With the beer and the second Styrofoam cooler in tow, Eli and I stagger down the slope to the far corner of the beach where Cady has set up the tent beside a big rock.
“Guess what, Coop?” I know a smug expression when I see it. “No leftover tent poles.”
“You suck.” I force a smile. “We picked up another cooler and some more ice for the beer.”
“We should ice down the beer right now if we want it cold later.” Eli stacks the pile of six-packs in the sand. He carried all of the beer, but somebody had to get the foam cooler down here in one piece. Those things are freaking fragile.
Cady takes the cooler to a place in the brush where it’ll be relatively hidden, in the event our little party is busted. It’s as if she’s done this before, I think, as she casually arranges bottles in ice.
I know for a fact, though, that this is a first for her. She came to my house one night in the spring of sophomore year, when her folks went away to a bed and breakfast to celebrate their anniversary. Bradley immediately invited a bunch of kids to come and party and pressured Cady to have a few beers with them. When I opened my front door to her, she was crying. “I snuck out the back door when Bradley thought I was going to the bathroom. He’s probably mad at me that I cut and run! And I wanted to be cool and have a few drinks with him and his friends, but I just couldn’t! I can’t do that to Mom and Dad!”
I hugged her, and as I pulled her inside my house, she clung to me. I’ve been with Cady every weekend since, and she’s never once cracked open a bottle of anything it takes an ID to purchase.
Once the brews are chilling, the three of us meet in front of the tent for a “now what?” moment.
Cady leans toward me and says under her breath, “We’re well on our way to checking off number five.” She grins like the Cheshire cat.
And she’s right. We have successfully put a road trip into action. But Eli doesn’t miss our exchange. “Huh?” he asks. “Number five—what’s that?” We pretend not to hear him.
When Cady murmurs, “Now for number eight,” I’m uncomfortable because it’s not cool to talk about the bucket-list numbers when Eli has no clue. Our opportunity to run naked on the beach fast approaches, though, so I’m complicit.
Maybe I’m getting pulled into the spirit of The Weekend Bucket List, because Cady’s enthusiasm is contagious. And then there’s the fact that I’m a consummate follower. So I suggest, “Let’s go swimming.” Cady and I exchange glances before I pull off my glasses and stick them on top of the big rock.
Cady heads to the tent to change into her swimsuit. She’s not a bikini type, and comes out of the tent wearing a sensible one-piece, her navy blue Speedo.
And she’s not the only who wears a Speedo.
I’d tried not to gawk when, beside the big rock, Eli stripped off his biker-dude clothes, and then, completely naked, bent over, stuck a hand into his duffel bag, and pulled out black Speedo briefs. I’d expected red. And to be real, none of the guys I know would be caught dead in a Speedo, unless they were on the Wellington High School Swim Team, if we had one. But Eli pulled his speedo briefs over his strong thighs and round ass, turned around, and stood there looking at me—lips parted and hair blowing in the sea breeze—completely unaware that he had just fulfilled one of my most secret fantasies. So, I’d grabbed my backpack and gone behind the tent to change into my oversized swim trunks. It wouldn’t have been a good moment to be caught naked by the subject of my… interest.
Cady shoves a towel into each of our arms and runs to the water. She has barely dipped one toe when she announces, “The water’s frigid.”
Eli and I join her. I suddenly feel virile, and brave the freezing water to my knees before I stop short. After twenty seconds, I no longer have sensation in my feet.
Eli shouts, “Only one way to get this done!” And he plunges headfirst into the water, clearly demonstrating who has the nerve at this small party.
When his head pops through the water’s surface, he shakes the wet curls off of his face and exclaims, “Refreshing!”
I can’t hold back a scowl.
Naturally, Cady is next to demonstrate her willingness to brave the icy Atlantic. She takes a few steps, sinks to her neck in the water, and allows an adorable shriek followed by a spurt of frenzied laughter. I am the lonely wimp who is still bone-dry from my knobby knees on up. At this point, I really have no choice, so I grit my teeth and dive—straight into a rock. My chin takes the brunt of the impact.
When I stand, Cady says, “Your chin’s bleeding, Murphy.”
Eli’s at my side in a split second; his perfect brown hand is placed lightly on my chest, and he studies me with deep concern. “Cooper, are you okay? I think you dove into a rock.”
I simultaneously fight the urge to call him a freaking genius and get hard from his closeness, which is quite a trick considering the frigid water and abundant humiliation. “I’m fine.” I dive back in. Thankfully I don’t come face to face with another boulder. Or a bloom of jellyfish. Or, with my luck, a great white shark.
We splash around in the water for two minutes, not a second more, because it’s actually painful. Cady beats us to our campsite. She pulls a towel around her shoulders and sighs at the warmth. Eli and I saunter slowly up the beach, as if we wouldn’t kill to be wrapped like babies in our towels too. I glance at Eli’s Speedo with new confidence, expecting evidence of the serious shrinkage I’m currently experiencing, but I see nothing of the sort. Shrinkage or not, Eli is hung like an Argentine Lake Duck… Mom and I watch a lot of nature documentaries.
