Separate Schools Read online

  Riley cackled, “Taylor did it, Taylor did it.”

  Colt looked over at the three of them sitting on their beach towels and frowned. Harrison panicked in preparation for what he would do if this guy came over and started wrestling with his girlfriend with his dick out.

  Colt didn’t believe it. He was back at Riley, grabbing fresh fistfuls of sand and thrusting them into the backside of her pulled out bikini bottoms. But now Riley was getting mad. She was kicking at him hard, and she wasn’t laughing anymore. She whacked him in the leg with her heel, her face pinched mean, and she shouted, “You asshole! Your shorts are in the fucking boathouse!”

  Colt shouted back at her, “That’s all I wanted to know!” like he wasn’t having fun anymore, either.

  Another Oooohhhh went through the crowd as they felt the tension. Riley was furious and upset, standing up and now shaking out her bikini bottom. Sand filtered in a cloud down one of her legs, blowing away in the breeze. Harrison could see that her face was red and her eyes were wet. She left the beach, stomping up the steps to go back in the house.

  Kelsey Kay said, “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets sand up her asshole.”

  Part 3

  33

  Before dinner, gathered in the kitchen with his buddies—Mikey and Cisco helping him bring down the raw meat and the vegetables and the potatoes to the back patio grills—he was quite proud of his decision to be the ‘big guy’ here. Inside of course he wanted to go after her and tear her down for doing something that just was honestly biologically natural.

  Colt was a fine physical specimen and his girlfriend appreciated it. He wasn’t stupid. Once again, if there were a bunch of Victoria’s Secret models cavorting on the beach, he would be sure to be down there with his beach blanket pretending he wasn’t watching but oh he would definitely be watching. He could be trusted. Of course, none of those Victoria’s Secret models would actually sleep with him. It was 100% certain if Taylor curled her finger at Colt to come and join her somewhere, he’d have her bent over and ramming her from behind. Shit, just thinking that formed a cold knot in his stomach. And it pushed out his cock. Why was that so fucking arousing? It made him mad. Did anger get him aroused?

  He pushed it away. This was all about being the cool, mature guy that Taylor was dating. Not the high school kid. The guy that started Michigan State this week. Sure, that guy was also staying at home and driving back and forth from school, but, he’d earned enough money to buy himself a car to do that. That counted for something. He was responsible, and he was a good guy. They both said it, Kay and Taylor.

  He’s a good guy.

  There had to be good guys and there had to be muscular guys with big dicks. He wasn’t going to be the latter but he would knock the former out of the park. He would be the rock. The one Taylor would always count on. So yeah, sure, it occurred to him that he would prompt her and poke her about what they witnessed on the beach. He could picture himself saying to her, “Wow, looks like you were right. You see the dick on that guy?” Just to feel her out. See what she’d say, how she’d respond. Nothing ever came out right—he would say something like that and she would look at him funny. And he would feel stupid. It was stupid. Boyfriends didn’t talk to their girlfriends about hot guys, even when they were fishing. So as much as he’d like to get her opinion on what she saw, he would let that one stay quiet in her head. She could talk to her friends about it. You couldn’t stop that. You could hate it, but you couldn’t stop it.

  He laid out all the raw meat on wax paper around the grills, got his crew together and he whipped up a really amazing dinner. He used to help Trish and some of the chaperones around the kitchen, but look at him now: he was large and in charge and he was keeping the Brooks’ guests well-fed and happy.

  Some of the people gathered around while he was preparing and he was the acting host. Politely serving food, being a gentleman, and Taylor hung around. She didn’t go cavorting with her friends and she didn’t go cavorting secretly to talk to Colt. That would’ve killed him. But you know what, when you were the good guy, girls didn’t do that to you. What Taylor was witnessing right now was the man she would hopefully marry. At least he hoped that would be the case. The guy who looked at home out back of a nice, expensive lake place, grilling up food for everybody; the good host, the good guy. The guy who was awarded her virginity.

