The Telling

For the girls who are sharks,

and those who are kittens,

and those who are heroes,

and those who are villains.

T
his is what
after
looks like: me picking my way up the ridge in my swimsuit; the swollen water of Swisher Spring at the end of summer; girls baking under an orange sun on the boulders; boys cheering for me to jump, even though they've been vying for bragging rights all day.
Boys.
Yeah, there are those in
after
—one in particular.

Right on cue, Josh winks up at me from where he treads water with the others. That one thing—a silly gesture he probably passes out like smiles—has been twelve years in coming for me, because I've liked Josh Parker since he wore red corduroy pants the first day of preschool. And up until a month ago, I'd never heard him say my name.

After
doesn't feel as good as it looks.

I'm buzzed off one beer, breathless on the rocky ledge that might as well be a stage twenty feet above the others, with a hundred acres of wilderness preserve at my back, and fighting the urge to wrap my arms around my midsection because even after a month, I'm still not comfortable in this teeny-tiny bikini in front of the kids my
classmates have called “the core” since the sixth grade. Definitely not with Carolynn Winters sunning herself below, keeping one bright fish eye on me. She's dazzling, confident, the kind of girl who never asks twice.

Everything is the wrong color and too bright and out of proportion.

There's space between what you see and what I feel. In my experience there's usually a line that separates what people choose to show the world and what they keep hidden.

My small life of
before
was like that too. I was the quiet girl, good in the way adults want teenagers to be: raising her hand for extra credit; more worried about what people were thinking than what I thought. Nights were early; days spent studying. There were millions of flash cards and the eight-semester plan.

I was an earthworm dreaming of being a python.

The wind whips my hair, and I tighten my halter tie. In the water I was knocked around by the boys' maelstrom. No matter how old boys get, they think it's freaking adorable to splash you in the face. And no matter how old girls get, we're always at the mercy of boys and their splashing.

If I said that out loud, Willa would add:
and their war
. She's on the shore, likely rolling her eyes behind her aviators and hoping that I'll jump fast so we can leave and she can watch whatever's been recorded from the History channel. She's already been patient with me
all day
(more like every day for two months) and she's sick of doing things she despises and hanging out with people she likes even less for yours truly. I flush guilty.

“Jump! Jump! Jump!” the boys howl, pumping their fists as the water slaps their chests. Rusty, Duncan, and Josh have been inseparable
since preschool. Rumors always circulate about the three of them and one of their testosterone-fueled misadventures.

“Jump where it's deepest!” Rusty shouts, his indomitably curly, strawberry-blond hair wet and flattened to his scalp. I can see the hint of a waxy bald spot on the top of his head. A reminder that the best-case scenario is getting old and dying—not that I'm obsessed with death or anything. The opposite. My stepbrother Ben's voice is in my head.
Don't wait until you're dead, Lan. Exercise your nerve and mischief.
I'm obsessed with living.

“Don't land on the rocks,” Rusty shouts again. He's a natural cheerleader, having played team sports since he could walk. I give him a thumbs-up. We've been at the spring for hours, lounging until the sun and booze induced comas, our skin sending up steam as we rolled into the water. No one's made their way up the rocky face of the cliff littered with
NO CLIMBING
signs to make the jump before this.

Four years ago, Terrance Finnsberg, a senior at Gant High, leaped from this peninsula and snapped his spine on a rock in the water below. Died instantly. I heard he was high when it happened, told his friends he could fly. In response, Gant Island passed a town ordinance that made jumping illegal. It didn't do a lot of good, since it's only one of those punishable-by-community-service crimes, and everyone needs community service for college applications. Moreover,
this is Gant
. A fog of boredom hangs over the island during summer months as tourists descend on us and Seattleites ferry over, crowding beaches. Kids around here are used to being entertained. Dangle something in front of their faces and tell them they can't have it, they'll stomp until you give it to them—or just up and take it.

Ever since jumping became taboo, it's everyone's go-to stunt. It
makes or breaks reputations. What the core doesn't know is that Ben took me here way before this was Gant's preferred dare. When I was eleven, I could find my way to the top of this precipice in the dark and cannonball into the water between the rocks poking up like knuckles.

“Rusty's next,” Duncan calls.

“Bro”—Rusty wags his middle finger at Duncan—“I told you I can't hurt my shoulder before season. The team would have my balls if I couldn't start.
Y
ou
go next.”

Duncan tips his skipper hat and gives what he thinks is an irresistible smile. “I can't risk screwing up this perfect face. I'm taking Bethany J. out tonight.” He says her name like it's an exotic delicacy he can't wait to gobble up. Bethany J. is a petite cheerleader with D cups. Bethany G. is a stocky flutist in the school band. To Duncan—and the majority of Gant High's male population—it's an important distinction.

Duncan shouts up to me, “This one time, Kara Moren jumped with her beer and gave herself a black eye.”

“You could put your beer down to jump,” Willa deadpans. No doubt she's glaring at his white skipper hat. “It's like he thinks he's the captain of the whole island,” Willa groaned as we pulled up behind the others at the trailhead for the spring earlier today. “Promise you won't blame me if I knock it off his head; it'll be justifiable hat-homicide.”

