Kenzi quickly becomes my favorite part of my day.
Which isn’t hard, when my days mostly involve: casting off, casting on, buffing the deck, polishing sideboards, rinse, repeat.
I grind polish over fifty-foot yachts until I’m caked in sweat and my fists refuse to unclench. I can usually find Kenzi at the pool or sunbathing on her step-dad’s boat, Sweet Serenity. She’s easy to steal away for a smoke break, or a dip in the pool, or just a chat over watermelon slices and H2O.
Kenzi loves music, above all, and some days we just take turns listening to her Walkman. Eventually, she opens up her notebook and show me some of the lyrics she’s working on. She wants to be a songwriter. Not a singer/songwriter—just a song writer. Her lyrics are good. Really good. I call her the female Bernie Taupin. She smiles when I say that.
Plus, King’s crew tends me leave me alone when I’m with her. So. That’s a silver lining.
We talk about our plans for next year—or lack thereof. She’s on the waitlist for Berklee College and hasn’t heard back so, as far as she’s concerned, she’s taking a gap year. I’m can relate, I’ve been in limbo for the past year as dad and I try our luck with scholarship lotto. So far, no hits.
Except for Tomorrow’s Doctors.
Every summer, the Lighthouse Medical Center runs a four-week program for what they call “Tomorrow’s Doctors.” Ages 17-19. Throw the minnows in the pond. See if they can swim.
So, after work, I clock out, hop on my bike, and pedal as fast as I can out of the marina, up the road that winds alongside the dunes, all the way to the medical center.
The first thing you see when you approach the medical center is the lighthouse itself. The lighthouse hasn’t been in operation for over fifty years, but it’s still a beautiful thing. Red brick, restored to its former glory, with a black chrome done. The light doesn’t shine anymore, except for special occasions—holiday light shows, that sort of thing.
The lighthouse is flanked by three buildings: the pediatric wing, the general care and rehabilitation wing, and the emergency wing. I’m hit with the smell of freshly cut grass as I cut across the large lawn to park my bike on the rack. I don’t lock my bike here; there’s no need. Everyone on the island stays on the island.
I’ve got my knapsack stuffed in a milk carton my dad looped to the back of my bike for storage and I quickly throw it on my shoulders before heading inside.
Entering the Lighthouse Medical Center doesn’t knock the breath out of me like it used to. But the first couple of times, yeah, it was hard not to be impressed. The lobby sits underneath a domed ceiling, all glass. Through it, you can see the top of the lighthouse.
As soon as the doors open, you come face to face with a giant art-deco style sculpture of a man on one knee. He has his hand open, the sun sitting in the palm of his hand. Underneath the sculpture, the words run in a band around it: ‘A Guiding Light Through the Dark.’
The only thing more impressive than the talented, skilled doctors at Lighthouse Medical Center are the deep pockets of the donors.
It’s the kind of money a guy like me can’t even begin to wrap my head around.
I grip the straps of my backpack a little tighter and trudge ahead.
Tomorrow’s Doctors meet on the second level of the rehab wing, which is otherwise blocked off for professionals. It’s mostly storage here—a lot of doors marked “Keep Out”. Labs with expensive equipment. I walk down the hall, to the doctor’s mess. There’s a kitchenette here, complete with a coffee machine, a small fridge, and a snack machine. In the adjoining room are bunk beds for the on-call doctors who pull long hours. The lockers that line the room are meant for the staff, but Tomorrow’s Doctors get six spots reserved at the far end.
I’m not the only one here. The cast are as follows:
Jason: the leader of the pack, his father’s prodigy.
Nick: Jason’s best friend, stocky, the kind of guy who will argue with you that his shirt is salmon, not pink.
Brett: a blonde-haired jock, usually found strutting around with a volleyball.
They’re loitering around the circular table. Nick has taken a bag of Doritos from the snack pile and it makes his fingers orange.
“—C’mon, Jason,” Nick is whining. “Throw us a bone.”
“A gentleman never tells,” I hear Jason say.
“Since when are you a gentleman?” Brett protests. “Spill.”
I go to my own locker, pop it open, and start to shove my things in it.
“I can tell you one thing,” Jason gives in.
“What?”
“Her sister was better.”
Gross. His friends howl with laughter but I have a hard time hiding my disdain. My locker rattles when I slam it and I hear their laughter come to a halt.
“Hey, Nick,” Jason says, “does something smell fishy to you?”
“Yeah,” Nick says, “smells like the whole fresh market just walked in.”
My jaw clenches. I keep my eyes on the floor, keep my back to them, and ignore their obnoxious cackles as I enter the adjoining room.
