She lies back and rests her hands on her stomach. I have the sudden urge to lean over and smell the crease of her neck, to see if she still smells like lemon sugar and paint. I stand up instead, trying to shake it off. The ocean is calmer, the tide almost peaked with the noon sun. I pick my way to the back of the rock. I take off my shirt and jump around, loosening up my limbs. Then, before I chicken out, I sprint the full length of the rock and leap into the water. The icy chop sucks me right in, blasting all the thoughts from my head. I surface, swipe the hair out of my eyes, and look up to see Sera leaning forward, mouth agape. I wave her in.
“No way!” she shouts. “It’s probably freezing!”
“It’s bathwater!” I shout back, even as my teeth chatter a little. I turn and start to swim toward the shore, passing through patches of water that briefly feel warmer before the cold stabs up again. When I feel my palm hit sand, I float the rest of the way in, rolling over out of the surf like a seal. I can hear Sera laughing, and I feel lightheaded and giddy, laughing with her. I finally get up and run to the beach tent to grab my towel. I pause as I notice my phone light up. Lila, the junior I hooked up with at the bonfire. I quickly shove my phone in my backpack before jogging back to the rock. I can feel Sera watching me as I climb up, and for a moment I’m embarrassed, but thena little proud. I’m not the skinny kid she grew up with. Baseball training and work have filled me out. My friends are always teasing me about how I’m hot now, and there have been plenty of other girls I’ve been with who seemed to agree, but there’s something about Sera looking at me that makes me feel like it’s true. Her gaze snags on the scar on my knee.
“Your turn, Watkins,” I say to distract her.
“Nope!” She jumps up and tries to sneak past me, but I stick an arm out to block her way, shaking the wet hair out of my face and grinning when she yelps. She tries to fake me out, but she’s too slow and easy to catch. She squeals as I wrap one arm, then the other around her, lifting her easily back toward the edge. She’s strong, her muscles tensed against my arms as she leans back and then away, laughing.
“You’re freezing!”
I let her go and step away, heart racing.
“It’s not bad, I promise.” I lie a little. “You get used to it.” My eyes flicker to her chest again, that scar to match mine. “I think EBE would love it.” I wink and then race off before she can reply, flying through the air and diving into the water. It’s still cold, but not unbearable this time. I stay there, treading water, hoping she’ll join me, feeling like something hangs in the balance.
“Come on, Sera! It’s summer tradition!” My voice carries over the waves. I swim back a little to give her space. I turn around just in time to see her fly off the end, her silhouette slicing through the blue sky. When she surfaces, she lets loose an earsplitting scream that dissolves into gasping laughter. Iwhistle, echoing her, and then watch as she pivots my way. There’s a huge smile on her face, and her eyes are shining. We tread water for a beat, looking at each other. I want to swim to her, wrap my arms around her waist in the water. But she’s already turning away from me, swimming back to shore.
Chapter Six
Sera
A couple days later, I bike two miles west to the Blue Honeybee Art Complex to meet Miss Iris. Northport used to be a small haven for artists, and the complex was built in the ’70s by a few famous sculptors and mixed-media artists. It sits on a high stretch of land with its own access to Northport Beach. The pathway at the entrance takes you by the ancient red farmhouse that functions as the office, but more important, it goes past the Blue Honeybee.
It’s a giant metal sculpture of a ten-foot-tall daffodil with a honeybee sitting in its petals. It’s not painted, but the metal was worked in such a way that the bee shines a deep metallic blue that shifts a little depending on the weather. Today is a cloudless day, and the air is cool, but the sun is heating the metal, so even far away it shimmers like ocean water turned to glass. Every year, our opening assignment was to make an homage to the complex’s namesake. You could paint, sculpt, or reimagine the bee in whatever way you wanted. One kid oncedid an interpretive dance and became a legend, so the bar was high. Luke and I used to spend the months between camp messaging back and forth with ideas for our own projects. Then we’d go dead quiet in the week leading up to camp so we could surprise each other and get the other’s honest opinion on our final piece.
I stop at the foot of the sculpture and place my palm on the warm stem of the flower, snatching my hand back before it burns me. Camp always made art seem important, larger than life, serious yet fun at the same time. With my future so up in the air, all I had last year was my painting, and so it’s a different kind of homecoming to be here again.
I park my bike by the side of the farmhouse and head to the littles’ studio, where I told Miss Iris I would meet her. I take the path past the office, the cafeteria, and the theater building, toward the first of the three converted barns that house the studios. The small patches of grass between the buildings are freshly mowed, so the air smells green, sharp, and acidic. From here, you can’t see the ocean above the rise of the dunes, but you can catch the tops of sailboats scattered across the horizon. There’s a groundskeeper shoveling new mulch shavings down on the walking paths, so I cut across the still-dewy grass. I follow the familiar route around to the side of the first barn, where the garage doors are wide open. Each barn is almost identical, though the littles’ is a bit smaller. Light floods in from the outside and through the skylights above, making the space bright and airy. The studio is separated into mediums, but not in such a strict way that you can’t mix it up if needed.
I walk through the paints section, looking through theavailable canvases and thinking about the last time I was here. The summer when everything between Luke and me first changed. We were in the studio alone while everyone else was up at lunch. I was teasing him about his lack of color use, partly jealous of his talent, and partly because I liked to watch him defend his love of grayscale. Wielding a paintbrush, I reached out and smeared a bright flash of purple across his cheek. He picked up his own brush, dripping with black paint, and pointed it at my forehead.
“You better run, Watkins,” he said.
I squealed and sprinted across the room. He followed and got me back with a glob of midnight black. Soon we were racing around the room, tossing paint, laughing. Luke caught me around the waist and we both toppled to the floor. I wrestled my way on top of him, pinning his hips with mine. Our eyes locked, and suddenly we both stopped laughing.
He went so still and just stared up at me, smiling as the heat in my cheeks spread down. I remember thinking how cute he was as he reached up and played with the ends of my hair.
“You’re really pretty, Sera,” he said. And I went liquid, mesmerized by his voice. Everything tilted sideways, and I felt myself lean down toward him. But just as I did, the door swung open behind us. Miss Iris burst in, arms full of supplies, and we scrambled up to help her.
I blink away the memory, the hope I felt then.
I’m feeling the soft tips of the brushes, wondering if I could assign my class to paint on shells collected from the beach, when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Hello?” I weave around the standing easels toward the entrance of the barn as a woman comes out of the washroom.
“Sera?”
“Miss Iris! Hi!” Miss Iris was always my favorite teacher, more lenient and inspiring than anyone else. I saw her in February at a gallery in Boston after reading in the camp newsletter that some of her paintings were on display. It was my first solo outing since I’d been declared stable in January, and I said yes immediately when she offered me the summer job. She looks the same as always, in her giant earrings and linen pants paired with an oversized knit sweater. Her dark hair is piled in a bun on top of her head.
“Just Iris now, since you’re officially a coworker.” She swoops in for a quick hug and leaves two little air kisses behind on either side of my face. Then she steps back and does that thing adults do where they exclaim how tall I am and how beautiful and I brush it off.
“So, where should we start?” I ask. “I’m definitely interested in learning how to wrangle the littles.”
Iris laughs, her blue eyes twinkling. “Oh, it’s impossible to wrangle them. Don’t even try. We’re here to guide, and inspire, and support.”
“Right.” I pause. “How?”
She laughs again. “Just keep them busy.” She gestures for me to follow her back to the painting area. “It’s really great to have you back. We missed you last year. Luke too. It wasn’t quite the same without you both here causing trouble,” she teases, and I feel myself blush.
