PEACE

(Peak Wilderness, Day Eleven, Continued)

The moon is out (again) when we stagger into the campsite. It isn’t quite dark, but it certainly will be by the time dinner is being made.

I don’t wait for anyone to give me a job to do. I don’t even worry about getting the tent up. I set my backpack on a rock near the shore, take my boots and socks off, dig out my bar of soap, and walk into the water fully clothed.

Most of the group follows suit, with the exception of Peace, who strips down first, and runs back and forth in the sand, giving the rest of us a prolonged (should we desire) view of his genitals bouncing in the glowing pink last light of day.

At least he’s going to bathe.

It’s a long beach, and we each find our own spaces in the water to shimmy out of our clothing and try to rub the mud off. Once my pants, shirt, and socks are done, I dash out of the water in my underwear and bra (another thing my mom would freak over, but how can I even care?). I wring the clean-ish clothes out and put them on the rock next to my pack, then go back into the water.

It’s cold—really cold—but I want desperately to be alone, and the cold feels so good on my sore feet, on the hundreds of bug bites, on my sore muscles. I kick back and forth in a futile effort to warm up, then pull my bra and panties off, looping them over one arm so I don’t lose them before I can get them washed.

Before long it’s just me, my dwindling bar of soap, the reflection of the rising moon left in the water, and my miserable, angry heart beating against the cold.

I am too tired to cry.

I am so tired of everything, about everything, that I can imagine allowing the cold to take over, letting myself sink under the surface, and staying there, releasing my hold on the world and everything in it. I’m so tired, I’m not even shocked by the thought.

Then I hear splashing and turn to see Peace coming back into the lake.

I sink farther down into the water, hoping he somehow doesn’t know I’m here, and/or will get the hint that I don’t want company.

But no.

He comes right over to me.

And there I am, horribly aware, suddenly, that I am naked under the water, and not too tired to care about that.

“Hey, fearless leader,” he says, giving me a splash.

“Hey, Bob,” I say, with a deliberate lack of enthusiasm.

“Peace.”

“Right. Um, no, thanks.”

“No thanks for what?”

Another splash.

“For the splashing game invitation.”

“What’s the matter, afraid to drop your soap?” he says, with a yucky waggle of his eyebrows.

“I’m just trying to enjoy the peace, Peace.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Alone, if you don’t mind.” I drift sideways.

He follows. “Free country.”

“What, are you five?”

“Hey, hey, it’s all love, baby. All love.”

“Riiiight.”

“You don’t like me,” he says.

“I don’t know you,” I reply. I’ve hunched as far down in the water as I can, and now I have to step backward into deeper water to keep him out of my space.

“But you don’t like me. Admit it.”

“Why do you care if I like you?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“I just want you to admit it.”

“Look, sometimes people don’t hit it off. It’s normal.” I inch backward again.

He follows again, towering over me now—his height and the fact that he doesn’t care that he’s naked and I do care that I am are both to his advantage. Because clearly he knows, and knows I know he knows, and he’s enjoying my extreme discomfort.

Since backing away isn’t working, I plant my feet on the lake bottom and cross my arms over my chest.

“I think, Peace, we should just agree to disagree.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“Everything.”

“I dunno . . . Maybe we should talk about it.” His hands come down on my shoulders, and he starts massaging. “Maybe I can help. You seem very tense around me.”

“I don’t need your help. And I don’t want a massage. Take your hands off me.”

“Come on,” he says, hands gripping me harder, and bending down into the water so we’re face-to-face. “I think I know what this is about. It’s tension.”

“Let go of me,” I say in a more assertive voice.

He pulls me closer.

“Sexual tension.”

“Eww.”

“I knew it.”

“Let. Go. Of. Me. Now.”

I struggle backward, but suddenly there’s no sand under my feet.

He still has me, and he’s stronger than I am, stronger than I expected. And he’s managed to get me in a position where he can still touch the bottom and I can’t.

“I know how to take care of that kind of tension,” he continues, putrid breath in my face. “We’re far enough out we could take care of it right here, right now.”

I start kicking hard—not at him, but to get away.

But he just laughs and yanks me right up against him so I can experience his disgusting hairiness and be revolted by his erection.

“I don’t think so,” I snarl, but I’m scared. And worse, I can see by the satisfaction flaring in the depths of his eyes that he likes it.

Now I kick him, but it’s hard to kick underwater and have any effect, and it lands with a whimper.

He grins like a maniac and dunks me, holding me underwater for a few long, terrifying moments, as I try not to panic, not to waste energy struggling, and it becomes very clear to me that this is not how I want to die.

Peace yanks me back up and, while I’m sputtering and gasping, makes a grab for my butt.

“I could fuck you and drown you at the same time,” he says. “That would solve all my problems.”