And then Cady proceeds with The Weekend Bucket List. Beneath the towel she somehow manages to pull off her swimsuit, and then flings it with her foot so it lands on top of my glasses on the big rock. She now has our undivided attention.
Next thing we know, her floral bathroom towel is on the sand, and skinny, naked Cady sprints across the beach in a zigzag pattern like she’s dodging machine gun fire. It takes me a few seconds to realize that she’s trying to avoid the larger rocks in the sand.
“Number eight!” She yells into the wind, and even without my glasses it’s clear to see that her tiny ass is pink from the chill of the water. Eli stares in her direction and grins. He has noticed the splendor of her rear end too.
When his fingers slip beneath the low waist of his Speedo, I decide I can’t allow him to complete number eight before I do. I mean, I am one of The Weekend Bucket List creators, and he’s a mere participant. Though I would like nothing more than to stand here, cozy in my towel, and stare from Cady to Eli and back, I yank off my trunks, kick them onto the rocky sand, and sprint toward Cady. When I glance back to assure myself that Eli is naked too, I realize that he had merely been adjusting the tie inside his bathing suit. Still wearing his itsy-bitsy bikini bottom, he stands as still as a deer caught in headlights and takes in the bare-ass eye candy darting this way and that along the rocky coast.
I’m certain that, in my birthday suit, I am the freaking whitest creature ever to come in contact with this sand, unless a baby beluga has beached itself here. But it’s too late for self-consciousness, so I push awareness of the abundant freckles that cover my pale skin from the forefront of my mind and grab Cady’s hand. Together we run to the shore and kick our feet in the water. Well, technically, we flick the waves with our toes, because the ocean is cold enough to stop profuse bleeding from the chin.
“We’re wild, Murphy! Nobody at Wellington High is as free-spirited as us!” She shouts into the wind with a new confidence in her tone.
I want to correct her by yelling, “No one at Wellington would risk frostbite by swimming in the Atlantic Ocean off the United States’ northeastern coast in early June!” But I just shout, “Yeah!” so as not to burst her bubble or appear uncool.
Eli
I never got too much good advice from the grown-ups in my life. Take this example: before Mom took off, she told me it was fine to go to school wearing Band-Aids on my zits. Not a good choice. Got me beat up for looking like a dork, but, since I learn quick, I only made that mistake once.
Dad’s advice wasn’t real helpful either: “Never use your blinker when you’re driving, boy—it ain’t nobody’s business where you’re going.” That advice got me stopped by the cops a couple times before I wised up.
I got other pieces of crappy advice from Mom and Dad before our family fell apart:
“If you pretend like you got balls, you won’t get bullied so much, Eli.” So, I fake cool.
“Nah, son, permanent marker ain’t actually permanent.” Um, it kinda is.
“The best cure for poison ivy? Definitely bleach.” Ouch, you know?
“I told you already, Elias, don’t smell it; just eat it real fast.” Hello, barf-city.
But nobody ever told me to steer clear of folks who stripped off all their clothes and ran along the beach in their birthday suits. So here I am, building a fire that’ll toast Cady and Cooper’s frozen buns, or their cute-as-heck, rosy, frozen buns. I know this, because I took a good long look at both sets of cheeks.
Truth is, I like these kids a lot. It’s stupid how much I want them to like me back. If someone was to ask me which one of them I was hot for, though, I’d have to shrug and walk away. I haven’t got a good answer to that question, but I got an answer.
I like them both. They make me smile, and I haven’t done too much of that for ages. The thing is, I never did figure out how I could dream all night about Patriots’ cheerleaders and wake up to pop a woody at the sight of the dude on the Abercrombie & Fitch shopping bag on the chair beside my bed, but it’s how I roll. Hot is hot. I get into curves on a girl as much as muscles on a guy. And I like muscles on a girl and curves on a guy too—just saying. I never knew the right question to ask myself about how this could happen, so I just told me, “Eli, some folks like steak and chicken. And I see no need to choose one flavor of meat right yet.”
It’s like Cady mind-reads my thoughts about meat. “I’m starving,” she says and plops beside the fire. She’s comfortable now, dressed in gray sweatpants and a State University of Vermont sweatshirt. “When do we eat?’
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Cooper timed his return to the fireside just to answer her question. “Anytime we want, now that I found these perfect hotdog-roasting sticks.” He holds them in the air to show them off.
Nobody asked me, but Cooper looks way prouder than a dude who took twenty minutes to find three almost-straight sticks ought to, but still I say, “Way to go, Cooper. You found some fine sticks.”
“Damn straight,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about the sticks or something else. And by the way Cooper stares at the campfire, I suspect he’s a little scared of it. I tell him, “Why don’t you grab the hotdogs and buns; that way we can start cooking? I’ll tend to the fire.”
“Don’t forget the mustard and a bag of chips.” Cady’s a little demanding, but she wears it well. “And the jar of pickles.”
Within a couple minutes us three are roasting wieners.