“For me, it begins with Claudia Clarke,” he says. My eyes are finally used to the darkness. The stars are ablaze and his face is in the center of the light. “For me, a dark place is a bad place without you. Yes, I want to kiss you. But right now what I really want to do is hold your hand. Is that possible, homegirl?” I can’t tell if he’s for real or not.
I don’t drink, but I’m a little intoxicated at the moment. The moon, the water, the sound of the ocean, everything has got me. Even the way he says “homegirl” all sexy and confident is starting to grow on me. Jeez. I didn’t think I liked him. I mean, he’s cute and we have a good time together, and the silent protest and yadda yadda yadda. Still, he’s a playa.
C’mon, Claudia. Did he really go through all this to get with you?
This jock who loves carrying a ball more than anything has somehow become a leader. Together, we’ve changed the way kids in our school think. The closest these kids would ever come to culture is bacteria. But he and I are changing that. We’re a team. Really, Claudia. Don’t be stupid.
Mr. Football has somehow become my tire-changing savior. My late-night-on-the-beach, dog-rescuing leader. And I kinda like it.
I like the way he smells. I like the way he walks, all confidently, head reaching for the moon. I like the way the diamond in his ear shines. I even like the way he carried me into the frickin’ ocean. And I really like that he just asked me could he hold my hand. But there’s no way that I like this guy. There’s just no way. I think. I need rehab.
He takes my silence for a yes and pulls my freezing-cold hand out of my pocket and places his fingers between mine. How is it that his fingers are so warm?
“Wow, you are cold-blooded,” he says, doing the curly lip thing again.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“You want to hear a story?” he asks as we continue walking toward the lighthouse. My hand gets lost in his. I’m a little worried that this is feeling so comfortable. Too good.
“As long as it isn’t scary, sure.”
“It might be a little scary, so hold on tight,” he says. Any tighter and he might get the wrong idea. I’m staying right where I am, Omar.
“Once upon a time, there was a farmer and his wife, who lived in a mansion. He had two assistants to look after his livestock and vegetable and flower gardens. The assistants also lived on the farm with their families. Aside from the farm, the farmer’s main responsibility was watching over a tower that was adjacent to his farm.
“The story goes that the tower was once a lighthouse built in the 1700s by King George the Third.”
“I didn’t know you were a history buff, Omar.”
“Just listen to the story, homegirl.”
I like the way you call me that.
“Anyway, like I was saying before I was rudely interrupted. It was replaced by a bigger and better one that was built in the 1800s. The lighthouse was used by the Confederate soldiers during the Civil War to alert them to approaching Union soldiers.”
It’s starting to get warmer.
“The lighthouse was also used by a slave during the Civil War. This dude was working on a military ship called the Planter. The ship had all kinds of military cargo—guns, ammunition, and whatnot. Anyway, the Planter’s three white officers decided to spend the night ashore, drinking and chasing women in Chucktown. So when they left, the slave got this grand idea. He was gonna escape, get as far away from his Confederate masters as possible. So he and about eight other enslaved crewmen decided to make a run for it. This dude was no joke. He put on a captain’s uniform and had a straw hat similar to that of the white captain, and he piloted the ship.”
How are both of our hands clasped, and why does it feel like someone turned up the heat on the inside?
“First they picked up their families, then this joker piloted the Planter past the five Confederate forts that guarded Charleston Harbor. He used the lighthouse as a beacon, the silver moon as his GPS, and made it to the Union ships, where he turned over everything to the soldiers, including a Confederate codebook that helped the North win the war.”
“Wait a minute, Omar. This story sounds familiar, like something I’d read about in AP History class. You stealing again?”
“The lighthouse ended up being destroyed in the war, but it got rebuilt for a third time. And this time, a farmer was put in charge of making sure that nothing happened to it.”
I squeeze his hand tighter; playfully bend myself a little into him. And stay there. I do this without thought. It feels so natural.
“Well, one day, the farmer’s wife, who he loved very much—I think her name was Claudia.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I say, and punch him in the stomach. “Seriously, is this story for real?”
“As real as it gets, homegirl,” he says, and grabs me even tighter and closer than we were before. It may as well be eighty degrees out here. “Not so cold anymore, huh?” he says, wiping my forehead with his palm. How am I sweating?
“Anyway, like I was saying, the farmer comes home and sees his wife in the lighthouse staring off into the distance. He immediately goes up to the top of the lighthouse to see what she’s looking at.” Omar pauses, and for a moment I feel a soft wind blow in my ear. It’s either him or the ocean, both of which are close to owning me right now.
“They see a storm coming. Only it’s not just any old storm. It’s a typhoon.”
“Really, Omar. A frickin’ typhoon in Charleston.”
“Or a hurricane. The point is, it’s huge. And it destroys the mansion, the homes of the farmer’s assistants, the livestock, everything. It’s complete devastation. Over time, the land around the tower disappears. So now it sits in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by water on all sides.”
I’m standing on the beach, in his arms, and it just feels right. We’re so close to the water, I can taste the salt in the air. Every now and then a large wave brings a splash of cold near enough that my ankles and legs should flinch. But they don’t. I am on fire, somewhere inside. And the only thing I feel right now is too good.
