I decide to stay outside.
Ripping off the floral scarf and leaving it on a bush in a weak sign of rebellion, I wander onto the grounds. This house is too
fancy for a backyard. It has grounds. For the millionth time, I
wonder what possessed my mom to come here. Yes, it’s a gorgeous old home in a gorgeous location, but we don’t belong.
And we never will. No matter how much money Frank has.
We are Middle American, live-in-the-suburbs people. We don’t
have soirees out on the veranda. We have barbeques in the
backyard, where the men drink too much beer and the kids
play truth or dare in the den.
Illuminated by an orb of lantern light on the deck beyond me, the party group is laughing and talking about empty things.
The obnoxious truth jabs at me. I always smugly assured myself
that I didn’t belong in Ohio, that I was meant for greater things.
Now here I am, and I still feel like I don’t belong. Maybe I’m
just a hopeless snob who will be unhappy everywhere I go.
The impulse to do something stupid once again prickles through me. A small act of harmless vandalism, perhaps.
Maybe I’ll rip off my clothes and stroll back into the party,
naked as the day I was born.
I kick a rock near my foot, sending it skidding over the path.
What am I, twelve? Am I secretly trying to get Mommy’s attention because I’m worried she loves her new husband more than me? Properly shamed, I try to jam my hands into my pockets
until I remember I’m wearing a dress and don’t have pockets.
I find myself wandering past the lit water feature, past the rosebush-adorned gazebo, over a brick-colored path of flagstones, and across the meticulously maintained back lawn.
By default, I head to the estate’s private beach. It’s not a great
swimming beach—too rocky—and I don’t expect anyone from
the party to have wandered out there.
At the edge of the grass, a row of high, trimmed bushes act like a natural wall. Walking along the edge, I find my secret
shortcut to the water. I happened across it a few weeks ago. At
one point, perhaps someone had intended for it to be a paved
path to the beach, but that never materialized. Now the lawn
crew lets the branches grow just enough to hide the gap but
maintain the access.
The soft pound of surf reaches me before I see the water. The tang of salt is thick on the air. Growing up in Ohio, I didn’t
get much exposure to the ocean. The community pool was the
extent of my experience with water. Maybe because of that,
something about the size and constant motion of the sea both
intrigues and terrifies me.
A few more strides through the thick bushes, and I see the water ahead. It’s black and vast and in what seems to be in
perpetual motion. The white tips of breaking waves roll onto
the beach, lapping the gleaming sand. It’s a surprisingly long
stretch of beach. A cove, really. Perfectly enclosed by brush to
the back and rocky points to either side. Big rocks are scattered
in the water and along the shore, but there’s enough sand to sit.
It’s quiet and rugged and starkly beautiful. I draw in a breath of
night ocean smell and immediately decide that I should have
taken my brooding here from the start. This place is clearly
much better suited for the job than some stuffy party.
I flop on a sandy patch near a crop of rocks and stare out at the gently crashing waves. A salty breeze feathers my hair across
my face. I decide not to move it. I bet I look more pensive that
way. What I’m pensive about, I don’t really know. How pathetic
is that? I don’t even know why I’m angsty and sad. I just am.
I pull out my phone. Maybe I’ll send another text to Jade.
Hey. I’m at a lame party. Bored. I hope you’re bored too.