“We’re playing this game,” said Sukey.
“A social experiment, if you will,” said Terry.
Some parents smiled indulgently when we explained, while others resisted, trying to master their annoyance. But finally they said OK. They made no promises, but they’d attempt to avoid incriminating us.
Also, we planned to camp on the beach for a few nights, said Rafe.
Practicing self-sufficiency, added Terry.
“Well, now, that’s another ball of wax,” said a father.
One of the professors. His specialty was witch-burning.
“All of you?” asked a mother.
The youngest ones nodded—except for Kay and Amy the IVF twins, who shook their heads.
“Good riddance,” muttered David.
“But we didn’t bring tents!” said a second mother.
That mother was low in the hierarchy. Wore long, flowing dresses, in floral and paisley patterns. Once, drunk-dancing, she’d fallen into a potted plant. Bloodied her nose.
I sensed some condescension coming toward her from the other parents. If they were being hunted, she’d be the first one abandoned by the herd. Sacrificed to a marauding lioness whose powerful jaws would rip and tear. Next vultures would peck indifferently at the leftovers.
It would be sad, probably.
Still, no one wanted that mother. We pitied the fool who would be implicated, down the road.
“We’ll handle it,” said Terry.
“Handle it how?” asked a third mother. “Amazon Prime?”
“We’ll handle it,” repeated Terry. “There are tarps in the toolshed. We’ll be fine.”
JEN, IMPRESSED BY Terry’s masterful attitude, consented to hook up with him in the greenhouse that evening (we’d piled a nest of blankets in a corner). Jen was strong but had notoriously low standards, make-out-wise.
Not to be outdone, the other two girls and I agreed to play Spin the Bottle with David and Low. Extreme version, oral potentially included. Juicy was fourteen, too immature for us and too much of a slob, and Rafe wasn’t bi.
Shame, said Sukey. Rafe is hella good-looking.
Then Dee said she wouldn’t play, so it was down to Sukey and me. Dee was afraid of Spin the Bottle, due to being—Sukey alleged—a quiet little mouse and most likely even a mouth virgin.
Timid and shy, Dee was also passive-aggressive, neurotic, a germaphobe, and borderline paranoid.
According to Sukey.
“Suck it up, mousy,” said Sukey. “It’s a teachable moment.”
“Why teachable?” asked Dee.
Because, said Sukey, she, yours truly, was a master of the one-minute handjob. Dee could pick up some tips.
The guys sat straighter when Sukey said that. Their interest became focused and laser-like.
But Dee said no, she wasn’t that type.
Plus, after this she needed a shower.
Val also declined to participate. She left to go climbing in the dark.
This was while the parents were playing Texas Hold ’Em and squabbling over alleged card counting—someone’s father had been kicked out of a casino in Las Vegas.
The younger kids were fast asleep.
Spin the Bottle was a weak choice, admittedly, but our options were severely limited. All the phones were locked in a safe in the library. And we hadn’t cracked the combination.
I was apprehensive, but since Dee had pulled out I had to hang tough. And as it turned out, I got lucky. I only had to French-kiss Low.
Still, unpleasant. His tongue tasted like old banana.
WE SET OUT the next afternoon. Packing and loading the rowboats had taken hours.
“Lifejackets!” screeched Jen’s mother from the lawn. She held a wine bottle by the neck, a glass in the other hand, and wore a white bikini with red polka dots. The bottom exposed her ass crack and the top was pretty funny: her nipples showed through the white of the bra cups like dark eyes.
“Make it stop,” said Jen, wincing.
“Put on the lifejackets!”
“Yeah, yeah. Christ on a cross,” said Sukey.
We didn’t bother with the lifejackets, generally. Except for the little boys. But we were under scrutiny, so I brought a pile of them—bright orange and spotted black with mildew—from the boathouse. They scratched our skin and were bulky. Once we were out of sight, they would come off. Most certainly.
When we pushed away from the moorings various parents waved from the porch and others clustered on the dock. We rushed, worried that they’d betray us with last-minute asinine chitchat. Sure enough, one dimwit yelled: “Did you remember your inhaler?” (Two of us were asthmatics.)
“Shut up! Shut up!” we implored, hands over ears.
None of us wanted to see a man go down that way.
“And what about the EpiPens?” shouted the low-status mother.
I’d been reading a book about medieval society I’d found in the great house library. It had a dusty paper smell I liked. There were peasants in the book: serfs, I guess. Using the filter of that history, and with reference to her flowing-dress wardrobe, I’d come to see her as the peasantry.
We ignored them and rowed with all our strength. Damage control.
“Damn they are imbeciles,” cursed Low.
I was looking at him with my head cocked, I think—musing. Remembering the taste of banana.
“Mine were cool as a cucumber,” boasted Terry.
“Mine didn’t give a flying fuck,” bragged Juice.
The parents were still trying to communicate with us as our boats drew farther offshore. A few made exaggerated gestures, flapping ungainly arms. Jen’s father was doing some sign language, but Shel turned away from his waggling fingers. The peasant mom dove off the dock—in hot pursuit? Taking a dip? We didn’t care.
We reached the creek and shipped our oars. Coasting along to the ocean. This was a narrow waterway, and often our vessels would bump the banks, lodge in the muddy shallows and need to be freed.
The water carried us: we were carried.
We lifted our faces to the warmth, closed our eyes, let the sunlight fall across our eyelids. We felt a weight lift from our shoulders, the bliss of liberty.
Dragonflies dipped over the surface, brilliant tiny helicopters of green and blue.
“They live ninety-five percent of their lives underwater,” said Jack helpfully. He was an insect fan. A fan of all wildlife, in fact. “In nymph form. You know, larvae. Dragonfly nymphs have big huge jaws. They’re vicious predators.”
“Is that interesting?” asked Jen, cocking her head.
Not mean, just speculative. She hadn’t decided.
“One day they come out of the water, turn beautiful and learn to fly,” said Jack.
“Then they drop dead,” said Rafe.
“The opposite of humans,” said David. “We turn ugly before we drop dead. Decades before.”
Yes. It was known.
The injustice floated over us with the dragonflies.
“We have been granted much,” announced Terry from the prow.
He tried to stand up, but Rafe said he’d flip the boat. So instead he sat down again and made his voice hollow and self-important like a preacher’s.
He pushed his glasses up on his nose with a middle finger.
“Yes, we have been given many gifts,” he projected. “We, the descendants of the ape people. Opposable thumbs. Complex language. At least a semblance of intelligence.”