible passages mean and providing comfort when a family member dies in Vietnam. An altar boy could grow up to be a priest, but the most Bexley could hope for was to become a nun. She glanced to the shadowy pews at the far side of the church where the nuns were kneeling. They were huddled together, heads bowed, rosaries wrapped around their slim fingers, lips silently moving. This, compared to the priest on the altar, his arms outstretched in bright light, framed in stained-glass color, his strong voice carrying the congregation in the Lord’s prayer. Jesus, dignified, hung on the cross above him.  

Bexley’s family processed up the aisle for communion, walking slowly toward the priest. The priest lifted the communion wafer high in the air before placing it on their tongues. They filed back to their pew, heads bowed, and pulled the kneeler down to pray, the dry wafer dissolving in their mouths. Bexley waited for her parents to make the sign of the cross and sit back on the bench. She followed suit. Then she spoke, an appropriate whisper, but loud enough for the whole family to hear.

“I am going to be a priest when I grow up,” she said. 

The heads of her family turned in unison and stared at her. Her cousin Donna snorted a laugh from the far end of the pew.

“The Lord be with you,” the priest bellowed to the congregation.

“And also with you,” Bexley said, rising. 

Her parents stood and mumbled the words. She could feel their discomfort.

“We’ll talk about this later,” her father whispered, firmly, also loud enough for the entire family to hear. 

Papa was the only one smiling.

Nana made a meatloaf and potatoes and gravy for Sunday dinner, and because the cottage was small, they carried their plates to various locations to eat. Bexley sat next to her father and uncle on the living room couch. She balanced her plate on her knees and ate her meatloaf, listening to them talk about football and work. 

“So, you’re going to be a priest?” her uncle said. His eyes sparkled, and Bexley heard the humor in his voice. He gets a charge out of you, her father often remarked. Bexley frowned. Her father laughed, a hearty, scoffing laugh. She smiled a half-smile and scooped the last forkful of potatoes into her mouth, swallowed without chewing. Her uncle did not expect an answer; the men were already on to another subject.

She stood and walked to the kitchen where her mother and Nana bustled, cleaning up after the meal. Bexley dried the pots and pans with a dishtowel, and because of her tears everything looked like it was behind the glass of an aquarium. Her mother and Nana pretended they did not notice.

An hour later, Bexley, Nana, and Papa waved from the screen porch until the cars disappeared. 

✶

“You are very quiet,” Nana said, in the manner of a question.

Bexley shrugged. She lay on her stomach, reading, her legs crossed in the air behind her, shins laced with grains of sand. The sky was gray all morning, gradually clearing from an earlier rain. She had not left the beach blanket.

Des is sailing. He is responsible for trimming the sails, sitting toward the front of the boat, minding its balance. A rope hangs slack near him, his hands are pressed on the gunnel. He closes his eyes to feel the wind as it blows hard against his cheeks, listening to the sound of seagulls.

Bexley tried to imagine being a grown-up. She tried to see herself in an apron, cooking and setting the table for a husband and children, but it was impossible to see. Maybe she was going to die very young and this is why she could not picture it. The thought frightened her. She liked to picture herself as Des, using her strength to pull the rope firmly, urging the sails to catch the wind. 

She looked up to see the boy and his two friends wading in the shallowest part of the water while the tide drew the rest of the ocean away. They jumped on a board and skimmed across wet sand to see who could stay on the board longest and travel the furthest. Bexley tried to stop watching, but she kept looking up from her book to see who won.

The sun broke through, and Papa coaxed her to fly a kite with him. The kite lifted the moment she released it and swerved with a gust of wind. She and Papa stood very close to the boys, but they did not notice her or her kite of many colors, dancing in the afternoon light. 

Gradually the sun drooped lower in the sky and the boys tossed a tennis ball at the ocean’s edge. One threw the ball toward an incoming wave, another dove to catch it before he splashed into the water. Bexley wished she could throw and dive and catch with them. Two girls, her age, sat on a blanket next to her. The girls were happy to sit and talk. One girl leapt up to turn a cartwheel in the sand, but the rest of the time they just sat and talked. Bexley would never be like them, never fit in their world. Yet the boys would never invite her to join them either, the world where she belonged. The realization made her chest feel tight. She recalled the moment she pulled Sean’s bathing suit around her waist, how it slung low on her waist, the rest of her body free. 

The well of anguish was rising again from the pit of her stomach. It had been there for days, since the moment she first saw the boy crab-fishing on the bridge. Her inside-self, standing before her. She watched her inside-self all week, in this shaggy-haired, wild boy. The anguish bubbled. How desperately she wanted to be this boy, yet he was careless about his luck. He bounced in the water, calling for the ball. Bexley pictured the ball striking him squarely on the nose, blood spurting everywhere.

She closed her book and selected the largest stone from her pail. It was smooth, an oval shape that fit perfectly in her hand, as if someone had held it firmly for a century to mold it just so. It was a dark shade of gray, almost black. When she held it up to the sun she saw the colors layered within it, many shades of gray packed in thin slices on top of one another. 

Bexley stood, clutching the rock in her right hand. She walked to the edge of the ocean, where the boys were flinging the tennis ball. They were unaware of her, of course, one of them pushing another boy into the water. She was close enough to feel the spray of cold water when he fell in, backward, laughing, springing quickly to his feet. She gripped the rock tightly.

She turned to face the long line where the sea met the sky. The sun stretched across the horizon, leaving them to go somewhere on the other side of the ocean. She looked at her rock, turning it over in her hand. Perhaps Des found this rock in Greece, or Sicily, or Tunisia. Perhaps he placed it on a shelf next to his bunk where he could see it each morning as soon as he opened his eyes. Perhaps he tossed it overboard when the boat drifted to shore in Maine, and the rock sank to the ocean floor, tumbling in with the tide to where she stood now. 

Bexley stood very still and faced the boy, gazing at his nose, stroking the rock with her thumb. And then she wound up, like a baseball pitcher on the mound, lifting her knee, drawing her muscles tight, a single knot of energy, ready to burst. Her body uncoiled like a spring, pivoting at the last moment, releasing the rock like a sling toward the setting sun. 

It sailed through the air, traveling far over the waves, an admirable distance, a very strong throw. When Bexley turned to walk back to her blanket, she saw the three boys standing, motionless, staring. Now they had noticed her.