I sure as hell wouldn’t be one of those.
Twelve of my fellow graduates planned to remain here, taking or keeping jobs in fishing or retail or tourism or drugs. They would get married and pregnant – preferably in that order, but not necessarily.
Their spawn would attend the schools that turned them out into adulthood after thirteen years with nothing to show for it but a near-worthless diploma. Ten years from now, maybe five, some of them would ask themselves what the fuck they went to school for – why they laboured through algebra, gym, literature and band. They’d want an answer, but there wasn’t one.
‘Maxfield.’ Boyce Wynn tossed me a can from the cooler, wet from melting ice. His was the last name called this afternoon, the last diploma Ingram resentfully presented. He’d be staying here, pretending this gulf was the ocean, this town his kingdom. Working for his dad at the garage, partying on the beach or driving into the city for the occasional change of pace … Not much would change for Boyce.
‘Hey, Wynn.’
He clasped my hand and we leaned forward until our shoulders bumped – a ritual hello and a far cry from the day we’d beat the unholy shit out of each other – and then become friends. My cheek still bore a scar from the solid thud of his fist, and he carried its twin at the corner of his eye from mine.
‘We’re out, dude.’ He raised his can skywards, as if he was a running back with a pigskin, saluting God for a miracle touchdown. He lowered it and took a long swallow. ‘We’re free. Fuck that school. Fuck Ingram. Fuck that fish.’
Laughter rose from a few bystanders – younger guys with another year or two to go. One of them repeated, ‘Fuck that fish,’ and snickered. I tried not to imagine the possible graffiti.
Boyce glanced down the beach to the outer edge of the circle. ‘And fuck bitches, man,’ he added, more quietly. I knew the direction his gaze was aimed, and on who. He was one of a few people who knew the real story of Landon Maxfield and Melody Dover.
Time can be a selective dick about how fast it heals. Two years ago, I felt the sting of humiliation whenever I heard her name or looked at her. I hadn’t forgiven, and I damn sure hadn’t forgotten, but by the time Clark Richards dumped her for good – the night before he left town for college nine months ago – I no longer gave a shit.
‘Shit.’ Boyce echoed my last thought and cussed the sand beneath our feet, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘Pearl and Melody, headin’ this way.’ Pearl Frank was Boyce’s own personal demon, still.
I nodded once, thankful for the heads-up.
‘Hey, Landon.’ Melody’s spun-sugar drawl and the fingernail drawn down my bare arm made me flinch. How could those two things have ever felt like air in my lungs?
Glancing to the side, I downed half the beer before answering. ‘Miss Dover.’
She laughed and laid a small, soft hand on my forearm, as if my words were coy instead of contemptuous, as if she was encouraging me to continue. I wondered if she’d forgotten what continuing with me meant. I stared down into her pale green eyes, and she returned my gaze through thick lashes, sliding her hand away slowly.
Hugging herself even though it was warm out, her position invited closer inspection. She wore a black string bikini with a see-through cover-up posing as a sundress. Her blonde hair spilled with calculated imperfection from the salon-created twist she’d worn at graduation. The gold hoops in her ears and gold charm bracelet on her wrist flashed tiny diamond messages of how far out of my league she was.
Not that I needed those clues. She’d delivered that message in all its crystal clarity two years ago, and I’d learned it. Hard.
‘We’re throwing a spontaneous graduation party at Pearl’s pool in half an hour,’ Melody said, after a silent communication between the girls. ‘Her parents left for Italy right after graduation – so they won’t be around. If y’all wanna come over, that’d be cool. PK and Joey are bringing vodka. Bring whatever you want.’
Melody pressed close enough for me to feel the warmth of her perfectly toned skin and inhale her still-familiar scent, something spicy and floral, artificial. This time, her fingertips stroked down my bare chest, her thumb grazing my nipple ring.
‘A pool party?’ I gestured with the can. ‘We’ve got a beach, in case you girls didn’t notice. Bonfire lit, beer in hand. What would we want with a pool?’
‘It’s a private party. Just a few people.’ She wrinkled her nose at some younger guys nearby who were farting dangerously close to the fire, where there was an ongoing debate about whether gas was gas. The likelihood of some idiot catching his ass on fire was a genuine possibility. ‘Graduates only.’
Pearl watched the underclassmen, too, sipping from her cup and shaking her head, a shadow of a smile on her face. Boyce slid his eyes from Pearl to me and lifted a brow – letting me know he’d be more than happy to go along with this turn of events. I shrugged. Why not?
‘All right,’ Boyce said – to Pearl. ‘We’ll be over in a bit. Don’t start the party without us.’
Melody rolled her eyes, but Boyce didn’t notice and wouldn’t have cared if he did. He only had eyes for Pearl, poor bastard.
The trailer Boyce shared with his dad seemed to lean into the garage, as though the corroded single-wide was falling-down drunk and could no longer remain upright independently. Two of Boyce’s three bedroom windows opened inches from the exterior brick wall of the shop, so the notion that the trailer required the building’s support was plausible.
Once inside, we hung an immediate right in an effort to avoid Mr Wynn, who was installed in front of the flat screen taking up most of the ‘living room’ wall. Predictably, he hadn’t shown for his kid’s graduation. Boyce’s father: plastered in the evening, hung over in the morning, mean and cold sober all day long, repeat. He was nothing if not reliable.
‘What-er you two shits doin’ home during the game?’ he hollered, not moving from his ragged chair, which was where he ended up sleeping more often than not. Boyce once confessed to me that he’d fought the urge to light it on fire a dozen times.
Bud Wynn’s threats went mostly unheeded now. A year ago, Boyce had punched back during a beating, and since then his father had been all growl, no teeth. Now eighteen, Boyce could probably kill him, and both of them knew it. This made for an uneasy truce I would never understand.
After bagging enough shit for a misdemeanour but not enough for a felony, we were back in my best friend’s Trans Am and driving to the Frank mansion on the other side of town.
‘I’m going for it,’ Boyce announced, punching stereo buttons like he was programming a rocket.
‘Meaning?’