Mission Beach

 

 

 

When you’re on the phone with your parents trying to convince them you’re serious about going to college, and a broken lawn chair comes flying out the window of your apartment, it is never a good sign.

“Holy shit!” I yelp, stumbling as the chair settles in the tangle of un-mowed grass. I’ve been balancing on one leg in the front yard in sunglasses, a bikini top, and cut-offs, holding the phone in one hand and fiddling with my ankle bracelet with the other.

“Watch your language!” my mom snaps. She has called me from across town to have a “nice long talk” about college. “And what in God’s name is that noise? I can barely hear you.”

“My fucking roommates,” I say quickly, rubbing my hand on my forehead. The driveway vibrates with the pounding bass of the Beastie Boys blasting at full volume. There is a yell and a splintering crash of breaking glass. I correct myself. “Sorry! I mean, my roommates. They’re really giving me a headache right now.”

“Natalie, you know I hate that neighborhood. And those boys.” My parents haven’t exactly been thrilled with me ever since I moved out last year to get a house by the beach with Russ and T.J. I tried to explain that it was so I’d be closer to work, but they’re convinced that I just wanted to do drugs and have unprotected sex with multiple partners. My mom thinks all I do is party down here. Well, she’s wrong. I’m working my ass off saving up some college money. I got into NYU, but I took the year off.

I plug up my non-phone ear with my finger. “Well, it’s only one more week in this dump.” Next to the driveway, there is a seat taken out of Russ’s van, its upholstery stained and ripped. I flop down on it, and the dust scatters in the sunlight.

“I wish you’d gone to college last year,” says my mother. “I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson. About the kind of life you don’t want to have. Right, honey?” 

“Nata-LIE!” someone bellows from the shadows behind the screen door. The “2” in “112” has fallen off the house again, leaving a pale outline in the paint. Flies buzz around a nasty-looking wet spot on the porch steps.

I roll my eyes. “The apartments in New York are probably just as gross.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says. I rip a hangnail off my finger and watch as the blood wells up. “I meant you want to get a nice job and be a lawyer or work in a museum. See what happened to Russ and T.J.? They didn’t go to college.”

My eyebrows draw together, and I rub my temples. “Mom, they’re my friends.” Suddenly I wonder if anyone’s made margaritas. It’s Friday, after all… Not that we don’t also have margaritas on Sundays or Wednesdays. This is Mission Beach.

“I just hope you don’t change your mind again,” frets my mother, as the static crackles. “You’re lucky you still have that scholarship.” There is a wooden clatter from inside the house. I jump up, squirming my toes into my flip-flop that’s fallen off.

“Mom?” I say, squinting into the late afternoon sun. “I have to go.”

I jab the “End” button on the phone. “All right!” I scream as my sandals slap up the steps, past the broken chair, past the row of ten other bent-legged chairs just like it, and the long card table covered with spilled beer and stacks of colorful plastic cups, and the hundreds of beer bottles lining the sill. “I am going to kill whoever’s throwing shit in there! Especially if it’s my shit!”

            A spicy smell greets me, the smell of Worcestershire and pepper. Steam pours upward from the tangle of onions frying on the stovetop. My housemate T.J. is at the kitchen counter slathering thick brown sauce on a heaping plateful of raw chicken wings. He’s drinking a beer, wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. “That smells good,” I say, coming up behind him and dropping the phone on the cluttered kitchen table. I open the fridge and grab a beer.

            “It’s dinner. Gonna go barbeque this shit up.” T.J. is a skinny kid with curly blond hair. I’ve known him since we were five. He raises his voice, poking the onions with a fork. “Yo, Russ! The lighter fluid still outside?”

Russ is my other housemate. He has huge arms, wears tight T-shirts, and bartends four nights a week at this place down the boardwalk. He looks scary, but he’s like this big teddy bear. I love the kid to death. “Hey, sweetie,” he says to me. He’s slouched in the armchair in the living room, watching Animal Planet. It’s one of his and T.J.’s favorite channels. Russ has a really good head for trivia and watches a lot of educational TV, but I think T.J. just likes to see the animals get it on.

            “Hi darlin’,” I greet him. “What’s up?”

“Spence called for you,” he says.

Spencer is this guy I’m trying not to date. He’s one of those summer kids whose parents have a house on the other side of the bay. He drives a Land Rover; I drive my grandmother’s old Taurus wagon. It could never work out, right?

            “What did he say?” I ask, twisting the cap off my beer and turning down the stereo. It’s just curiosity, really. There’s no way I’ll ever let something happen between Spencer and me. He’s the kind of guy I might start to really like.

            “Don’t know. I wasn’t here. Mike answered the phone.”

