jam my feet into the clunky winter boots I insisted on wearing out tonight, so I won’t ruin my flats in the snow that will freeze onto the sidewalks in a thin crust tonight before anyone tackles the cement with shovels and rock salt in the morning.
“Come on, Anna,” she says, irritation lacing her voice. “Party time.”
“Mmmm … ,” I manage.
“Everyone wants to go out on the beach. Get up, baby girl. You’ll get a second wind.”
She gives up on my boots and slides in next to me on the couch, then sweeps the usual tangle of hair out of my face and tucks it behind one shoulder.
“You coming?” It’s Mike’s voice. I blink once, twice, try to look up at him. He won’t come into focus; all I see is a blur of fist bumps and chin thrusts that make Kaylee burst out laughing.
“Yeah, we’re coming,” she says. “Seriously, Anna, you have to wake up.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the beach at Coney Island, huddled on the stretch of sand between the murky gray water and the creaky boardwalk planks. To our backs, beyond the boardwalk, is Luna Park, its rides shuttered and silent in the deep winter chill. It’s ten o’clock, give or take. Too early to go dancing but too late to sit around inside, waiting for something to happen. Ian takes a pull from a pint of cheap whiskey, then passes the bottle to Kaylee.
The cold keeps me awake, but barely. I force myself to look around. We’re not the only people out here tonight. A few yards down the beach, far enough away that they look like children under the glow of the lamps on the boardwalk, a group of guys is using the old playground equipment cemented into the sand like their own private gym, doing chin-ups on the handle bars and push-ups against a metal rail set into the ground. A few shops on the boardwalk are open, and people lick swirl cones despite the cold. There’s no swimming here in the off-season, but the beach isn’t closed, except in the area where we’ve made camp. Our stretch of sand is marked by a few red flags that whip and snap in the wind in an attempt to keep people off the wooden pier that stretches like a bony finger out into the ocean. We shouldn’t be here, but who gives a fuck. The deep shadow keeps us ghosted in the night, veiled from the prying eyes of cops or drunk old men.
“I’m going polar swimming,” Starr announces, pale hands and face flashing in the moonlight.
Mike snorts. “You’re crazy.”
“Watch me,” Starr says, and starts out toward the pier.
But we don’t watch her. Mike’s phone rings, and he holds up a finger, one sec, then walks down the beach toward the playground. Kaylee spreads out the blanket she’s had wrapped around her shoulders, and she and Ian collapse back on the sand, a blur of hands and lips and tongues. I leave them to their grope-fest. Up on the boardwalk, arms resting on the rail, is a boy I recognize from around. We’ve hooked up before. His hair whips into his eyes, then away from his face, reminding me how cute he is. Maybe one time last fall, I stayed the night at his place. I think he was nice. I wander across the sand to the boardwalk.
“I know you.” He’s looking down at me. I doubt he remembers my name, but I don’t remember his, so we’re even. He crouches down so his face is level with mine through the railing. He holds half a joint out to me, and I take it. For a minute, we smoke in silence, passing the joint back and forth. I tell him the name of the club where we’re going later, and he types it into his phone.
“Maybe I’ll see you,” he says, and when my lips curve up into a smile, the muscles feel tight.
* * *
“Where’s Starr?” Kaylee’s voice filters through the thin night air. She’s close and far away at the same time. Something’s wrong with me. I feel a little bit like I’m floating above the ocean and a little bit like I’m buried deep under the sand. I force my fingers to flex, and I’m not sure what I’m touching. It’s soft but gritty and a little damp.
“Anna, wake up. It’s time to go, and we have to find Starr.” Kaylee’s hand is on my shoulder, shaking me. Her