We take our class sessions in a re-purposed conference room, with a long oval table surrounded by black swivel chairs. The other two students have already taken their seats, notebooks open. I wouldn’t call them friends. No one is exactly friendly to me, since King and his clan put a target on my back last summer and therefore fraternizing with me is social suicide.
It wasn’t always like this. Believe or not, Jason and I used to be almost-friends. Between the beachgoers and the patients in and out of the clinic, Hannsett is an island of transplants. No one stays here very long.
Except for me and Jason. We’re a rarity. Year-around natives. Hannsett Island is like a prison—you love the one you’re with. Before he surrounded himself summer party-goers who call him King and decided he preferred obnoxious boat parties, frat boys, and picking on anyone he considered an easy target.
Which included me.
I sit next to Ernest, who is quiet and generally ignores me, which I’ll take over taunting. Even he rolls his chair a little further away from me today, though.
I did spend half of the day cleaning a fishing boat. Maybe I do smell like chum.
Eventually, Jason’s crew takes their seats and our teacher arrives. Dr. Esmeralda is a middle-aged Black woman who has been at the hospital as long as I have. She was here when my mom got sick, so I feel like I already know her. She has a warm bedside manner, but she’s stoic in the classroom.
“Let’s see who did the precursory reading,” she says once we’re all settled in. “Three patients enter the emergency room with heat-related illnesses—something we get a lot of at Hannsett. The first patient is 72, has fainted, and feels dizzy. The second patient is a homeless man who seems confused and exhibits poor coordination; he also has hot, dry skin. The third is a swimmer with tachycardia and nausea. Who do you see first?”
Her eyes scan the room. Then they land on—“Jason.”
Jason lifts his head from his notebook. He blinks as though he’s come out of a dream. “Um…”
“Um? That isn’t a diagnosis I’ve ever heard of.”
A ripple of laughter across the room. Jason isn’t laughing, though. He has the look of a bull post-matador fight. Wounded. Tired. And plotting to run everyone through with his horns as soon as he gets his strength back.
“Can you repeat the question?” he asks.
“No.” Dr. Esmerelda’s gaze swings over to me. “Donovan.”
“I’d treat the homeless patient first,” I recite immediately. “The temperature of his skin suggests heat stroke, which can be life threatening for someone in his condition.”
“Seems you have a guardian angel, Jason,” Dr. Esmerelda says. “Adam just resurrected your patient. Let’s spend less time hitting the beach this summer and more time hitting the books.”
I can feel Jason’s stare, like ice chips sliding down my spine.
I ignore it and press my pen deep into the paper, making a welt in my journal. I’m going to pay for opening my big dumb mouth later, but.
At least my hypothetical patient lived.
I make a beeline to my locker after class. Jason and his crew are loitering. Jason is sitting on the counter with his shoes pressed on the table.
Respect is for lesser humans, apparently.
He looks at me and there’s a glint in his eyes I don’t like.
“Sup, Angel?” he asks.
Angel. Jesus Christ. I guess I have Dr. Esmerelda to thank for my new nickname now.
I ignore him and go to my locker.
“Hey,” Brett chimes in, “King is talking to you.”
My jaw clenches. Let’s rip this band-aid. “What?”
“What’re you doing tonight? You wanna come out?”
“Out?” I repeat skeptically.
“Yeah. We’re having a party tonight.”
Is Jason…inviting me to a party? Seems unlikely. I glance at him and then wish I hadn’t. His impossibly tall frame is arched over, one leg crooked on a chair. He’s panther-like and coy in his body language; his knees slightly splayed, his broad shoulders angled back. His tight pants do nothing to hide the package underneath, and I hate myself for noticing these details about him.
His body language always makes him looking like he’s flirting…even when he isn’t.
He’s got a wolf’s grin, though. It makes me suspicious.
“Good for you,” I say.
“So you coming?”
I consider my options. I should say no. On the other hand. If this is a genuine invitation, a party might be fun, when was the last time I was invited to something like that—?
Never. The answer is never.
“Maybe,” I say as I open my locker, “I’ll have to check with—”
But as soon as the door swings open, two wet bodies fly out at me. Huge, slippery bass flip out of my locker and slap against my chest. The smell that my locker unleashes is atrocious.
Jason and his crew cackles. I feel Jason’s hand slap on my shoulder. “You know what?” he says, “Maybe next time. Think you should go home and…shower this off.” He steps backwards out the door. Before he leaves, he has the audacity to wink. “Later, Angel.”
The dead fish leak onto the ground. So much for sterilization.
Fucking dick.
Every muscle in my body hurts as I bike back to the marina.