Mike’s on summer break from some Ivy League school, and he and his hockey shit have apparently moved into our living room. He’s Russ’s cousin from Massachusetts but he’s been coming down here every summer for God knows how many years.

            “Well, where’s Mike?”

            Russ grins at me, then hauls himself to his feet. “Mikey!” he bellows, reaching over and turning the stereo back up. I follow him into the back hallway, where four or five guys are gathered around the Beirut table. The remnants of another broken chair and the amber shards of an empty beer bottle lie scattered across the floor.

“What up, bro?” says Mike. He’s standing against the wall draining the last of the beer from a red plastic cup. He springs into action, putting Russ in a headlock and rubbing the fuzzy top of his head. Mike and Russ shaved all their hair off last week because they think it looks cool. I try not to acknowledge them in public.

            “Are you the one who threw the goddamn chair?” I demand, as Mike releases Russ, who punches him in the stomach. They both grin. They’re too adorable to kill. I shake my head instead. “What did Spencer say when he called?”

            “Yeah, Spence called. At like four.” Mike drapes an arm over Russ’s shoulders, and yells to one of the other guys, “Hey, listen, we got next game.”

            “No, we have next,” another kid says.

            “I know he called.” I take a gulp of my beer and grab the sleeve of Mike’s T-shirt. “What did he say?”

            “Oh… um, he says he’s not coming over ‘cause he’s out to dinner with his parents or something. But he’ll be over tomorrow.”

A phone call from the illustrious and elusive J. Spencer Dunham III. To call back or not to call back: that is the question. I wander into my bedroom, sipping my beer, and drop down onto the white crocheted bedspread. Sunset streaks through the open window, lighting up my dresser and bookshelf. I have a lot of books. I’m going to be an English major.

“Yo Mike,” T.J.’s voice floats through the screen door. “Call up Danny.” Danny is T.J.’s little brother. He’s 16. They always call him and make him bring high school girls over. I think it’s dirty, and they never listen to me when I tell them so. They’re like, “Natalie, lighten up. Stop being a girl.” I think sometimes they forget I am a girl.

“Natalie!” Mike bellows from the other room. “Get your ass out here! I need a Beirut partner!” I stare at the wallpaper, reviewing my options. I could start packing. I could call Spencer back. I could read for a bit. In other words, I could be productive. But hey, we’re not too big on productivity around here. This is what I figure: It’s my last week in Mission Beach, my last week without homework, my last week with my friends. So why not party?

            We drink till things get cloudy, then T.J. goes out to the porch roof to piss over the side because the 16-year-old girls are puking in the bathroom, and Mike and I get the brilliant idea to lock him out there, only instead of banging on the window, T.J. tries to climb down that broken drainpipe and ends up falling in a bush. “Fuck you!” he’s screaming. “Fuck you!” Of course, the neighbors get pissed and call the cops, who roll up with the red lights flashing and threaten to arrest him for disturbing the peace.

            “Fuck you,” says T.J. sullenly, trying to wipe blood off a scrape on his leg. “I just fell off the fucking roof.”

            The cop tells him, “Young man, if you don’t watch your smart mouth, I’m going to have to drag all y’all down to the station for underage drinking.”

            Meanwhile Mike and I are crouched in the doorway trying not to crack up, but these wheezing sounds keep escaping. I steady myself against the wall as the room spins in reckless loops around me. “Holy shit,” Mike whispers over and over, slumping to the floor and shaking with silent laughter.

            Finally Russ pulls his ID and takes care of it, as usual. He’s really good at pretending to be sober. He has to be; he works at a bar. Besides, it turns out he knows one of the cops.

            As the police pull away, I skip down the porch steps and give him a dizzy bear hug. He lifts me off the ground so my feet dangle in the air. “You’re just lucky you have friends as cool as me,” he says.

            “You pieces of shit,” says T.J., kicking the plaid couch in the yard. Russ cracks a smile, then starts to chuckle. Mike and I join in, and suddenly we’re all laughing, sprawled on the lawn with the tall grass tickling our backs.

            It’s a love/hate relationship, me and the boys. But mostly love.

             

I

            It’s Saturday, so I throw on shorts and one of T.J.’s button-downs over my bikini, shove my feet into flip-flops, grab my book and towel, and I’m off. Dock Street is quiet as I amble down the sidewalk, but I can hear the buzz of noise from main drag. I look from the shabby faces of the apartments, where the paint peels and the siding sags, to the drooping tree branches that overhang the cracked sidewalk. The glare is killing my eyes, even through my sunglasses. Quivering black specks float across my vision, and I rub my temples. It’s a humid day, and the thick air clings to my sticky skin as I walk. It’s a day for laziness, a day for barbecues. A day to just sit out on the steps and scratch the mosquito bite on your ankle and watch the world go by.