  He put on a show, Mr. Gracious, and it went over well. He felt good. Steaks and chicken and burgers were served with great aplomb, and everyone went to their spaces to enjoy his food. Compliments of course to Cisco, his sous. He cuddled up with Taylor to eat, and they laughed and everything was cool. They enjoyed their time together. They had at least ten minutes alone before they were joined by Kelsey Kay and Brady, and that was okay, too, even though Brady was shirtless. Taylor gave him a couple of side glances. A few times he caught her craning her neck around and watching where everybody was, and secretly, he held the notion that she was trying to pinpoint where her boy-toy was. Her stud.

  Colt was off with his friends. Off with KC and the football crew, eating down on the beach and then wading out in the water and hanging out around the swimming dock. Riley was out there, too, sitting on the beach with her friends Cookie and Jamie, and April. There was a patch-up with Colt. Riley reluctantly accepted Colt’s good humor again—he didn’t even apologize, but he taunted her in a good-natured way. She rejected him, but he persisted, and soon he had his hands on her and she was laughing. He hugged her, and she hugged him back. That’s how easy it was to resolve conflict when you looked like Colt.

  It made him wonder what sex was like between Riley and Colt. Back when she was in high school, Riley had been a slightly hotter and more popular version of Taylor. Taylor never was the wild girl her sister was and while she was top five if you asked the guys of Fraser High to rank the hottest girls, she was sometimes too quiet and introverted. Riley lived out her admirer’s expectations.

  He wondered where Riley and Colt did it? He didn’t think they dated. Didn’t remember that. He didn’t like that guy back then and it would’ve stuck out in his mind. He didn’t like him now, either, but whatever. Maybe it was a high school dance, maybe the prom. He didn’t think Riley went to the prom with him though. Shit, maybe a booty call. Why was that such a hot thought? Just like Taylor, Riley had heard of what swung between stud Colt’s legs. Wanted to experience something a little larger. Shoot, here came those thoughts again. He had to push them away.

  Dinner was done, and people were kind enough to mostly congregate their dirty plates in one place. Some of them stacking them on the salad tables, around the barbecue, some extra-eager people even managing to locate them up in the kitchen.

  Once dinner was done and before he began cleaning, he stood out on the back deck by himself. Taylor was off in her clutch with Shelby and Roxie. Kelsey Kay was off with Brady, the two of them down at the water. The sun was going down, and the lake was beautiful this time of night. The water was much more still now, and the sky glowed orange. That ambience was reflected in the gently undulating surface of Wolf Lake. Dark figures bobbed in the water. Groups of his friends in little bundles, laughing and joking, taking sips off drinks. The stereo was playing low, and he could hear the flicker of his fire as well. Mikey was there, right now, sitting by himself and going through his phone.

  This had been the great bash of the summer all through his childhood. But here they were, what, roughly eighteen young people who had the same experiences he did here. None of them today were kids anymore. It was official. They were all adults.

  He shook his head, took a deep breath, went through the basement doors and up to the kitchen to get started on tidying.

  34

  Him and Mikey and Cisco, Cookie and Jamie all managed to get the kitchen back in order in under forty-five minutes. They worked as a team, rinsing dishes and getting them into the dishwasher, scrubbing bowls and pans; Cisco went down and did the grills and tidied up the salad table. When it was done, t
he cleanup crew gathered in the kitchen and shared a drink. Cookie drank wine, the guys drank beer, and he had a Coke. They laughed and complimented each other and from outside they could hear the sounds of people laughing and yelling, running on the beach and splashing water. It was much darker now; the orange gone in the sky, fading to denim. The black spires of the tall trees on the opposite side of the lake poked up into that frayed color. Campfires dotted the opposite shore and smoke was in the air. There were other parties in the vicinity, other distant music playing.

  Cisco said, “I think it’s time to sit by the fire.”

  Cookie said, “It’s almost time to go skinny dipping.” Jamie hugged her, and she laughed.

  Mikey nudged his elbow, said, “You help me bring down my stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “My guitar and stuff.”

  They went upstairs together, to the room where Harrison would usually stay, and Mikey sat on his bed. He had an old steel body Gretsch acoustic that he loved. He’d played it for as long as Harrison remembered him.

