July. 1987. I'm seventeen. She's sixteen. We take a Greyhound over the hill, arriving before the clouds burn off. Boardwalk to the right, ocean to the left. The slow tick-tick of a roller coaster climbing sounds in one ear. Sea rolling onto sand whispers in the other. Warm waffle cone sugars the air as Lily and I walk on the beach.
When we find our spot, we dump our beach bags, lay our towels down on the sand, and drop the pink portable radio next to our heads. I push eject and insert The Cars, Candy-O. I hit play...and she won't give up...we strip off our sweats to the bikinis underneath...'cause she's seventeen...slick ourselves with Hawaiian Tropic...she's my frozen fire...and spread our already sun-toasted bodies across the sand...she's my one desire.
We swim, forget the time, lie in the sun and pass a red plastic cup between us. Back and forth Peach Schnapps heats our underage insides. Looks by men, new raw gazes, start to burn, fiery, inside us too. Warmth we've never felt before. Rises. They survey our landscape with eyes that say, "You're old enough."
Our new womanly bodies — full of curves and danger — are laid out before us. Mapped out in salty wet silhouettes on bold print towels. Dark and shapely is this terrain. The boundaries of this place aren't clearly defined yet but in the men's eyes we see that this destination is beautiful. And desired. Ready or not. We have arrived.
Gretchen Clark holds a B.A. in English Literature. She co-teaches an online Lyric Essay course on Writers.com and is a Creative Arts Mentor for at-risk teenagers in the Phoenix area. You can reach her at prettylizard_2000@yahoo.com.