THAT NIGHT
Andy looks at me. “Well, then, Frenchie, I guess we only have tonight. So where should we go next?”
I shrug. “Wherever,” I say, still in awe from seeing my name emblazoned on his shoulder. “I still can’t believe you did that,” I say again.
“Why, don’t you like it?”
“No. I mean, yes, I like it. It’s just . . .”
“It’s weird,” he mumbles.
“What’s weird?”
“It’s just . . . I thought I would feel it more, you know? It actually didn’t hurt. It’s like I hardly felt it.”
“That’s good,” I say.
He shrugs. “Anyway, where should we hit next?” he asks.
I look around. “Lake Eola?”
He smiles. “To the swans.”
Lake Eola is a park in downtown Orlando built around a big sinkhole that was filled with water and dubbed a lake. There’s a big fountain in the center and swans everywhere you look. See, Lake Eola’s “thing” is swans. There are live swans that hang around the park and big plastic swan boats that you can rent and pedal to the middle of the lake with someone as lame as you.
“Hey, want to hijack a swan?” Andy says. At first I misunderstand him and think he wants us to kidnap one of the real swans, which is actually done quite often. Why anyone would want to kidnap a swan, I have no idea. But every few years, you hear about a swan-napping on the news.
“Yeah, right,” I say.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Nobody’s even here.” He heads over to the huge, plastic swan boats.
“Oh,” I say, realizing what he means.
I see him go from swan to swan, all lined up in a row next to a small deck.
I look around. Nobody’s really here, but I’m still worried about hijacking a swan.
“They’re all locked up,” Andy says, pulling at the metal chains and locks to see if by chance any are not secure.
“That sucks,” I say, although I’m secretly relieved.
“Yeah,” Andy says as he sits down on the deck. He takes out his flask and takes another swig. Then he takes out a new pack of cigarettes and offers me one. I take it and we light up.
I inhale deeply and let out a long plume of smoke. “I didn’t know you smoked,” I say.
“I don’t,” he says, taking a long drag and then coughing. I laugh as he recovers. “I bought these tonight because I just wanted to try it out. There’s a certain appeal to the idea of smoking. I wish I could.”
“What? Smoke?” I ask.
He nods.
“What’s so hard about it?” I ask taking another drag.
“I don’t know, it just tastes so bad,” he says. “But I want to feel that way, you know? The way people look like they feel when they take a deep drag and it goes all through their body and suddenly they’re relaxed and . . .” He looks at me. “Do it,” he says.
I look at him funny. “What? Take a deep drag?”
“Yeah.” He looks at me expectantly. I can feel myself getting flushed as his gaze settles on my lips. I feel self-conscious, suddenly sure they’re chapped and peeling.
“Oh, come on,” I say, rolling my eyes and turning away.
“No, I’m serious.” He reaches out and touches my arm. “Come on,” he says, “take a nice long drag and tell me how it feels.” He keeps staring at me.
“Fine,” I say, if only to get him to stop looking at me like this.
I put the cigarette up to my parted lips and inhale.
And I know this doesn’t make sense, because it is after all toxins and poisons and whatever, but sometimes a deep drag off a cigarette is so good. Sometimes, that smoke floats through your whole body, through your arms and to the tips of your fingers, and the sweet goodness of it soothes every frazzled nerve ending. And when you exhale, it’s like you’re letting everything go. Like the smoke scoops up all your worries and expels them from your body and they’re gone for that second.
“See,” Andy says, “that looks good.”
I open my eyes. “Yeah,” I say. “It is, but the reward of that feeling doesn’t come unless you put up with the total gross taste for a while.”
“I know,” he says.
“And it comes with a price, you know. I mean, I’ll probably die a slow horrible death gasping for my last breaths through a pinhole-sized airway into my lungs that barely inflate.” I stop and think about that for a minute. “God, that sounds awful,” I say as I take another drag. “I should really quit. Besides, it’s only the first drag that feels that good. The rest of this,” I say, holding the cigarette up, “it’s just not the same.”
Andy takes out his flask and takes a sip.
“I think that tastes worse than the cigarettes,” I say, motioning to his flask.
He shrugs. “Maybe. I barely notice anymore.” His voice trails off. After a while, he says, “You know, it’s not fair that they keep all these swans here. I mean, why? For our amusement and entertainment? Doesn’t that seem kind of fucked up?”
I shrug. “I guess,” I say. “But it’s not like they’re in cages or anything. I mean, they have a nice place, and the city takes care of them, and . . . it’s not like they’re in a fishbowl or anything. There’s lots of room here and they wander around wherever they want.”