“What happened to the farmer and his wife?” I ask.
“Rumor has it that they are still up there,” he says in a macabre voice, trying to scare me.
“Stop, Omar. That’s not funny.”
“Seriously, the lighthouse hasn’t been lit in over a hundred and fifty years, but if you come out here at night, sometimes you can see a glow coming from it. Look,” he says, and points just over the dunes. “We’re here. There it is.”
“Wow, I’ve never seen it at night.”
“Best time to see it is now. This is exactly how the slaves saw it when they were escaping. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a beautiful story. And I also think you made a lot of it up.”
“Actually, it’s mostly true. Uncle Al told me the story.” He lets me go from his embrace and sits down on the sand. I’m still staring at the lighthouse, feeling surreal. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“Omar, what are you doing?” I ask, turning around to look down at him. I don’t want to be hurt. “Please tell me you didn’t bring me out here, tell me all this stuff, just so you can sleep with me.”
“Look, you know I’m feeling you, and I can tell that even though you may not want to, you kinda feeling me.”
“Don’t play games with me, Omar.” He pulls my arm, and my butt lands next to him in the sand.
“About fifteen years ago,” he continues, “an organization called Save the Light bought the lighthouse from the state of South Carolina. They’re doing a lot to protect it, but it’s our responsibility as well, just like it was the farmer’s and his wife’s.”
“Protect it from what?”
“From beach erosion. It leans more and more each year. Before you know it, it’ll be underwater, and a part of our history will be lost,” he says passionately. “Claudia, this lighthouse is powerful, it’s really amazing. It has survived wars, hurricanes, even earthquakes. And it’s still standing. Save the Light has raised millions of dollars to restore it. To preserve it from being lost to the sea.”
“Hmmm, sounds a little suspect to me. With all the money they raised, how many homeless people could they have fed? It’s a little elitist, don’t you think?”
“What I think is everybody has their purpose, their mission. One person helps feed the homeless, and another protects a historic landmark from erosion. Somebody raises money to save chimpanzees, while another group of people rescues dogs. Whether you’re occupying Wall Street or starting a schoolwide protest at your high school, there are different ways to change the world, homegirl. We all walk our own path, right?” Yes, Omar, YES! Before I can agree, he turns me around. I open my mouth to protest.
“Shhhhhhhhh!” He puts his finger to my lips.
“The dude that stole the ship during the Civil War and freed like thirty slaves, that woadie was no joke. I might be the best football player in the country, but I ain’t got nothing on that joker. The Army made him a major general and even named a ship after him. The U.S.S. Robert Smalls.” I knew it sounded familiar. We’d read about Robert Smalls in history classes for the past four years. Pilot, captain, and politician, he was best known for . . . wait a minute. Wait one minute. Robert SMALLS!
“Omar, are you saying—”
“Yep, my great-great-great-grandfather was Robert Smalls.”
I don’t know how or when it happens, but both of my sweaty hands are clinched in his. He pulls me closer, so now my butt rests on his loglike thighs. My eyes are transfixed on his eyes. He is a few words away from owning me. Funny how what someone says and what you want them to say can sometimes get all crossed up.
What he actually says next is: “I ain’t perfect like this beach, and yeah, I might be a star football player, and the ladies love T-Diddy, but I ain’t dumb and I know a thing or two about changing the world too, homegirl. So why don’t you give me a chance, Claudia Clarke?”
What I hear, though, is: “This beach and me. We’re one, Claudia. I’ve been coming here for almost two years. Two years. But it never dawned on me that it was meaningful. That the lighthouse was significant. That it has a story, an important one. Until now. Until this very moment. Until you helped me understand that it does matter. That everything matters. Without the lighthouse, I wouldn’t be here. Literally. It gave my grandfather, and his father and his father, and his father, and me life. And you’ve given me a new one. Homegirl, you have been my lighthouse. I’ve followed you these past few weeks and found a power I didn’t know I possessed. What good is a voice if you don’t use it to speak up?”
In this moment, there is no more silent protest. There is no band or dance or newspaper. These things are on hold. There is no more “I only date college guys,” and certainly no more “I’m not interested in Omar Smalls.” Each of these things belongs to a different girl in a different time, before this moment.
In this moment, I am a new girl, unafraid, drowning in desire, and dashing to dive in.
“Slow down, homegirl,” he whispers.
But I can’t. This is where I want to be. Inside his arms. Beneath the silver moon.
I toss my jacket, which is his, behind us. He gently unbuttons my shirt, while I lift his above the concrete shoulders that have won championships. And the whole time, we don’t say a single word. Still, his unbroken gaze speaks volumes of unspoken words:
Give me a chance, Claudia.
Let me show you who I really am, Claudia.
I promise I won’t hurt you, Claudia.
For him, kissing seems as easy as throwing a pass. Or swimming. He takes his time, navigating the curve of my lips with his. Lips. Tongue. Oh my!
I am not so gentle. Like a frenzied shark, I quickly take the whole of him. Biting, bending, craving each and every kiss.
“Girl, just relax. I got you. Ain’t no army coming after you,” he says, and laughs.
I surrender. He runs his scorching fingers through my hair. I hold his breath in mine. His eyes take me in. And I no longer fear the wave coming.
It is here.