It’s the eighth summer of our lives; we’ve never met before. We’re standing beside a giant boulder near the beach, she on one side, me on the other. My eyes meet hers then dart to the boulder, then back. She places her hand on the rock; I pound my fist on it.
“Let’s share.”
“But you’re a girl!” I exclaim.
“So?” she says, pinching her nose, “You’re a boy.” My face is blank as she begins to ascend the giant rock.
“Fine.” I spit, and I begin to climb. We meet at the top of the boulder. She keeps smiling and it’s irritating. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re more annoying.”
“Yeah, well…” I look down for a second, “I’m king of this rock!”
“Well, I’m queen,” she quickly retorts.
•••
It’s the ninth summer of our lives; I’ve taped a strip of blue across the boulder.
“This is my half. That is yours,” I say.
“That’s not fair!” she exclaims. “Look.” She peels tape and moves it over. “That,” she points, “is half.”
“But, I want this much,” I tell her, moving the tape back to its original place.
“We’ll fight for it then,” she flashes a smile. “Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot.” She wins, and hesitantly, I switch sides with her. We sit together in the silence, watching the trees sway around us.
“This is boring.” I look at her; she’s lying on her back, her eyes lost in the sky.
“I see a bunny cloud. See,” she points. I follow her hand to the bunny cloud, but soon find my eyes are wandering to others.
“There’s an elephant cloud too,” I giggle.
“That? That’s a circle.”
“I stiffen, but then smile and say, “One day, I want to rule the sky, because nobody owns it. It would be all mine and better than a stupid boulder.”
“You’re so random,” she says.
•••
It’s the tenth summer of our lives; she’s turned our rock into her rock. It’s covered in pink spray paint. My face is disgusted.
“What. Have. You. Done?” I shout up at her.
“I made it pretty,” she says from above, “Don’t you like it?” There is a twinkle in her eye that makes me angry. I glare at her and start to climb up the rock, fast. I shove her off, but she’s fast too; she grabs me. Together, we go tumbling off the rock.
“What’s wrong with you?” she screeches. Tears are streaming down her face. “Boys are stupid. You are stupid!” She gets up and runs off until all I can see are footprints in the sand. The smile disappears off my face when I see the other side of the rock painted navy blue with my name in black. I gulp for a second, not sure how to feel now, so I shout out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Sorry, and uh, you—you left your shoes,” but she’s long gone.
•••
It’s the eleventh summer of our lives; I’m biking on Sandy Shore Path, a trail leading away from the beach. I’m leaving our hideaway. It still has spray-painted names and remnants of tape, although we haven’t shared any moments by the rock this year.
I see her biking towards me, so I lift my head up and call out, “Hey.” She stares and me and shakes her head. After that day, I come to the conclusion that girls are complicated. Except my mom, she doesn’t count.
•••
It’s the twelfth summer of our lives; I bike to the rock when I see her. She’s slumped against the boulder, reading a book. She glances up for a moment but gives no acknowledgement of my presence. I lean on the rock, spaced a few feet from her. I draw in the sand with my feet, waiting for her to say something.
Finally, “You’re not so bad.”
“Thanks,” I say as she closes her book, and looks me straight in the eye.
“When you’re quiet that is,” she smiles. She returns to reading her book but I’ve gained some confidence to speak up now.
“Do you like your book?” She glances at me, and I notice her trying to suppress a smile that’s trying to break out.
“Like I said, I like it better when you’re quiet. You’re less likely to say something—”
“Offensive?” I interject. She snorts a laugh.
“No, stupid.”
•••
It’s the thirteenth summer of our lives; although the tape has peeled away, the spray-paint miraculously has barely faded. We’re listening to music from the portable radio she brought along. I’m sitting on my side of the rock, and she on hers. I move over to her side.
“Hey.” There is a silence between us. I inch closer, and I whisper in her ear, “Hey!” She’s staring up at the clouds, which even now, I still can’t categorize for my life. “So, is that a bunny cloud?
“Is there any way to make you be quiet?” she laughs.
“Well,” I smile, “You could duct tape my mouth or better yet drown me in the ocean over there. You could kiss me or even better you could just get up and leave.” She hits me with her book. My smile turns into more of a smirk while I’m rubbing my arm.