  Mikey didn’t need help moving any gear—he pulled out a baggie of weed. He rolled himself a joint, and they shot the shit, Mikey telling him all about his first year at college. It went okay, but it didn’t come without hardship. Mikey told him he was on academic suspension.

  “That sucks.”

  “I gotta smarten up,” he said.

  The joint was a polished looking roll but Harrison didn’t smoke, so when Mikey offered it to him he begged off.

  The room he usually stayed in was much like Taylor’s except for the slanted dormer roof, and it was the one that Harrison was used to. He’d been upgraded, as they say, staying now in the honeymoon suite.

  Mikey scooted himself farther up the bed and sat by the open window. There was yelling outside and some laughter. He opened the screen and set down an empty tuna can that he could ash into. While he smoked the joint, Mikey asked him, “How’s it going to work with you two next year?”

  “Me and Taylor? We’re good. I’m going to miss her, and it’s fucking crazy that I won’t see her every day, but we’re going to work it out.”

  “That’s cool,” he said exhaling out the window. The room became filled with the pungent odor of weed despite the open window.

  Harrison continued, “I don’t know how I’m going to take it. Her so far away.” Now he was almost talking to himself. He turned around and sat himself down at the foot of the bed. He stared at the floor. “I’m going to think about her every day. Going to think about what she’s doing. I hope I don’t get put on academic suspension.”

  Mikey exhaled laughter in a tumbling balloon of smoke. “You gotta keep your head in the game.”

  Just like Kelsey had told him.

  “Cool cucumber,” he said.

  “Cool cucumber,” Mikey drawled. He ashed into the tuna can.

  Harrison said, “I am. I’ll do whatever it takes. I want her happy.”

  “You gotta be happy, too, hombre.”

  “I’m happy if she’s happy.”

  “Don’t think that’s how it works.”

  “That’s how it works for me.”

  Mikey made a funny little eye roll but didn’t pursue it. He dabbed the remaining half joint, putting it out. He closed it inside the tuna can and put it up on the dresser. He flicked his lighter a couple times, watching Harrison, then smiled.

  He said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

  It was time for the sing-alongs.

  35

  Mikey tuned his guitar sitting by the fire, lit up in flickering orange with his eyes turned down so he could hear each note and adjust it with the pegs. People began to gather. Harrison brought down the s’mores and left them at the salad table by the barbecues for whoever wanted to roast one. He’d arranged sticks for everyone’s selection and a few metal tongs for the bourgeois.

  Mikey began to play. Warming up with an ironically folksy and acoustic Justin Bieber song. Harrison watched people coming, taking their spots in Adirondack chairs or sitting on rocks. He looked for Taylor.

  Cookie joined them, sitting and holding Jamie’s hands. This might be the last summer all of them were together around this fire and he got a heavy heart again. Roxie showed up, coming from somewhere around the boathouse, wearing a bikini still, but with a flannel shirt draped over her shoulders. She looked exhausted. Kelsey Kay was there now, too, coming up with Brady from the beach. Pontoon, Rick-Joe. No sign of KC, but Harrison remembered the last time he saw him was in the house. He wondered if Taylor was in there, too, wanting a drink to sit with by the fire. Taylor probably trying to sway her brother who’d been having a good day today. Please, KC, I’ll be good, just one bottle of vodka, pretty pleeease ...

  Then when Mikey figured they’d all gathered, the crowd favorite began in gentle strums underneath his long fingers. The sing-along song they’d done probably nine years now. The opening melody of American Pie by Don McLean. A song about three times older than anybody here. Who’d begun it? He was pretty sure it was Mr. Brooks. Taylor’s dad had been the one who championed this wonderful song that made no sense to anyone there yet somehow resonated with them.

  Most began to sing along, and Harrison sat down with his back to the lake so he could face the house and look in the windows. He watched for movements in the bedrooms, looking for signs of Taylor or KC. They sang the first chorus, all of them doing it together, some of them getting the words wrong and laughing and elbowing each other. During the second verse, he saw KC in the kitchen. There was no Taylor.