            Our street dead ends sort of near the boardwalk, so you have to cut through these people’s yard to get there. There’s a sandy path that runs along the edge of the yard under the trees. It comes out behind the fried clam shack. I stop to shuffle my feet and kick some sand out of my sandal. I turn the corner and there are the stairs.

Ahhh, the boardwalk. I used to think this was the coolest place in the world when I was little, and I still sometimes get a thrill. The smell of popcorn and fried dough hangs in the air. The sky is a hazy blue, dotted with planes trailing white exhaust. One flies back and forth along the beach dragging a sign that reads: “CAP’N’S GRILL: THE BEST SEAFOOD AROUND 328-5477.” Seagulls chatter and swoop above the trash cans that line the street. I can just see the top of the ferris wheel and the blue slides of the water park. I walk around the edge of the junk-littered sand dune and climb the faded wooden steps to the boardwalk. Here I can finally see the water, light blue-green and speckled with sand and foam. It stretches to the hazy horizon, where it blends with the sky. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the smell of salt and rotting seaweed and suntan lotion fill my lungs. Crossing the boardwalk, I step lightly down the stairs on the other side.

The hot sinking sand tugs at my feet as I stand on the beach, scanning the crowd. Behind me, in the shade of the boardwalk, little half clothed kids run and wrestle. “Under the Boardwalk”… you know that oldie? Yeah well, I’ve made out under the boardwalk and let me tell you, it is just gross under there, all green slime and tiny crabs. Never trust anything you hear in a song.

            Russ, Mike, Spencer, and a couple other guys are playing beach volleyball in the usual spot. I set up my towel nearby and flop onto my stomach to work on my back tan. After half an hour, a shadow falls across the pages of my book. “Hey, Natalie.” It’s Spencer, I can tell without looking.

I react slowly, lazily. I replace the cap on my highlighter and close my book. Lowering my sunglasses, I toss my hair back and ask, “What do you want?”

It’s not Spencer’s fault, really. I’m just not a trusting person. Let me tell you about my boyfriends. First there was Rich. He moved to Florida and promised he’d write, but I never heard from him again. Then there was Nick the Prick, who cheated on me with my best friend, Stacey. I threw his precious Orioles shirt in a dumpster, then scratched all of his CDs for good measure. Stace dropped out of school senior year and I don’t see her much anymore. She’s a two-faced bitch, but sometimes I miss her. It gets lonely living with just the guys.

            Spencer pulls his T-shirt off, and I settle my sunglasses back into place so he can’t see me looking. He has an athlete’s body, all lean and tan with freckles on the shoulders. Blue eyes. He is adorable and a half. “Yeah Spence!” hoots one of the guys. Probably T.J., and I am going to kill him.

            “I just thought I’d come over and say hi,” he says, looking at the sand kind of shyly. I wish he wouldn’t do that. Turning him down would be so much easier if he wasn’t so damn cute. I trace a circle in the sand, then glance up at the words on the T-shirt in his hand: “Bates Lacrosse.” Figures he’d play a preppy sport. “Whatcha reading?” he inquires, inclining his head toward my book.

I hate when people ask me what I’m reading. Like they’ve heard of it anyway. The only replies I ever get are vague grunts, so let’s dispense with the politeness and let me read in peace. But it’s Spencer, so I mutter, “Portrait of a Lady.” Russ is making obscene gestures from the volleyball net that I can see, but luckily, Spencer can’t.

            “Oh, Henry James,” he says. “Nice. I read that in English.”

            A smile rises to my lips without my permission. This kid may just be the world’s perfect guy, but I’m leaving in a week. We’ve never even kissed. And now I’m not sure I’d let him. T.J. is watching us, with his fingers in circles around his eyes like binoculars. I stick out my tongue.

“Fucker,” I mutter under my breath, tossing my book aside.

“What?” says Spencer.

“Nothing!” I smile sweetly at him. He closes his eyes and stretches out on the sand next to me. I lazily kick my legs back and forth. It’s the perfect Saturday afternoon. I could do this for the rest of my life.

I

“We need some more girls over here,” Mike says. We’re drinking margaritas in the back hallway, waiting for Russ to get back from the beer run.

“Word,” says Spencer. I ignore him, and go off in search of a spoon to stir my drink, my flip-flops getting hung up on random spots of stickiness on the linoleum floor. He’s just trying to be ghetto, when everyone knows he grew up in an eight-bedroom house and wears Polo everything. And more importantly, what does he need girls for? I’m here, aren’t I? Asshole. I suddenly wish I’d returned more of his phone calls.

