Eventually the road opened up to the beach parking lot, and we crossed to the sands, the water beyond dark and endless. The moon hung low in the sky, half-full and butter yellow. We kicked off our sandals, and tiny grains of sand scraped at my feet. Jane led us past clusters of people until we reached a bonfire with kids our age gathered around it, drinking from red Solo cups. They wore cable-knit sweaters and striped shirts and Nantucket-red shorts, and their laughter mingled with the scratch of the low-tide against hard sand.
Jane wove her way through the crowd and I followed in her wake. I’d thought teen beach parties only existed in movies, but the scene fit into my heart like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Summer nights were meant for this: toes burrowed in the sand, waves crashing, the scent of salt and seaweed and burning wood.Be bold.
“Want a beer?” Jane handed me a plastic cup.
Right. Alcohol. Cool cool. I was a teen and we drank alcohol. Fine,Ididn’t because my friends and I tended toward sleepovers featuringShe’s the Manand homemade brownie sundaes. Also, what if I turned into a weepy drunk who sat in a corner and cried?
But. Screw being the boring girl next door. Screw following rules. Screw Matt—or not, because he’d dumped me.
The problem with your generation, Mom always said,is you’re too rule-abiding.In her own youth, Mom had made a career of not following rules. I had the insane urge to send her a picture of me, beerin hand, but came to my senses. She’d probably meant for my generation to get better at civil disobedience, not getting drunk at the beach.
Whatever.
I took a gulp of the pale amber liquid and almost spit it out. Wow. Okay. Screw beer, too.
“This is Abby.” Jane pulled me toward a trio. She nodded at a short white girl with fashionable glasses and a leather jacket. “Lexi, my old roommate, who abandoned me.”
“Don’t hate me,” Lexi said, an uncomfortable amount of earnestness underlying her wry tone.
“Isupposeyou had a good reason. Is Stella here yet?”
“She gets in tomorrow.”
Jane waved her cup at the others in the circle: a Black boy in pale green plaid and khakis, and a South Asian guy. “Evan’s from Boston and our token rich kid. Pranav’s from London and is an intern at an architecture firm.”
Both boys nodded at me.
“Hi.” I clutched my Solo cup like a safety blanket. My friends and I shared the same jagged edges, fitting together like broken pottery. What should I do here? Wrap myself in gauze so I didn’t cut anyone, or would I then be so blunted I had no shape at all?
I took another sip of beer. It still tasted terrible. Oh well.
Maybe the alcohol chilled me out, though, or maybe Jane’s friends were the best, because within five minutes they’d absorbed me into the group, and we were ears deep in an intense debate: If you were leaving Earth and could only take three cheeses on your spaceship, what would they be?
“Mozzarella,” Jane said decisively. “You can’t make pizza without mozzarella.”
“Sharp cheddar,” her old roommate, Lexi, said. “And maybe Brieor Camembert. But I also could see a good parmesan being helpful.”
“What about American?” Evan said.
Jane stared at him. “Are you kidding me? You can only take three cheeses to eat forever, and you’d includeAmerican?”
“I like American!”
“It depends what else you’re bringing,” Pranav said diplomatically. “Also, paneer.”
“It’s true, Brie might be dumb if you don’t have baguettes,” Lexi said.
“You definitely can’t have baguettes,” Evan said. “It’s space! Crumbs!”
“Does cream cheese count as a cheese?” I ventured. “Because I don’t want to say goodbye to bagels forever.”
The group looked at me with consternation, and for a second I was sorry I’d spoken, sure I’d said something horribly embarrassing.
“Oh man,” Lexi said after a moment. “I didn’t evenconsidercream cheese.”
“Good point,” Evan said gravely. “And sticky buns have cream cheese frosting.”
“If we’re going to space, we’re not going to have time forstickybuns,” Jane protested.