Sunsets are beautiful at Hannsett Island. Pink and lavender streaks across the sky and spills across the water. The boats sway softly, each tucked away safely in their slip. We have a pair of swans that nest in the tallgrass every year and they make small ripples in the glass-like water. Every now and then, a gull calls out or a mainline bangs against the mast, giving out a gong-like sound. Other than that, it’s still. Quiet.
Paradise is nice—if you’re rich enough to enjoy it. My dad and I live in a trailer. It’s tucked away behind the pool. They don’t let us park it in the parking lot, “too unsightly” for the boat owners. Instead, we’re hidden behind the pine trees, in a strip of dirt where grass-once-was.
I roll my bike through the thicket and rest it against a tree. Dad is cooking up dinner on the BBQ and the smell of burning meat makes my stomach pinch.
“Dinner’s ready in five,” Dad says.
Things dad never says:
How was your day?
Are those boys still taunting you?
Why do you smell like fish?
Why do you smell like pot?
Is everything okay?
Our conversations are mostly functional: can you do this? / this is done. Food is ready / pass the ketchup.
Which is fine. He’s got skin like leather from being in the sun and looks twice as old as he should. He’s as exhausted as I am. We don’t have the time or energy for a heart-to-heart.
“Be right there,” I say. I start inside the trailer. We have a jar we share and I dump my tips in it. It’s not much, but we’ll stay fed for the rest of the week.
Our trailer has a sink in the front, a cushioned bench (my bed), a bathroom, and a main cabin in the back (dad’s bed). I stretch across the bench and lay down. Just for a second, I tell myself.
But as soon as my eyes close, I’m out.
I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but I wake up to my father’s hand on my shoulder. Rough hands, gentle squeeze. “Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs. “Some girl is here to see you.”
I blink awake, disoriented. My hair is a mess. I’m still in my sweat-stained uniform. I’m not fit for humans. A girl?
Only one girl it could be. I descend the steps and glance around.
Kenzi stands there. She’s wearing a cute yellow dress with strappy shoulders. Her black hair is in swoopy waves down her shoulders. Green eyes shining like sea glass.
The sight of her makes me feel a weird way, a way I don’t usually feel about girls. My heart launches itself against my chest like a wild animal suddenly uncaged.
“What’s up?” I ask. Casual.
She half-grins, looking shy—my father usually has that effect on people, he’s hard-edged and scary. But she holds up a paper plate, a piece of cake on it, and says, “I come bearing gifts.”
She’s a gift: pristine and pretty, fresh off the spotless deck of her step-dad’s boat.
I’m filthy and burningly aware of the eye sore that is the trailer.
I sway on the balls of my feet, deliberating. “Give me one second.”
I close the door on her and squeeze past my dad. “You want me to tell her to go?” he asks.
“No.” I’m tearing off my clothes, ripping a paper towel off, dampening it, and wetting my face, the back of my neck, all the parts of me that feel grimy. I pull on black jeans, a black shirt. Run my fingers through my hair. I slip my lip ring into my bottom lip—I have to take it out while I work (Mr. King’s orders) but I try to pop it in once I’m off to keep the hole from closing up.
“Your burger is still on the grill,” dad reminds me.
“Thanks. I’ll grab it later.”
I slip outside and close the door behind me. No more dock boy.
Kenzi is sitting on my stump. She glances up and her eyes sweep over me. “So this is what Donovans look like in their natural habitat.”
“Mmhm.” There’s a sugar flower on her slice of cake and I swipe it between my fingers and pop it in my mouth. “Whose birthday is it?”
“Mine.”
I squint at her. “Are you serious?”
“Lucky number eighteen.”
“That’s a big one.”
“So I’ve been told.” If she’s put off by the trailer, BBQ pit, or my growly father, she doesn’t show it. The opposite, actually; she looks right at home.
“Wanna take a walk?” I ask her.
“Sure.”
She hands over the plate and a plastic fork and we walk through the grass and behind the fenced in pool.
The crickets sing. Fireflies blink. We find a large slab of stone to sit on. We watch an egret wade her long legs through the tall grass at the edge of the water.
All of this nighttime peace is interrupted only by the true wildlife of Hannsett Island: Healing Touch is booming tonight, blaring loud pop music.
Jason King and his merry band of popular kids never quit.
“Wanna play a game?” Kenzi asks as we pick at the cake.
“Sure.”
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“I dare you to catch a firefly.”
“Hold this.” I hand her the plate and she takes it. I get up and move just a little ways into the long cattail bushes. There’s a bunch of small lights, blinking on and off. Fireflies are pretty, but dumb and slow. I cup one in both my hands, then come back over to Kenzi.
