That summer, the summer of ’77, everything had edges.
Our laughter, the sideways glances we gave and got. Even the air was blade-sharp. I figured it was because we were growing up. The law might not recognize it, but fifteen’s a girl and sixteen a woman, and you get no map from one land to the next. They air-drop you in, booting a bag of Kissing Potion lip gloss and off-the-shoulder blouses after you. As you’re plummeting, trying to release your parachute and grab for that bag at the same time, they holler out you’re pretty, like they’re giving you some sort of gift, some vital key, but really, it’s meant to distract you from yanking your cord.
Girls who land broken are easy prey.
If you’re lucky enough to come down on your feet, your instincts scream to bolt straight for the trees. You drop your parachute, pluck that bag from the ground （surely it contains something you need）， and run like hell, breath tight and blood pounding because boys-who-are-men are being air-dropped here, too. Lord only knows what got loaded into their bags, but it does not matter because they do terrible things in packs, boys-who-are-men, things they’d never have the hate to do alone.
I didn’t question any of it, not at the time. It was simply part of growing up a girl in the Midwest, and like I said, I thought at first that’s why everything felt so keen and dangerous: we were racing to survive the open-field sprint from girl to woman.
But it turns out the sharpness wasn’t because we were growing up.
Or, it wasn’t only that.
I know, because three of us didn’t get to grow up.
The year before, 1976, had felt like a living thing. America standing tall in a Superman pose, his cape a glorious red, white, and blue flag flapping behind him, fireworks exploding overhead and filling the world with the smell of burning punk and sulfur. Not only was anything possible, we were told, but our country had already done it. The grown-ups did a lot of congratulating themselves during the Bicentennial, it looked like. For what, we didn’t know. They were still living their same lives, going to their hamster-wheel jobs, hosting barbecues, grimacing over sweating cans of Hamm’s and hazy blue cigarette smoke. Did it drive them a little crazy, taking credit for something they hadn’t earned?
Looking back, I believe so.
And I think that, for all its horror, 1977 was the more honest year.
Three Pantown kids dead.
Their killers right there in plain sight.
It all started in the tunnels.
You’ll see.
BETH
“Hey, Beth, you swinging by the quarries tonight?”
Elizabeth McCain stretched her aching arms overhead until her shoulders popped. It felt exquisite. “Maybe. Dunno. Mark’s coming over.”
Karen leered. “Oooh, you gonna give him the good stuff?”
Beth hooked her hair behind her ears. She’d been planning to break up with Mark all summer, but they traveled in the same crowd. It’d seemed easiest to let things roll until she split for college in three short weeks. UC Berkeley, full ride. Her parents wanted her to be a lawyer. She’d wait to tell them she was going into teaching until, well, until they needed to know.
Lisa appeared from the packed dining room. “Two midnight specials, one bacon for ham,” she hollered to the kitchen. She glanced at Beth about to punch out, Karen standing next to her. “Ditching us when we need you the most, I see. Hey, you going to the quarries tonight?”
Beth grinned, lighting up her overbite. Of course both her coworkers were asking about the bash. Jerry Taft was on leave and visiting his family in Pantown. His quarry parties were the stuff of legend—trash cans brimming with wapatuli, music that was cool on the coasts but wouldn’t reach Midwest airwaves for another six months, daring leaps from the highest granite cliffs into the inky pools below, some more than a hundred feet straight down. No gradual decline, just a fathomless, aching cavity scooped out of the earth, a wound that cold water seeped in to fill like blood.
Since Jerry Taft had joined the army last fall, the quarry parties had grown lackluster. He’d promised an ace bang-out tonight, though, a raucous celebration before he returned to base. Parties weren’t really Beth’s thing. She’d been looking forward to a quiet night on the couch with buttered popcorn and Johnny Carson, but it’d be easy to convince Mark to go. Maybe they’d rediscover the passion that’d brought them together in the first place.
She made up her mind.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” she said, untying her apron and tucking it into her cubby along with her pen and pad. “Catch you both on the flip side.”