Duncan kicks up from the water, punching the sky with his free hand. “You can take my freedom but never my beer!” He's the only one staying afloat without relinquishing his bottle. With his drink, metallic-framed sunglasses, aforementioned cap, fitted swim trunks he brought back from Crete, and gold chain around his neck, he looks like he's
starring in a music video and the others are his entourage. Knowing Duncan, this is by design.

“No one's jumping.
She's
going to freak,” Carolynn gloats, not even deigning to say my name. She smirks only at her bestie, Becca, who's sitting cross-legged beside Carolynn on the rocks that rim the spring.

“It's okay, Lan,” Becca calls. “I wouldn't even jump to save Duncan's life.”

“Hey,” Duncan shouts, lifting his chest from the water to see her. “What did I do to you?”

Becca props her huge-framed glasses on top of her head and gives him an innocent look. “I'm over Bethany J. is all. Bethany J. is blacklisted. She's all you talk about this summer.” Her lips pout and she gives a little huff in place.

“Not true.”

“Kinda, man,” Josh says, laughing. Rusty grunts in agreement.

Duncan slaps the water, feigning anger. “Guys, she's
Bethany J
.” A pause, and he grins. “BJ?”

Becca claps her palms over her ears dramatically. “Stop traumatizing me,” she moans. Duncan blows her a kiss. She mimes plucking it from the air and then slumps to the side in Carolynn's lap, giggling. “Why can't we all just marry each other?” Becca asks wistfully. “Then there'd never be reason to talk to anyone but
us
, and I'd never have to go on another date where the boy wants to go halvsies.” Carolynn absentmindedly rearranges the bracelets stacked on Becca's wrist.

Despite being best friends with Carolynn Winters, Becca Atherton is not soulless. Becca pats my empty towel. “C'mon down, Lan, and we can predict hookups and couples for senior year.” She
says this as though it's the most alluring carrot she can dangle in front of me, a famished bunny rabbit.
Before
I would have whispered to Willa that
news flash
: All girls are not boy and gossip crazed. All girls are not kittens or bunny rabbits. Some are sharks. This is ironic, since although my former self would have acknowledged this, she never would have had the guts to act on her sharkish impulses.

After Lana
grins at Becca and shouts, “Lemme jump and then I have a few predictions.”

The sun refracts off the diamond stud in Carolynn's pinched nose as she tips her face up to the cerulean sky. “I've seen loads of guys jump,” she says. “Girls aren't meant for stunts like that.” She drops her chin and winks at Becca. “Pussies are pussy.”

Willa sits bolt upright. She's the only one of us not in a swimsuit, since she doesn't swim and isn't the tanning type. The stripe of white sunblock down the bridge of her nose has the look of a landing strip. “There's a lot of disagreement about where that word came from. Pussy is actually a diminutive of
pusillanimous
, meaning cowardly. Although maybe the origin doesn't matter, since everyone equates it with the female anatomy anyway?”

Becca rocks back, barely able to say through her giggles, “Puss-a-what-a-lis? Are you speaking Snuffleupagus?”

Willa gives a perplexed shake of her head before continuing, “And why wouldn't girls be able to do everything guys can?” I know she's forcing herself not to make a fist at Carolynn—she considers Becca too easy a mark.

Carolynn groans and rolls her head until she's looking at Willa. “They're different. I like mani-pedis, and Rusty”—she points a pink nail at him—“likes jerking off.” Willa snorts. The boys whoop. I don't
know how it started, but the core is always joking about how much Rusty Harper
loves
himself. What would have made other guys outcasts made Rusty a comic hero. He plays right along. He even had
RUSTY PIPE
printed on his baseball uniform.

The core's like that. They defy gravity.

Carolynn eyes Willa like she's a bumbling foreigner clueless about basic customs. “I repeat: boys and girls are different,” she states slowly, matter-of-factly.
In this country we drive on the right side of the road.

Cue a din of pervy comments from the boys as Willa pops up on her knees, hands on her hips, her tone full of bravado. “What do you want to bet that not only will Lana jump, she'll dive?”

Like it's been choreographed, everyone's faces snap in my direction. They don't have a clue about the times I came here as a kid because
before
, Willa and I didn't lunch in the same solar system as these kids, let alone spend half the summer setting off fireworks at Shell Shores with the radioactive core of Gant High. Why radioactive? Because these six hold the power to make others treat you as the deformed victim of nuclear fallout or a superhuman with clear skin and flawless hair.

Willa and I were sipping iced mochas at Marmalade's Café a month ago when Josh invited us to play pool. Josh was all tumbling laughter and easy smiles, and after weeks of not being able to catch my breath, I could breathe near him. Before the first eight ball was sunk, Carolynn had called me
Lena
twice and shrugged once, purring, “Same difference,” when I corrected her—which was a lot nicer than when she emptied a flask on my dress at freshman homecoming. She was trying to scare me off; she didn't bank on me sticking
around for two more games or Josh driving me home afterward. I know Ben was the only reason Josh noticed us initially. Losing Ben cast a shine on me that I didn't have as the weird little sister of “a popular.”