“I did too,” he says. “But it never felt right, because it wasn’t mine. I
thought that if I just walked inside with that guy, he’d give me what I wanted. A
family. A life. But it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be.”
“It was almost there for me,” I say, playing with the water’s surface.
“Almost better. But then it all ended up exactly the same as before. Maybe
everything I touch will always turn out that way.”
“Maybe it will,” he says. His words set a punch to my gut and leave me
struggling for air, like I always do underwater. “But you can’t dwell on it. You
can’t set all of yourself in one effort, one house, one man’s grimy, cigar-stained
hands.” He grins at me and then, submerging himself in the lake, grabs my ankles
and pulls me underwater for real. This time, I’m not afraid; I know I’m not going
to drown. As we rise again to the surface he looks me straight in the eye. “What’s
your real name, Beaver?”
“Ronny.”
“That’s it? Not very exciting!”
I’m about to ask him if his name’s actually Bobby, when he swims up to me.
His face is close to mine, simple and familiar. Without thinking, I kiss him. For
several breaths our lips are balanced on one another, but I don’t worry about
drowning. It feels like all those times in the bathroom when I would press my
lips against the mirror, wishing that my reflection were an actual body. Here it is,
fleshed out, warm and sure of itself. And so am I.
VIII. Ronny
We get dressed onshore, me in his black shirt from dinner, him in my gray
t-shirt that smells faintly of chlorine. We walk together quietly until we reach
the clearing by my house. The fire has completely gone out, leaving no trace of
Mom’s book behind.
“Beaver!” My father screams across the yard. Bobby and I look to each
other. He raises his eyebrows as if to say you know what to do, and bolts through
the trees as my father races toward me from the other direction.
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