            Today Mike’s hockey bag is in the kitchen. Well, more accurately, it’s in the hallway, obstructing the door to the kitchen. I swear, it moves every day. I keep telling him to put that shit out on the porch because it stinks up the house, but he won’t. What, am I the only person who cares about cleanliness around here?

            When I return to the rest of the guys, Spencer’s missing. He’s not in the bathroom, because the door’s open, and he’s not in the back hallway either. “Hey Mike, have you seen Spence?” I ask, pausing by the Beirut table. “He didn’t leave, did he?”

“Natalie. Don’t interrupt me,” Mike goes, enunciating slowly like he’s trying to say something profound. “I’m playing Beirut.”

On the way out I fall over Mike’s hockey shit. “Could you please pick up your stuff once in a while? Or is that too much to ask?” I yell, standing and brushing off my knees.

            “Whoa-ho!” T.J. yells. “Who brought the drunk girl?” Everyone laughs.

            “Who brought you?” I mutter.

            “Natalie, lighten up. It’s Saturday,” Russ says, squinting one eye before sinking the ping pong ball into the front cup.

            “One more week, just one more fucking week,” I whisper to myself as I climb the stairs. It’s like my mantra. I start to walk past the open porch window, but I freeze, catching sight of a dark figure out on the roof, outlined like a ghost by the dim moonlight. It’s Spencer. I clamber through the window and sit down next to him. He looks at me but neither of us speaks. A mosquito whines in my ear, and I slap it away. From up here you can see everything: the names of the hotels lit up in neon, the ferris wheel on the boardwalk and its colored lights. Over the glowing expanse of light and noise that is Mission Beach, a dusting of stars is faintly visible in the sky. I gaze out over the rooftops, and it’s funny, but I feel strangely proud that this is my town.

“Sometimes when I look at the stars like this, I think there might be a God,” Spencer says after a while, the lit orange tip of his cigarette moving in the dark. OK, that is not the kind of thing you say to the daughter of a lapsed Catholic dad and a Jewish mom, who’s never been to church or temple or whatever in her whole life. But it’s sweet, so I’ll let it go. There is something kind of infinite about the sky on a night like this. I wonder how Spencer feels about the view. I mean, it’s pretty, but I think it’s a hell of a lot prettier when you know it’s home.

“Mmm…” I say, pretending to stretch my arm and moving it an inch or two closer to his in the process. You can practically see the sexual tension hanging in the damp air between us. He slides his arm closer to me. It’s like a game: who’s going to touch the other person’s hand first? I reach over and seize his hand, pulling him across the roof toward the window. I like to win.

We drop together onto the couch underneath the window. I pull him on top of me. Where it touches, our skin sticks together in the humidity. Sweat on sweat. His hand slides under my tank top. I close my eyes on the blinking ferris wheel and the trembling trees and the vast purple sky. My sunburned chest throbs. Half a block away, the ocean waves crash faintly. I can almost feel the water around me, rolling me with its rhythm, holding me up. That happens to me: I’ll be lying in bed with my eyes shut and somehow I can still feel the ocean. Even if it’s been hours since I went swimming. I wonder if I’ll still feel it in New York.

I hope so. My little residual piece of sea.

Spencer’s tongue is making circles on my stomach. I’m melting into the couch. I can hear yelling and a crunching crash from downstairs, but for once I don’t pause to wonder what’s been broken. The alcohol buzzes warmly in the back of my head, as I twirl my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. “Natalie,” he whispers, “God, I want you so bad.”

“Badly,” I want to correct him, but I don’t. It’s weird that he’s the one guy I can’t be a bitch to. He’s everything I’m not… rich, classy, nice… He’s everything you never find in Mission Beach, that’s for damn sure.

When I wake up in the dim light that filters through the half-closed blinds, there’s a blanket covering me, but Spencer is gone. I stumble downstairs, stopping in the living room to shut off the light and smile at the guys, who are sprawled across the couches. There is a note in the middle of my bed, written in pen on a napkin: “Natalie—Thanks for the great night. I hope you know I respect you a lot and I think you’re a beautiful person. I’ll catch up with you at the store on Monday. Spence.”

I shake my head and smile. I mean, honestly. Who does that?

I

            On Monday when my alarm goes off, I smack the Snooze button, press my forehead into my pillow, and think, “This is the last Monday I will ever have to get up and work at the bookstore.”

“Hey,” Mike grunts as I walk into the kitchen. He goes to the rink to skate at 8 A.M. We drink coffee together every morning because we’re the only ones who get up before noon. Neither of us is a morning person, so we don’t say much, just drink coffee. I always eat donuts and Frosted Flakes too, but Mike won’t touch that stuff because he says he’s a student athlete and he’s watching what he eats. Student athlete, my ass. I’ve seen that kid devour an entire pizza.