“But it is a fishbowl,” Andy says. “They don’t have a choice.”
I look at the swans on the lake. “They look happy enough, though. They don’t even realize they’re stuck.”
“That’s even worse,” he says. I laugh, but Andy doesn’t. In fact, he seems agitated by the swans’ ignorance.
“But Andy,” I say, “aren’t we all being held captive in some way, shape, or form?” I follow it up with another long drag, half close my eyes and nod my head as if I’ve just said the most enlightening thing ever uttered. I expect Andy to laugh because I’m totally trying to lighten the mood, but instead he nods his head.
“Exactly,” he says.
“I was joking,” I say. “I mean, kind of.”
“Hey, you know what these swans remind me of?” Andy asks.
“Hmm?” I say, flicking my cigarette butt into the water.
“The ducks in Central Park. You know, Holden Caulfield.”
“Oh, shit, yes!” I say, and I didn’t think it was possible, but I fall for Andy a little more in that precise moment.
“When he’s all obsessed with where they go in the winter,” Andy says. “Because the lake is frozen over.”
I slap my hand down on the deck. “Yes! Yes! You’re so right. Now that’s a fucking good book.”
“Yeah, it is,” Andy says. He sighs and looks at the swans again. “But you know, at least those ducks go.”
“What?”
“They go. They escape,” he says. “Maybe Holden doesn’t know where, but they do get to go. But these poor bastards, they’re just fucking stuck here.”
I look at the swans. “I guess . . .”
We watch them for a minute and I think he’s going to suggest we kidnap all of them and save them. But instead he says, “If I were one of these swans, I’d run out into traffic instead of waddling around here the way everyone wants me to.”
I laugh, but he just pulls out another cigarette and lights up. After the first drag, he shakes his head and throws it into the lake. “Damn,” he says and looks up at the buildings around us. “This place is getting old.”
“Yeah,” I say, sensing that the night is over. That in a few minutes, we’ll both go home and on Monday, we’ll pass in the halls and maybe he’ll forget tonight even happened. “I guess we should probably get going.” I get up on my feet.
“Wait,” Andy says, reaching up and holding on to my wrist. “Like going, going?”
I shrug, even though the thrill of more time with Andy awakens every cigarette-soothed nerve. “What else are we going to do?” The question strikes me as somewhat suggestive even though I didn’t mean it to be.
“You ever been to the beach at night?” Andy says.
“Uh, no, but . . .” I look at my watch, realizing how late it is and a ride out to the beach won’t be a short trip. “It’s getting kind of late.” It’s past midnight already, and Cocoa is at least a thirty-or forty-minute drive. Plus hanging out there and then driving back will add on more time.
“Oh, come on. It’s a Saturday. You have a curfew or something?”
“Well, sort of,” I answer, feeling kind of stupid. Here I thought my parents were pretty all right for letting me stay out for shows even though it means I am obligated to repeatedly text them and I have to be home by one thirty.
“Come on, Frenchie. I’m going to die tomorrow, remember? You wouldn’t want to deny me my last request. Besides, we’re supposed to be on an adventure. It’s our night of adventure!” He jumps up to his feet and takes another sip from his flask. His eyes are still glassy from the alcohol, but his excitement is catching.
I don’t know what to do. I know I should go home, tell him we can hang out another day. But I do the math. It would take us thirty minutes to get to Cocoa, thirty minutes back. We’d be gone for maybe two hours.
“All right,” I say.
“Great!” he says and smiles like I’ve just granted him a wish.
We head to my car, and when we’re one block away from it, Andy takes off running down the street, yelling and laughing. I start running too and we’re both running so fast that we actually run past my car which gets us both laughing even more.
“I don’t think I’ve run like that since elementary school,” Andy says, catching his breath.
“I don’t think I’ve run like that ever,” I say between gasps. My lungs are going to explode. The fresh air is too much for them to handle and I start choking on it, coughing like crazy. “Cigarettes,” I croak to Andy through gasps, as way of explanation. This only makes him laugh again and it takes us a full five minutes before we both settle down and finally get in the car. As I turn the key, the Vinyls’ song we were listening to on the way over here blasts back on.
“I love this song,” Andy yells.
“You like them?” I turn it down a little so I can hear him.
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know.” I smile. “You just don’t look like the type.”
“You know. You’re kind of,” I look for a word to describe Andy—a category I can fit him into, but nothing immediately comes to mind. “I don’t know,” I say. “I just didn’t peg you for this kind of music.”