“Ew! I would never kiss you,” but then suddenly, she does.
•••
It’s the fourteenth summer of our lives; we’re walking barefoot on the beach. Shells are cracking beneath us, and the cold ocean surf is washing over our feet before withdrawing back into the ocean. Neither of us are talking, just walking and watching the sun drop behind the sea. There’s an awkwardness floating in the air. Although I don’t mind, it seems she does, nervous as she strolls down the beach beside me.
“Today is my favourite day of this summer,” I say. She rolls her eyes but instead of saying something nods her head. “Wanna’ know why?” The corners of my mouth lift, as if I’m trying not to smile but can only manage the mouth-closed part. “Because there are no clouds in the sky. Means I don’t have to figure out what cloud is what.”
“Sometimes, you are so weird. You know that?”
“Yes,” I respond with a laugh.
She rolls her eyes again. “That was a rhetorical question,” she mutters.
“Well, rhetorical this,” I say, and tickle her to the ground. She shouts my name, but I just look at her amused. She blankly stares back. I lend my hand out to help her get up, but instead she pulls me down, face-first, right into the sand.
•••
It’s the fifteenth summer of our lives; she’s venting to me about life. How she hates her parents—how they don’t understand, how they expect her to be perfect.
I tell her, “No one’s perfect,” but she just becomes irritated by my response. We begin to argue about how all I’m supposed to do is listen. According to her, I don’t listen, and good friends do. I tell her that’s not true; we go back and forth until eventually she stops and gets up, leaving me alone. I’m not upset though because I’m positive she’ll come back. She always does.
•••
It’s the sixteenth summer of our lives; pebbles are being thrown at my window but not in the romantic Romeo and Juliet way. I open up the shutters and see her standing below.
“Let me in!” she whispers loudly. Somewhat shocked, since I didn’t even know she was still around. I hurry downstairs and let her in. Without saying a word she tiptoes up to my room in her pajamas.
“What are you doing?” I ask, chasing after her.
“Crashing here. It’s my last night, and I’ve barely seen you this summer.”
“But it’s like one o’clock,” I whisper.
“So, we can pull an all-nighter,” she giggles.
“All night long?” I ask stupidly. She rolls her eyes.
“Yes, if we didn’t that’d defeat the purpose of an all-nighter. But trust me, it’ll be the best night of your life.”
•••
It’s the seventeenth summer of my life; I’m lounging on the rock alone. The spray-paint has faded away, and all traces of the tape are gone. I’m staring at clouds. “I figure that one is a horse, and that one is a… dog?” I tell myself, but I honestly don’t know since she’s not here to correct me. In fact, we haven’t spoken all year, no more two-hour phone conversations during the school year or summer vacations together. Last we saw each other, her dad was escorting her to the car with a stiff expression on his face. Now, I’m all alone, king of this rock.
•••
Many years have passed; I’m watching my daughter laughing and running in circles around the rock with her newfound friend. She’s playing tag with a boy. There are no “cooties” involved—just the sheer fun of being a kid, playing tag. It’s funny after all these years, coming back to my home away from home—the same summer house, the same rock, only new people.
“Thomas!” a woman calls out. Suddenly the game comes to a halt. My daughter looks at the boy, waves at him, and then runs towards me. The boy holds tightly onto his mom as they walk out from behind the boulder. She flashes a familiar, welcoming smile, but I’m more amused by our kids whose wide-eyes are glued to the rock as if it’s a marvelous, new toy. I smile. It occurs to me that from generation to generation the rock is passed down. I’m not king forever. I glance at the mother again, who takes her son’s hand and points up at the sky.
“See that cloud? It’s my favourite. A bunny!”
[su_panel background=”#f2f2f2″ color=”#000000″ border=”0px none #ffffff” shadow=”0px 0px 0px #ffffff”]At 17, Ian Sherman is an aspiring writer, New York City dweller, and Junior at Trevor Day School. Despite his dyslexia, writing is a passion. He’s been recognized on national and regional levels, been publicized, and had plays produced off-Broadway. Besides his writing, his main focus is his schoolwork.
