11

Twenty minutes from my front door was the sandy beach of Lake Michigan. Twenty-two minutes and I could have my toes in the cold water, hearing the rushing of the waves and the call of the seagulls soaring above my head. Twenty-five minutes and I’d ignore the shock of the frigid lake and run in up to my waist, my armpits, shoulders, and dive under the rush of water.

Bobbing up and down, I’d lose myself in the freedom of weightlessness.

I’d lose track of time, floating on my back and looking up into the endless blue sky above me.

The best of summers in Michigan were spontaneous trips west, to look out at the lake, never being able to see to the other side. Wisconsin seemed forever far away when squinting for it along the horizon.

The summer hadn’t been hot enough to warm up the Big Lake. Still, Jocelyn and I had packed up our beach towels and a couple bottles of Coke. We wore our swimsuits under our clothes just in case we felt daring.

We hadn’t left until after we both got out of work, but summer days were long and our eighteen-year-old energy never fading. We rode in Mike’s car, the radio turned up as loud as it could go to beat out the sound of air rushing through the windows. We sang along with Mama Cass and did our best to do the twist with Fats Domino. Our hair danced around our heads, wild in the wind, as we shimmied our shoulders and flubbed up the words to most of the songs that came on the radio.

Neither of us cared one little bit. No one was there to stare or to correct us.

The best part of having a kindred was knowing that it little mattered how silly I was. I would be loved regardless—liked, even—for being just the way I was.

When the sun was about to set, we made our way down the pier, sitting at the very end, letting the waves of the lake wet our bare feet and ankles. The sun seemed to melt into where the water met the sky. Orange and purple and pink and blue. The colors reflected in the rippling surface of the waves.

“Have you heard from Mike?” Jocelyn asked.

“Yeah,” I answered. “He’s doing pretty well, I guess.”

“Good. Do you know if they’re going to send him to Vietnam?”

I nodded. “I’m sure they will.”

“Maybe it will end before he can go.”

“Maybe.”

I looked back to the water; the sun sank into it and glowed orange on the whitecaps. The waves were rough that day. Still, eager swimmers had risked the undertow.

You can’t worry about something that might not happen.

We stayed to watch the Musical Fountain along the channel. Spouts of water shot in the air, backlit with colorful bulbs. Music played over loudspeakers, and the crowd that came in their cars or sat on blankets on the lawn oohed and ahhed as if it was the Fourth of July.

Jocelyn and I sat on the roof of Mike’s car.

After the show was over, the people picked up their chairs and blankets, making their way to the parking lot and pulling away into the night toward their homes. We stayed, waiting for traffic to clear up. I was glad we’d thought ahead to bring a couple of blankets. The chilly evening had only grown colder.

“I got a letter in the mail this week too,” Jocelyn said, keeping her eyes on the docked boats bobbing up and down in the channel. “Mine isn’t from the Army, but it’s still exciting.”

“Oh yeah?” I pulled the blanket around me closer. “Where was it from?”

“Taylor University,” she said. “In Indiana.”

“Did they accept your application?”

She nodded and then turned toward me. “They did. And they offered me a scholarship.”

Even with the evening so dark, I could still see the way her eyes lit up with the news.

“That’s great,” I said, feeling both that it was and that it wasn’t. “For the fall?”

“Yes. But I don’t know if I’m going.” She talked fast, as if she’d prepared what she was going to say. “It’s just so far away. It’s a three-hour drive. Besides, what’s the use of getting a degree just in time for me to get married and start having babies?”

“You don’t even have a steady boyfriend yet.”

“I know.” She let her shoulders slump. “I guess I’m trying to talk myself out of being excited.”

“Why?”

“Mother doesn’t want me to go.”

“What do you want?”

“Does it matter?” she asked. “Besides, I’m perfectly happy writing up stories about the water level of Old Chip and who asked whom to the homecoming dance.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Well, no. But it’s something to do for now.”

“I think you should go,” I said, hoping she’d hear the sincerity that added weight to each of the words. “It would be so good for you.”

“But what about you?” she asked. “Don’t you want to go to college?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I can just take over the library when Mrs. Veenstra retires. I don’t know that I have to go to college for that.” I pulled the blanket up over my shoulders. “But if I can’t have it for me, then I want it for you.”

We went back to watching the sky and the way the stars mirrored dots across the rippled water.