“I need wet newspaper and a broom,” I snap.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, turning away from him. “Stop asking.”
We take the path that leads from the camp to the beach, walking single file through the woods—Conrad, then Jonas, then me.
Jonas keeps up a patter of conversation with Conrad. I slow down and let them drift ahead. When they are out of sight, I double over, dry-heaving. I was wrong. I can’t do this. I can’t be with him. Smiling, naked except for my bikini, swimming, knowing. Knowing that he knows. The panic in me feels like a snake slithering out of my mouth.
Somewhere up ahead, Jonas is calling me.
“I stubbed my toe,” I yell. “I’ll catch up.”
I want to turn around and run home, lock myself in my room. Instead, I close my eyes and will myself to calm down, move forward. I’ve been down this path so many times I recognize every root, every tree. I know when I round the next corner I will see wild grapevines climbing into the trees and scrub, clusters of sweet Concord grapes hanging down from the bay laurel, crops left over from a hundred years ago when this wooded hill was still farmland. I know that beyond the vines, the path will widen and steepen. I will crest the hill and come down into a hollow between the dunes, where an old fire road runs parallel to the sea. Beyond, at the top of the next dune, I will come to a wooden hut, dilapidated but still standing, built during the war as a lookout for approaching German submarines. Anna and I played there with our dolls when we were little. I will stand there, looking out at the wide ocean, my ocean. I know this place. This is my place, not his.
The beach is beautiful and broad. Low tide. Conrad is already knee-deep in the water, wading out. The skin on his back is bright white against his ugly red bathing suit. There’s a smattering of acne across his shoulders. I scan the ocean, looking wistfully for a shark fin. I run down the steep dune, letting my towel out behind me like a sail.
I sit down a few feet away from Jonas.
“Hey.” He pats a space on the towel next to him, but I ignore it.
Conrad dives under a wave and gets tumbled. His fat legs poke out of the water like a giant’s fingers giving us the peace sign before the sea finally rights him.
“Did you two have some big fight?”
“No. Just the usual: he’s a jerk and I hate him.”
“So why are you acting so mad at me?”
“I’m not acting like anything. You ruined a nice day. It’s no big deal.”
“I didn’t ruin the day, Elle. It’s beautiful, perfect. Look at that water. Even Conrad’s glad to be here.”
“Well, thank God for that.” I stand up. “I’m going to take a walk down the beach. You two have a nice time. There aren’t enough sandwiches for three of us.”
“You can have mine if you promise to stop acting like an insane person.”
“Don’t talk so loud,” I snap, and storm down to the water’s edge, hating myself. Conrad has ruined the pond, ruined the Paper Palace, ruined me. But I will not let him come between me and Jonas, stain the one thing that is still mine with his black squid ink.
Conrad is jumping waves, his back to me. I reach down to the tide line, pick up a chipped-flint stone—my heart, I think as I hurl it at him with all my strength, aiming for his head. The stone misses, disappears into the sea a yard short of him. I have always thrown like a girl, and I hate it. It’s a weakness that others can see. I look down, searching for a better rock. Each time the tide recedes, a hundred little holes appear in the smooth wet sand where clams have hurriedly dug themselves down, hiding from the sharp-eyed gulls above. I find the perfect stone: gray, tangerine-sized, with a raised white streak running across its middle. When I stand up, Conrad is looking at me. I put the stone in my pocket for later, and walk away, follow the edge of the sea until I am so far from him that when I look back, he is nothing but a meaningless speck.
* * *
—
When I get home from the beach, Jonas is waiting on the steps of my cabin, something cupped in his hands. “Look.” He’s holding a tree frog the size of a button.
“Sweet,” I say. “I’m fairly certain you are touching frog piss. They pee in your hand whenever you pick them up.” I push past him and shove open my cabin door.
“Yes,” Jonas says. “It’s an instinctive reaction to fear.”
“So, see you Monday, I guess.”
“Elle, wait. I’m sorry.” He puts the frog on the ground, watches it hop away.