“Check it out.” I open my hands, just a little. She leans over, her head nearly bumping mine. Inside my curved fingers, the trapped firefly glows, illuminating my palms.
“Nice,” Kenzi murmurs. Her breath warms my hands.
“You want to glow?” I ask her.
She narrows her eyes at me. “What, like rip his butt off and rub it on our faces?”
“Well—”
“Psychopath. Let it go.”
“Your lucky day, little guy,” I tell him. I open my hands and the firefly flies out, waving drunkenly through the sky.
“Your turn,” I tell Kenzi as we sit back down on the stone. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” she says, which I think is brave.
“What’s the one thing you want to do now that you’re eighteen?”
She lets out a small laugh and rubs the back of her neck. “Honestly?”
“That’s why it’s called truth.”
“Okay. I want to lose my virginity.” She shrugs. “I know that’s like…pedestrian.”
“It’s not.”
“And I know it’s a big deal for some people. But I don’t know…I just sort of want to rip off the band-aid. You know?”
“Quick and fast?”
“Okay, maybe not that much like ripping off a band-aid. But just…simple. No complications. With someone I trust, ideally. And then it’ll be over with and I can go about my life without this thing hanging over my head.” Her emerald eyes blink at me. “Do you think I’m cold?”
“No,” I tell her. “It’s your body. You should do whatever you want with it.”
She points her fork at me. “Thank you. You get me.”
And I get it: I’m her gay best friend that she can open up to about things like this. Her blossoming sexuality. Her slutty summer plans. I am a man she can talk to fearlessly, without worrying that I’ll turn around and try to kiss her.
So why is this conversation making me hard?
“Okay, you now,” she says.
“What about me?”
“Truth or dare, Donovan?”
As if truth is even an option right now. “Dare.”
She nods towards the party boat. “I dare you to give them a taste of their own medicine.”
An idea forms. I put down the paper plate and stand up. “Only if you come with me.”
“Obviously, I’m in.” I reach out a hand, she takes it. Her hand feels so soft in mine.
I lead Kenzi down the dock.
It’s illuminated by dock lights, these big, bulky things that are swamped by moths. We walk slowly down the wooden panels so they don’t creek too loudly.
It turns out to be overkill. By time we get to the Healing Touch, we don’t see anyone on the back—they’ve moved the party to the bow of the boat. We can hear beer cans cracking, music blaring, and rancorous laughter, but we can’t see them…
And more importantly, they can’t see us.
I point to the cleats, which keep the boat tied up to the dock. “You get the ones on the other side,” I whisper to Kenzi. “I’ll take these.”
She sneaks around the side of the boat. I crouch down on the edge of the dock and unwind the thick rope from the cleats. As quietly as I can, I toss the rope onto the deck of the boat.
Kenzi comes back around, crouching behind the lights. “Done!”
I put my palms on the side of the boat. “On the count of three…push.”
I count and, together, we give the boat a hefty push. It doesn’t take much. It’s a still night and, soundlessly, slowly, the boat follows the momentum of our push and drifts out of the slip and into the inky black water.
In the enclosed marina…it’s not going far. But it’s going to give them a hell of a shock when they realize what’s going on.
Which happens sooner than I think.
“Whoa, are we moving, or is it just me?” A female voice hiccups from the bow.
“Run!” I whisper urgently to Kenzi.
We race down the dock, up the bridge, and behind the tall cattails by the pool. The tall grass tickles our ankles. We collide together, I hook my arm around her to slow her down. “Look,” I tell her.
Between the cattail reeds, we can see the chaos below. Healing Touch floats around aimlessly and lists towards one of the yachts. There are shouts from the jocks, then shouts from the people on the yacht, and they take out long poles in attempt to push Healing Touch away before the two boats bump. Healing Touch starts drifting away from the yacht then…and straight into a mudbank.
I can feel Kenzi’s warm breath on my neck. Her heart is beating so fast I can feel it, tiny thumps against my bare arm. “Oh my god…” she says. “I’m sorry if you get in trouble for that.”
“You kidding?” I tell her. “This is the best night of my life.”
I could kiss her right now.
It’s an urge, tugging on me, my heart strung like a marionette.
I could kiss her. We’re so close like this. Her eyes meet mine and, for a second, I think she’s thinking the same thing.
And then a splash catches our attention. We look back to the boat. Jason and Nick are in the mud now, water up to their waists, trying to push the boat back out. The boat makes a terrible grinding noise as someone tries to start up the engine. Jason King’s swears can be heard all throughout the marina.
Kenzi puts her hand on her mouth and laughs.
The moment is gone, but we don’t break apart.
We stay like this, locked together, watching the well-earned comedy play out below.
