There’s something ironic about how the uber-wealthy go to tiny, back wood, hick towns for vacation. God forbid we go to one of the five-star resorts that line pristine beaches, or the comforts of a modernized summer home in the mountains. Nope, every year the Wilcox family makes the trek to the little town of Briar Cliffs to stay in our hundred-year-old, musty cabin, overlooking the river that my father has been coming to since he was born, and his father came to since he was born. Apparently, it’s family tradition to bore the hell out of the Wilcox men, which is just a dangerous fucking move.
It makes us restless, and if history has proven anything, it’s that there’s nothing worse than a restless Wilcox.
Makes no damn sense. Even my dad hates it; he holes up in the makeshift office, drowning himself in work. When Mom actually decides to get sober enough to leave the house, it’s only to spend time with the other summer wives, who she doesn’t even like. Gossiping and trying to show each other up isn’t her scene. Being locked in the cabin with my absent father isn’t her scene, either. I pace around like a lion in a cage, trying to find something to do with my hands, going crazy with the ripple of unspent energy sparking beneath my skin. And Heston. Well, Heston is the worst of all. Putting him in any contained area with me and our mom is a recipe for disaster. This has never been a quality family bonding experience, is what I’m saying.
It’s my sense of restless, energy-rippling boredom that ejects me from the cabin one summer night on the hunt for weed, pussy, and maybe a fight. Three things a determined seventeen-year-old can find pretty easily, even here.
“Yo, Wilcox.”
I look up and see my friends Reid and Mitchell walking down the cracked sidewalk. I jerk a nod in greeting. “Thing One, Thing Two. What’s going on?”
“In the Briar Cliffs?” Reid asks, bumping his fist with mine. “Jack and shit.”
“Except,” Mitchell says quickly, “we heard there’s a party down at the dock. Wanna come?”
“Let me check my schedule,” I joke, pulling out my phone, which predictably has no service. I’ve had shit-all to do for weeks now but work on my tan and try to charm the pants off a few girls. “Yep, looks like I’m free.”
We head off, passing the antique shops and pharmacy, taking the turn to the dirt road that heads down to the water. I know this place like the back of my hand, every nook and cranny. The steep cliffs overlooking the river. The seedy liquor stores. The mom and pop shops. The suburbs ten minutes north of here. Parents feel secure in letting their kids roam free around the Briar Cliffs from a young age—the wisdom being that there’s not much trouble to get into, and whatever trouble we do find, they’d done it all before.
Reid reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a silver flask. It’s pretentious and a little douchey, but when offered, I take a swig. The liquid burns like fire down the back of my throat, then warms my belly. I hand the flask back over and ask, “Is this a townie party or summer people?”
There’s a distinct difference between the two. Summer people, like myself, have the kind of parties you write home about. Great booze, big boats, and freaky bitches dying to be the center of some rich boy’s attention. Townie parties, though. Those are thrown hastily together on a wish and a prayer. The booze is cheap swill, the boats aren’t safe for occupancy, and the girls…
The girls are dicey as fuck.
Not always a bug, sometimes a feature.
“Probably a mix,” Mitchell says, taking a drink and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I got a text from Karen telling me to come.”
Karen is a local girl who works down at the marina. She’s a sexy ginger that Mitchell had the pleasure of hooking up with last weekend on one of the docked boats. I spent last weekend bare-knuckling it with some douche from Rockport and won two-hundred bucks, a loose molar, and a bag of weed. For the Briar Cliffs, that’s a pretty great night.
We reach the top of a rise, and down below is the public dock. During the day, little kids jump and dive off the end, and families picnic on the beach. At night, it’s an infestation of older kids and