  Roxie took his left hand, and he watched now as everyone tried to make this dumb moment even dumber, but sweeter, by holding hands and swaying. Next to him was Brady, and they looked at each other uncomfortably but then gripped hands.

  A panic wormed through him as he sang along and tried to keep a pleasant expression.

  Where was Taylor? Where was Colt?

  Now he sang idly, mouthing words but not issuing any sound at all. He tried not to frown and show a look of concern on his face but he was scanning the crowd. No Colt at the fire. No Taylor at the fire. His heart began to pound.

  Mikey switched it up and threw them all for a loop and making them laugh—still to the tune of American Pie, plucking away at his old metal Gretsch that had been his father’s, Harrison recognized the first verse of Ice Cube’s Growin’ Up. It was well done, Mikey had the knack, and the crowd laughed along at the out-of-place yet paradoxically congruent lyrics.

  Harrison let their hands go, his heart fluttering in his chest. He stepped back from the ring of people and hands closed up without him, Brady taking Roxie’s. American Pie emerged again from the melody, slipping now into the third verse and everyone singing together.

  He watched them all; happy faces oblivious to the wild maelstrom whipping through him right now. He looked up at the house, looked at the windows. Was she up there? Was she in the bedroom right now with that big dick stud she’d been flirting with? Was she on her back? Was he between her legs? Was she crying out at how large he was when he entered her? ...

  He practically hunched over with pain and surprising lust. He turned around, afraid to face the house. Afraid to look and see two figures moving up in Taylor’s bedroom.

  The fading sky still glowed weakly on the surface of the lake. The calmness had subsided and there was a gentle chop now. Out beyond the floating dock, there were two shapes. Two black heads bobbing in the water. Two people close together.

  No Colt here. No Taylor. It was them.

  He didn’t even look back, began stumbling stiffly down the hill like the Frankenstein monster, lurching from side to side as his heart pounded. He skated on pine needles, fell onto one ass cheek. When he got up he couldn’t see them anymore.

  He continued down the slope in a crouch, making it to the beach and stumbling onto his hands and knees. He crawled along the beach for a dozen feet, his eyes scanning the horizon. When he stood, he saw them again.

  Farther out now, two people way
too close together. There weren’t any couples here that weren’t around the fire. Were they kissing?

  He wanted to call out. He wanted to yell Taylor! and if it was her and she called back What? he would scream at the top of the lungs Get fucking back here!

  He had no voice. Nothing uttered from him when he opened his mouth. He wanted to collapse again. It would feel good to fall to his knees right now.

  Instead, he tossed away his shirt and kicked off his shoes. He wore swimming trunks but hadn’t been in the water yet today. Too busy. Too busy being the good guy. The good guy whose girlfriend fucked the bad guy with his muscular body and his big dick behind the good guy’s back while he held hands around the fire and sang songs like a dumbass.

  Now he was mad—mad and turned on—and he was trotting into the water, trying to move quickly but not kick up splash that would get their attention.

  He would catch them in the act.

  He would catch her and embarrass her. Embarrass her in front of all her friends.

  How could you? How could you, Taylor?

  The water was icy cold, and it pushed the breath out of him. But he dove and kicked his feet, gaining twenty feet underwater before he came to the surface again, whipping around and trying not to gasp for breath and give himself away.

  36

  When he broke the surface, he took a shaky, stuttering breath as quietly as he could. He bounced on the waves, a steady chop on the surface now. He rode the swell, gently kicking his legs and moving around in circles, swishing his hands under the water like a belly dancer. Around and around, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, seeing nothing. He’d lost them.

  He blinked, rubbed water out of his eyes, flexed his ears and wiggled his jaw trying to hear better. The distant shoreline strum of Mikey on his guitar came from behind him. He paddled around and faced the Brooks’ beach. He was about fifty feet out from the floating dock and he could see halfway up the hill to the house and on the left-hand side the glow of the fire he made. There were lit faces sitting and listening as Mikey played his guitar. There were other sounds, music from distant cottages. Sounds of laughter. A motorboat, very far away, behind him now on the other shore of the lake. He paddled around facing outward again.