“Well there’s a lot of things people wouldn’t peg me for,” he says. Another song comes on and Andy starts singing along, so I join in. Something about heading into the dark night, on mostly empty streets, with the music blaring, and singing with Andy Cooper, makes me feel incredibly giddy and full, and happy for this moment. Even though it doesn’t feel real, I know it is. Andy takes out his flask and toasts the air before drinking whatever is left. Then he grows quiet and I realize he’s fallen asleep. I wonder if maybe I should just turn around and head back. I wonder this through the next two songs, and then it seems dumb to turn back now, so I just keep going, heading to the ends of the earth with the Vinyls in the background and Andy Cooper asleep next to me.
The road to Cocoa is 520 and has parts where it becomes a two-lane highway with traffic going past each other in opposite directions fast as hell. The only separation between colliding head on is a bit of luck and a double yellow line. Cars and trucks speed past us and make my car shudder. With each pass, I think of how little it would take for a car to lose control, crash into us, and kill us. And while this scares me, somewhere, in the warpiest part of my brain, I think wouldn’t it be something if Andy and I died together tonight.
When we get to the beach, I shake Andy awake. And when he opens his eyes and sees my face, he grins and says, “We’re here?” and my heart soars with happiness at my decision not to turn back.
There’s a breeze in the air with the damp scent of sand, salt, and seaweed. I breathe in deeply, realizing how long I’ve avoided the beach. But right now, with only the light from the almost half moon and the orange glow of the back lights of the hotels along A1A, it’s perfect. It’s actually nice, and the roar of the ocean is soothing, even though they crash in a violent way.
“I haven’t been here in a long time,” I confess to Andy as we sit down on the sand, not far from the incoming tide.
“I come here all the time.”
“With?”
“By myself, mostly,” he says. Mostly. That’s what sticks with me and I can’t help but wonder, even as I feel I don’t really have a right to wonder, how many other girls Andy has brought to the beach. “At night,” he says. “Like this.” He looks out at the waves and then asks, “So, why don’t you come here?”
I can’t really see Andy’s face. Just his profile, which I’m studying. His question kind of catches me off guard and I blurt out, “Oh, uh, I almost drowned here when I was ten, at this exact beach actually.”
Andy stops making circles in the sand. “Really?”
I nod.
“What was it like?”
“Scary mostly,” I say. “I got caught in a rip current. You know how they tell you to swim along the shoreline and not against the current? Well I didn’t know that at the time. So I just kept trying to swim to shore. It seemed like forever, and I kept swallowing water while the waves kept crashing over me and pulling me out farther and farther.” I look out at the ocean, watching the waves. It’s so deceptive.
“Then this guy comes out from nowhere,” I continue, “and just scoops me up like some kind of giant and he gets me to shore. When I felt the sand under my feet, I just started walking, and then running.” The memory of that day flashes through my mind. “You know, the weird thing is, even now, I can see the brightness of that day. Man . . . it was so bright.” I close my eyes and the sun and the sea and every image from that day flashes behind my eyelids. “And the red swim trunks the guy was wearing. With white lines on the side. I remember all of that, but I don’t remember what he looked like. I think I looked up at him, but his face just looked like a shadow because of the sun. Or maybe I was going to pass out. I don’t know. But anyway, when I start running, he calls out to me, but I just kept running, and I never looked back at him.”
I open my eyes. “Isn’t that weird? That I remember everything, except the actual guy who saved me?” I ask Andy.
“Why’d you run?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I guess I was scared. Or worried I’d get into trouble or something.”
“Did your parents freak out?” he asks.
“Are you kidding? I didn’t tell them. I never told anyone.”
“Nobody?”
I shake my head. “Well, actually, now I’ve told you so . . . just you.”
“That’s kind of cool,” he says. “Well, not that you almost died, I mean . . .”
“I know what you mean.”
“Sorry,” he says, but I laugh.
“I’m just messing with you,” I say.
“Right,” he says and smiles but then he gets serious. “So, did you see your life flash before your eyes?”
I think for a minute. “I don’t think so. I remember thinking about my parents, but I don’t remember seeing the movie of my life or anything. Maybe it’s because I was only ten. Mostly I just remember sheer panic, swallowing so much water, and a weird kind of silence—like someone muted the whole thing. I didn’t hear the waves, or other people, or anything, just this . . . quiet. And how the sun made everything shimmer whenever I came up for air.”