            I work at Boardwalk Booksellers, which is a bullshit name because we’re not really on the boardwalk. We’re on Wade Street, about a block away. Business is good here, but not as good as at, say, the T-shirt shops or the junk food vendors. I end up reading a lot. I’m still in the middle of Portrait of a Lady. Since I’m taking a year off from school, I promised myself I would only read classics. But today I can’t concentrate on the book. I’m fiddling with pennies in the change cup and folding sales fliers into mini origami cranes. I destroy three fliers that way.

            At around 11:00, Spencer strolls up to the counter. My heart leaps recklessly. I realize I’ve been waiting for him. “What’s up, sexy?” I say. I think I see his cheeks turn a shade redder, but it’s hard to tell because he’s sunburned.

            “I brought you something,” he says, spinning a red rose between his fingers before presenting it to me. I eye it for a moment, then carefully take it by the stem like some strange prickly creature I don’t quite trust.

            “Can I see you tonight?” he asks. I pick up some pennies, click them together, and toss them back into the cup. God, why couldn’t this have happened two months ago?

            My boss is giving me the raised-eyebrows look from behind the bestsellers rack. “Are you interested in fiction?” I ask Spencer with my best professional smile. “I can recommend a couple of books that recently came out in paperback.”

I

            That night we bring a few beers down to the beach and sit at a picnic table in the shadow of the boardwalk. I stare at the place where the waves break, the place where the water churns white in the hazy evening darkness. I wish I didn’t have to leave the ocean. “Do you like college?” I ask Spencer.

            “Yeah. It’s all right, I guess.” He sounds surprised, as if no one’s ever asked him the question before.

            “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

            “Don’t get me wrong, it’s fun and everything, but… I don’t know. It’s just four more years of school. It gets to be a drag.” He sips his beer and stares at the water.

            “Why’d you go if you didn’t want to?”

            He stares at me like I’m crazy. “Everyone goes to college. I couldn’t just… not go. My parents would disown me or something.”

            “Oh,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. My hand suddenly feels awkward in his. “Well, I’m getting the hell out of here,” I go on. “One week left in this stupid tacky town.”

This is when Spencer jumps in, and his words come out in a rush. “That’s the thing about you, Natalie,” he says. “You’re a sweet person, and you deserve a lot of good things. Look, I think it’s great that you’re all excited about school. But you’re so obsessed with getting out of here that you can’t even see how great this really is.”

            I’m stunned. Hello? Great? What is he talking about? I can feel my lips hanging open, as I gaze blankly at a blinking ship light in the darkness on the horizon. And then this wave of indignation hits me, and I exclaim, only sputtering a little bit, “How-- How can you say that to me? You’re just this fucking rich summer kid who has no idea how people’s lives really are here. No fucking idea.” I jerk my hand away and turn to face him. The hollow clunk as I set my beer down hard is like an exclamation point.

            “Ok, well, let me put it this way. Do you think anyone in New York is going to… to look after you the way these guys do? It’s the city. I’ve been there. People don’t give a shit. You’re anonymous in the city.”

            “I don’t need looking after!”

            “Natalie,” he pleads, “I didn’t mean that.”

            I just stare at him, my mouth drying up. “You know, of all people, I thought you would understand,” I whisper.

            “Understand what? You won’t know anyone in New York. Do you know how huge the city is? We’re talking millions of people.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because… People like you frustrate me. People who don’t know what they’ve got until they lose it. Do you know how fucking lucky you are, living on a beach? Living down here on your own without your parents breathing down your neck? Some people don’t have that luxury!”

“Don’t talk to me about luxury. I live in a shithole apartment with three roommates. You have three houses. It’s people like you that frustrate me,” I say, my voice feeling distant and cold. I rub my temples.  I feel this sharp pang deep in my stomach, and I am suddenly lonely for Russ and T.J. and Mike. “I’m sick of this conversation,” I say. “I’m going home.”

I

For some bizarre reason, Tuesday afternoon is hell at work. Not only is it hell, but it’s over 100 degrees outside. Dozens of sunburned beach-bagged customers are milling around, poking their grubby fingers at all the displays. I catch myself glancing wildly across the crowded store whenever the bell over the door jingles. “God, don’t be that girl,” I mutter, fanning myself with a flier. I want to kick myself, for knowing this would turn out badly and doing it anyway. I crumple the paper in my fist and fling it away.

