The Trouble Is

Chapter 5: The Beach

We head to the beach. It's not a really a beach; that's just what we call it. It was named in that way of many small-town sites—long before our time and without explanation. The beach is a small section of the lake that spills out into the public park surrounding the south end of the lake. It is neither sandy nor picturesque. The lake is full this year, thanks to a long spring of rain. It's early days, so things are green and lush for now. By the end of summer, everything will become a murky brown, with the grass and brush blending into the brown of the lake. But for now, it looks like a Pinterest picture of someone else's vacation. The sun sparkles on the lake, and the air moves just enough.

A few girls we sort of know are already there, staking their claim. It's important to get there early on the first day and put your lounge chair where you want it. It's like some unspoken rule, I guess. Everyone just seems to know it year after year as each new group takes over.

There are a couple of old camping tents set up, and I can see a set of scavenged, old lawn chairs inside one, along with some sleeping bags and a few coolers. Looks as though the boys have already come and gone. There's a long, bendy tree branch shoved into the ground beside the tent with the school flag tied at the top. The flag leans over like a wilted flower and is already hung on the branch's twigs. This is the tent. I learned this last summer when I went inside looking for my towel and stumbled on some seniors having sex on top of the pile of sleeping bags. When the flag is up, the tent is occupied.

I'm pretty sure that losing our virginity is on Katie's list again this year. I know she wouldn't mind the whole tent-and-flag atmosphere, but I just can't imagine the most important event of my life so far happening in a tent with half the high school right outside knowing about it. I've heard the jokes about first come, first served. Flag or no flag, it's just not for me. It's not that I think I'm too good or anything. I don't know, really, I just want something . . . well, something more. And I don't want to do it just because it's on a list. That would seem like a bit of a loss in some way I can't really explain.

The beach is like a high school battlefield. There are some basic undocumented rules that seem to get handed down from class to class. The primary rule is that it's just for high school kids. No junior high kids allowed, even younger brothers or sisters. If you have to take your sibling to the beach, you need to go somewhere else. Status matters in the beginning as leaders lead and followers follow. But over time, everything and everyone evolve. The summer changes people. I've watched it all play out for two summers now, and there's one thing I've learned: Whether you are a leader or a follower, . You can lose something good about yourself, or you can lose something not so good. It can go either way. You can cave into the desire to fit in, blend in, be in, or you can lose your fears and find the way to be with the others while still holding on to yourself.

It's the one place where losing isn't always bad.

Our first summer at the lake was the one between our freshman and sophomore years. We had our place in the back rows, where we would sit and watch, joining in for the occasional game of Twister or cannonballing off the little dock. It seems like a long time ago, really. We had no clue what we were doing. We just showed up as often as our parents allowed, faces scrubbed, hair pulled into tight ponytails, baggy t-shirts covering our bathing suits. We watched and learned as the older girls walked around in their tiny bikinis, swishing their long hair, and laughing at whatever the boys were up to.

This summer we are no longer newbies, although I'm pretty sure Katie's confidence far outweighs mine. It's a weird way to explain someone, I think. But it does kind of make sense if you think about it. Nobody could be that bold straight out of the womb. Things happen in life, and you figure out how to deal with them or you don't.

Katie's parents have always traveled a lot. They both do some kind of computer security work and go to a lot of cool places, like India and Argentina. Katie has had a revolving door of nannies, babysitters, and college girls in place of her parents. She knows how to manage every type of personality and every situation I have ever seen her in. She loves to say how she's "large and in charge."

We set up our chairs, and Katie reaches into her mammoth beach bag and pulls out a handful of colorful scarves. Her parents bring these back from India all the time. She spreads them out across our chairs, evaluating the inherent message each scarf conveys. The scarves are more than a rainbow; they are a symbol. They are a symbol of the other side of Katie, the softer, hidden side, made tangible. They are the colors of a child left behind, a child singing in the school play with no one watching, a child scoring her first soccer goal with the crowd cheering her on but still feeling so alone. I'm not judging her parents, really. It's just that I was the one there with her, so I feel like I can say the things she won't. Her confidence and her bravado come from an empty place. 

"OK, A," she announces, "you gotta choose now."

"You first," I say.

"Nope," she insists. "It's all you. Now choose."

I can't help but laugh at her as she stands there with her hands on her hips in her I'm-tougher-than-you-are stance. I look at the purples and blues and reds, and the colors blur in the glare of the sun. She already knows that I can't do it. It's too much. Yet she stands there waiting. I shake my head one-two-three and turn toward the parking area, wishing I could just make a break for it. But Katie knows me; she knows me better than anyone else does. I want to choose all willy-nilly like she does. However, I also need to sort these by size and color first. She takes one giant step to cut me off, and in the smoothest move ever she gently ties a scarf over my eyes, looping it into a bow on the back of my head. She turns me in a circle one-two-three times, then leads me back to the lounge chair of scarves. And she finds a way to help me choose.

"Just reach for one," she says. "If you can't choose, then you must let it choose you."

And I do. I pull the scarf from my eyes and see the soft blue of the sky woven with the pink of the setting sun flowing out of my hand. I choose.

We tie the scarves on our chairs and wave goodbye to the freshman boys in charge of the site for the day. It's time to head back so I can help Doug with lunch and be there when my mom's nurses switch shifts. We drive toward my house with the windows rolled down and T. Swift turned up. I look in the rearview mirror on my side and can see my scarf floating a bit beside my chair. Katie's is a swirl of tie-dyed color and sparkling sequins. Mine is a gentle sky blue. Katie calls it Tiffany blue and refers to it as my fallback-color-for-when-I-just-can't-decide. She's teasing, I know. Still, I tell her for the thousandth time that wasn't how it was. I didn't default my choice. Maybe the scarf chose me, and if it did, that's OK too.

"'But I've got a blank space, baby, and I'll write your name,'" she sings with a smile.

I hate it when she teases me about things like how hard it can be to choose. I mean, she has known me for-ev-er. But that doesn't mean that I'm exactly the same every year, every day. I'm capable of losing something myself this summer, although virginity is not on the short list. I believe that I am capable of changing, of choosing. Today I choose the blue of a cloudless summer sky. I choose the blue of a robin's egg—full of mystery and hope: the blue of infinity.