“That’s crazy,” Andy says. “Maybe . . . maybe you didn’t see your life because even though it was a close encounter, it wasn’t the real thing. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
We sit silent for a while and I want to lie down and stare at the sky, but I don’t.
“Drowning must suck,” he says. “Not being able to breathe and all. It must take a while and seem like forever.” He looks at the water for a minute and then goes back to drawing circles in the sand again. “Do you ever wish you knew how you were going to die?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him. “Never. I think it’d kind of suck to know, don’t you? Besides, if everyone knew then everybody would spend their lives avoiding whatever it is that kills them, like the ocean, or cars, or whatever. And then, nobody would ever die when they’re supposed to and we’d become overpopulated and we’d all die of famine or some shit like that”—I say and then look at him but he’s just staring at me—“forget it,” I say.
“No, I totally understand. It’s like, some stuff is just inescapable. The more you try to avoid, the more it comes after you.”
I shrug my shoulders. I’m not sure if what Andy says is what I mean, but it’s getting late so I just say, “I guess. We should probably head back, though.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “But first . . .” He looks out at the ocean, gets up, and starts walking toward the water.
“Where are you going?”
I watch as he starts running, and then throws himself into one of the waves.
Shit.
“You’re fucking crazy!” I yell after him because the water has got to be freezing.
“You’re insane!” I head closer to the water.
“Come on,” he yells. I sort of want to, but I don’t. I just stand there and watch him.
“Just try it!” he yells.
I take off my shoes and walk to the edge. The water laps onto my feet and I suck in my breath at how cold it is. No fucking way am I getting in that water. I look back at Andy and he seems too far away. I want to tell him to come back, but all I can see are his arms as he slices through the water and goes farther out.
“Andy!” I yell, because if a current pulls him out, I wouldn’t know what to do. There’s no one here to help. Just me. And even now, I can hardly see him because of the darkness.
A huge wave comes in, and I totally lose sight of him. I blink several times, trying to make out something.
“Andy!” I repeat. I can feel the tingle of panic turn into a full rush. I yell his name a few more times and stare at the water, waiting for his head to appear somewhere.
The water rushes to the shore. “Andy!” I yell louder this time, but he doesn’t answer. The waves rush in and back out. In and back out. My eyes scan the surface, again and again, and I’m just at the point of panic that makes your heart feel like it’s going to jump out of your throat, when suddenly I think I see him. But I’m not sure.
“Andy!” I call out, and for a stupid, irrational minute, I look around, somehow convinced that I can conjure up the man in the red trunks that saved my life when I was ten. I wonder how long I should wait here. Somewhere, I have already left and am home and haven’t told anyone that I left Andy Cooper in the ocean. Somewhere else, I’m running up and down this beach screaming and yelling that my friend has drowned but nobody hears me. Somewhere else, still, I’m just standing here, staring at the sea. My heart beats faster.
And then I definitely see him, coming out of the water, like he just suddenly appeared there. I’m so relieved I think I could cry, but that quickly turns to anger.
“What the hell!” I say as he walks toward me.
“That was such a rush!” The water drips off of him. “Oh man, that was awesome.”
“Well, thanks for the fucking heart attack,” I say and start trudging through the sand to put on my shoes. I’m pissed, so I half shove them on and then start walking without waiting up for him. “You probably screwed up your tattoo.”
“I don’t know, but it stings like hell,” he says. “Man . . .” I look back and he’s stopped. He’s looking out at the water, and for a second I think he’s going to run out there again.
“Let’s go,” I urge.
“It’s so dark out there, French,” he says. “It’s a weird kind of . . . I don’t know. . . .” He’s still breathing heavy from swimming. I stop. “I mean, I went out there and I held my breath, and I just, you know, let the water pull me wherever and, wow. It was kind of . . . beautiful,” he says.
“Or fucking stupid,” I say. “It’s not like you could’ve drowned or anything. Now, can we go?”
He nods and starts walking again. When we get to the car and start the drive back, he says, “Hey, I really didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, somewhat fine now that I won’t have to explain Andy’s drowning to anyone.
“And I’m sorry I’m getting your car all wet.”
“It’s fine.”
He smiles and says, “You know, I really don’t think it would be too horrible to go out that way. I could’ve stayed out there forever.” He leans over and switches on the music. And I’m about to tell him it’s not like that, not the way he described it at all. But I don’t because the music is too loud and he’s looking out the window. So I keep driving, pressing my foot down on the gas, as I try to get away from the dark, vast, crashing ocean as fast as I can.