I’m pushing the hair out of my sweat-dotted face while trying to keep my grip on a huge stack of hardcovers that I’m carrying out to the rack, when the bell at the counter rings. I spin around to help the next customer, and get the shock of the week. It’s Stace, my ex-best friend. “Hi Natalie,” she says, almost apologetically.

I drop the stack of books onto a cardboard box. “Hey!” I greet her, taking her book and glancing at it as I scan the price: a cookbook with a smiling former-Miss-America type on the cover.

As she rummages in her purse for change I study her openly. She’s gained weight, around the face. Her hair is a shade too blonde, her nails too long, and her tan too orange. “I heard you’re going to college,” she says. The bell rings. It’s not Spencer. I return my attention to Stacey.

“Yeah, next week,” I reply. I want to ask her if she’s still with Nick, just to be a bitch, but I restrain myself. I know she is. He got arrested last week for assault. Bar fight down at O’Malley’s. She probably pays his rent and his bail. My boss is staring furtively at me from behind a cardboard cutout of Hillary Clinton in the non-fiction section. I can see the sweat on his receding hairline. I love how he doesn’t mind when I read for three hours straight and don’t do shit, but as soon as I start talking to an actual person he gets all suspicious. I don’t blame him, I guess. There’s a line of five people behind Stacey.

“I might be taking a few classes this fall,” she offers, chewing her gum to fill the empty spaces between her words. “If I make enough at the hotel.”

 As Stace hands me some crunched-up bills and a few quarters, I get this weird feeling, like we’re on different continents. I give her three pennies back and say in a bright voice, “Good luck.”

I

I have never seen anything as disgusting as this house. There are seven or eight pizza boxes and three cases of empties stacked just inside the front door. I mean, isn’t there a closet we could throw this stuff in at least, so I wouldn’t have to trip over it every day of my life? Or maybe someone could just take out the trash. What a foreign concept.

            I drop the groceries on the counter and toss my car keys onto the table. The house reeks of stale beer, rot, and sweat. “Sweet Home Alabama” is blasting from the speakers. I find Russ and Mike on the living room floor, playing Nintendo 64 in boxers and Hawaiian shirts. They definitely don’t look like they’ve moved in the last few hours. “God, does someone want to open a window in here?”

            “What’s up, Natalie?” Russ says without looking at me. He squints, then jams down all the buttons. “Dude, fuck you! You just killed me, you fucking bastard!”

I roll my eyes. “How old are we?” I ask, my sandal clinging to a sticky spot on the linoleum.

            “22,” Mike says, his eyes pinned to the TV screen. The sarcasm goes right over his head. Yeah, he’s not exactly the quickest kid ever. The Ivy League must really be going downhill.

            When I get back to my room, I discover that The Black Bag has migrated again. This time it’s blocking my doorway. The salty smell of sweat overpowers the hallway. “MIKE!” I bellow in rage.

            “Yo!” he calls faintly back.

            “I would appreciate it if you would get your SHIT out of my ROOM! In case anyone hasn’t noticed, it is fucking 100 degrees outside and I have had a very shitty day!” I fling my purse on the bed. “What the fuck?” I scream, kicking the bag. “Who plays hockey in August?” 

This is it. This is the last straw. I make a big show of dragging a huge cardboard box down the hall to my room, and start pulling things off the shelves and throwing them in. I pick up Webster’s Dictionary in one hand and a pink stuffed cat in the other. Russ and Mike just sit there and play video games. I want to scream, or fall over foaming at the mouth, or something. Do they even notice I’m pissed off? Do they even care? I’m getting out of this town, I swear. I’m going to New York, where people do things.

I

My official going-away party is Friday night, because that’s when Russ is working and he lets us all drink for free. Spencer still hasn’t called, and I’m not exactly in the mood to be social, but I throw on a nice tank top and a black skirt and little strappy sandals and go out anyway. I mean, the boys are taking me out and actually paying for things. It’s a rare occasion. Sunburned vacationers crowd around us at the bar, pushing and yelling and shooting pool. “Hey, sweetheart,” the guy next to me says, his hand brushing my back and drifting down. I can’t believe this: I don’t even know the guy’s name and he’s grabbing my ass. Totally gross.  

“Hey, buddy,” says Mike, pushing back his stool and setting his beer on the bar, “Stop touching my girlfriend.” The sleazeball glances from him to me, then back again. His hand slides off my ass. I grab my drink and shift my stool a couple of inches toward Mike and the guys.  “Or we can take this outside if you want,” Mike goes, leaning in to kiss my neck but keeping his eyes on the guy. I’m trying not to crack a grin. The guy bolts, muttering something apologetic over his shoulder.

            “How much do I love you right now?” I turn to Mike. “But seriously, if you ever kiss me again I will kick your ass.”

            Everyone laughs. At me, of course. Mike is 6’3”, 220 and benches more than I weigh. No one’s going to kick his ass.

            “OK everyone,” Russ yells, sloshing tequila into a row of shot glasses. “To Natalie, ‘cause she’s going to college!” Everyone cheers. I make a face as the liquor burns my mouth and traces a fiery trail down my throat.

            “I can’t believe you’re going to fucking New York,” T.J. says. “You hate the cold. D’you know how cold it is there? I bet you come running home in a month and a half.” He makes his voice into a high squeaky parody of mine. “‘Oh my God! Get me to the beach!’” 

            I laugh along with the rest of them and take a drink, but my beer somehow tastes sour. He’s got it wrong, just like Spencer. I don’t want this! I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a bar where the only good songs on the jukebox are “Glory Days” and “Margaritaville.” There’s got to be something else out there. I set my bottle back down on the bar and smile weakly to myself. New York, New York. That’s where I’m going. But it is not a forceful thought. The bar is dark and familiar, the night wind off the sea sweeps through the open door. And there is something else out there: a vast and sparkling city world of rich careless people like Spencer who will never understand. New York is dizzyingly huge, and I will only be little Natalie from Mission Beach. 

            I will be nobody.

I

When we get home I climb out onto the porch roof and sit quietly, arms wrapped around my legs, bare toes curled against the scratchy green shingles. The sky is dark blue, and a slight breeze stirs the branches of the trees in the neighbors’ yard. I can hear music coming from a house down the street. If it was daylight, I could see the ocean from here, but in the night it just looks like part of the sky. I feel almost like part of the sky myself up here. The colored lights blink, as the ferris wheel spins. I can’t recreate the feel of Spencer’s hand on mine.

I bite my lip, a tear spilling onto my cheek. Spencer’s a smart kid. Maybe he’s right. I should just stay here, I could get a better job this winter, and the house is cheap… The salty wind picks up, and it suddenly feels a lot colder as I watch the headlights wind through the street below me. What scares me and causes the tears to stream openly now is this: At least I know who I am in Mission Beach. Who will I be somewhere else?

I hear the soft rush of car tires on pavement. The car shuts off and the headlights flash out. I peer over the edge of the roof. The streetlight on the corner is out, so I crawl closer, the shingles scratching my knees. The figure in the driveway has blond hair. My heart lifts with something like hope. Hastily scrubbing the tears from my cheeks, I hiss, “Spencer!”

He looks to either side, hands in pockets.

“Up here!”

He stumbles a little, then squints up at me. “Natalie? You scared the shit out of me.”

I swallow, smoothing my hair and wiping the mascara smudges from under my eyes. He is watching me. “Hey,” he calls softly, “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” I say, as if hearing my own voice say it out loud will make it true. “I think I am. Hold on, I’m coming down.”

            Before I even get across the living room, he’s already through the screen door and his arms are around my waist and he’s kissing me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, when we finally let go of each other. I’m loving the drama of the moment. It’s like the final scene of an old black-and-white movie.

            “No, I’m sorry,” he whispers back. I run my fingers down his arm until I find his hand, then I grip his wrist and lead him through the dark hallway.

            “You hate me now, don’t you?” I whisper after we’ve been lying silently in my bed for a long time, me half on top of him. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have said those things. I know what you meant, I didn’t have to take it that way. The way I did.”

            “I don’t hate you,” he says. I shiver at the feel of his fingers in my hair. “I did for like two days, but don’t worry. I’m over it.” He pauses. “Look, I didn’t mean you shouldn’t go to New York. It’s what you want. You need to go. I just meant… I don’t know what I meant.”

“I think I do,” I say.

“Can I call you at school?” he asks, squeezing my back with his arm.

            I try to joke around. “You better, hot stuff!” It falls flat and we are left staring at each other. Light rises and falls around us as a car softly passes on the street.

            “I’d better get home,” he says after a while. “If I’m not there when my parents wake up I’ll be in deep shit.”

            He gives me a kiss before he leaves. His sandals scuff toward the door, the screen creaks. I hear the car engine start up, watch the streaks of illumination from the headlights move across my wall as Spencer backs out of the driveway. The light falls away. There is an ache in the back of my throat. How am I supposed to fucking sleep now? I throw off the quilt and stretch my legs into a V. The sweat oozes from my body. I roll to one side of the bed and stand up.

            The house is dark except for the bathroom light that we always leave on. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. As I’m leaning against the counter letting the cool sips rest in my mouth before swallowing, I can just barely see the outline of Mike’s body under a blanket on the living room couch. T.J. is passed out on the rug next to the coffee table, and Russ is in the armchair with his head falling to one side. The flickering blue glow of the muted TV casts strange shadows in the room. I put my empty glass in the sink and tiptoe over to the coffee table. Smiling down at T.J., I pick up the remote and flip off the TV. 

            And it suddenly hits me that I know these guys. Well, it’s Russ and T.J. and Mike, for God’s sake. Everyone knows these guys. But I mean they’re my friends. I live with them. Russ is this big tough bartender, but how many people know that he cried when his girlfriend broke up with him? I do, because I was there. He’s like the big brother; he’d do anything for any of us. And then there’s T.J. Sure, he hooks up with a lot of girls and he acts like he’s about 12, but he’s the one who stops by work and brings me saltwater taffy from the candy store on the boardwalk. And Mike, well, he’s just the perpetual houseguest but even he’s got his moments. I’m going to miss these guys.

I

The sweat runs down between my breasts as I shove pile after pile of stuff into cardboard boxes. It’s so hot I’m wearing shorts and my bikini top, bare feet and a ponytail.

Russ, sitting cross-legged on the couch, watches me pack. “Did you know the Indians sold Manhattan to the Dutch for $24, back in the 1600’s?” he says. I don’t know where he gets stuff like that, I really don’t.

            Mike and The Black Bag are moving into my room when I leave. He’s still got a week before he has to go back to school. “No more sex couch for me,” he says. That’s what we call the orange plaid couch in the living room he usually sleeps on.

            “So, what? Are you going to have sex in my bed now? Gross.” I fold a sweater and place it carefully in my suitcase.

            He laughs. “You know T.J. got more action on that couch than I ever did.”

            I grin, bending over to pick up another stack of T-shirts. “I know. While you were in the room!” I hate how we’re talking in the past tense. All the bravado of packing drops away. I drop the T-shirts in the box and slump against the wall. “I don’t want to leave,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

            Russ slides his sweaty arm around my shoulder. “Yes you do.” He shrugs and pushes at one of my boxes with the toe of his sneaker. “Sometimes I wish I’d left.”

            I look sideways at him, but he’s staring at the beer in his hand. And that’s when I know that I have to go. I realize I have known all along.

I know when I have to do it. 10 A.M., while the sun is climbing to its peak over the golden bodies on the beach, while the car horns are blaring and the bass is pumping out on the main drag, while Russ and T.J. are still asleep and Mike’s still at the rink. I put on my lipstick and my sunglasses, slide my feet into flip-flops. I leave the rent money under the saltshaker on the kitchen table, next to the half-burnt candles and mostly empty beer cans. I wonder how Russ and T.J. are going to manage without me. They don’t even know how to clean a toilet, for God’s sake. I bite my lip and try to imagine away the ache, but it’s an ache so big it fills up my whole chest. Why am I leaving?

But I know why.

            I drive past the pink stucco buildings, past the rows of signs with their fluorescent colors. I drive past strings of parked cars lining the street by the beach, sunlight glinting off their windshields. I drive past the grandmothers with tote bags and big rhinestone sunglasses. I drive past the groups of teenage boys lounging on the street corners, trying to be tough with their shirts off and the tips of their hair dyed blond.

            “Goodbye, Mission Beach,” I mutter, slamming down the brakes as some goddamn tourist tries to back out without checking the rearview. “I’m getting the fuck out of here.” But the words don’t have the ring they used to.

I go into CVS to buy the September issue of Cosmo. I go to the Hollywood Salon on Seaside Ave and get four inches chopped off my hair. I examine my reflection in the mirror and tell myself I look very sophisticated, very New York. My last stop is the bank to cash my paycheck.

            I pull the check from the back pocket of my shorts and smooth it out on the counter. Natalie O’Leary, I sign, the letters round and neat. The teller hands me $412.75. “Thank you,” I say, and put my sunglasses back on.

            This is it. I figure, if I don’t do it now I’ll never do it. But somehow I’m frozen, and I’ve got this strange feeling, like the moment I step out of this bank and into the car, I will be a different person. I draw in a deep breath and pause, my hands on the door. I think of Russ and T.J. and Mike. I think of Spencer. I think of all the kids I went to high school with, the kids who never got out of here. I push through the revolving doors, my body numb but my heart racing.

            I see them now. I imagine their faces, straighten my back and tighten my smile as I imagine them lined up along the street watching.

It happens like this: At 2:25 on a Tuesday afternoon a girl walks out of the Mission Beach Community Bank. A girl who no one’s ever seen before. She walks like she’s got $412.75 in her pocket. She walks like she knows where she’s going.

The afternoon sun warms my face and bakes the sidewalk. I tilt my head up and inhale the ocean breeze.

I’m getting out of this town.