Separate Schools Read online

  On the right: faint bobbing lights—the ring of boats he’d seen out there all day, having their own long-lasting party. He could pinpoint music playing from one of them. Recognized Pearl Jam, pegging the party as a bunch of old people.

  On the left: the black shape of the island, and on its further most left-hand-side half of the rigid right-angle shape of its creaky old boathouse.

  It was a place where they’d gone before. He could remember one year him and Taylor, Cisco was there, too, and a guy by the name of Jaxon who’d only attended one year (was that guy Riley’s boyfriend back then?—he thought so), all swam out at nighttime to check the place out but they didn’t bring any lights so they bailed because Jaxon was a little freaked out by the dark. Harrison had been there once during the day as well, going out one time with Mikey in a kayak and poking around. It had been empty, not much to see. All the debris from the burned down house was carried away a long time ago and there was nothing in the boathouse. It had been a boring island with an empty boathouse.

  But now between the boathouse and Harrison—his eyes adjusting to the early evening dim—he spotted the two bobbing shapes again. Two round humps like balls, low in the water. Staring at them now, he could pinpoint the sounds of splashing. They were low in the water because they were swimming. They were going to the boathouse.

  He began to kick his feet and breaststroke, keeping his eyes on them. It couldn’t be Taylor and Colt. There was no way. He was mistaken. It could be two people from another cottage. Shelby wasn’t at the fire, was she?

  There was no way to dissuade it. It could be them.

  He hadn’t seen Taylor, and he hadn’t seen Colt. Maybe this was some weird jealous thing working up through him, but he had to know.

  His breaststroke became a side stroke, and he tucked his chin down and tried to keep pace with them. They were moving quickly. Shit, and Taylor was an awesome swimmer. This wasn’t helping him think he was wrong.

  One moment, he was sure he heard a girl laughing. She sounded young, the voice bright and cheerful. It could be Taylor’s voice. He could be right about this. Or it could be any teenage girl. It slowed his stroke, and he waited for a few moments as the swimmers he chased got further ahead.

  A strange sort of glow began between their two bodies. He resumed his breaststroke, eyes lowered, teeth chattering as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. Between the two black shapes was a ghostly green phosphorescence under the water.

  The heads neared the shore, and he lost the distinction of their silhouette, the black shapes swallowed up by the black shore—but there was still that glowing green.

  “What the f-fuh-fuck?” he chattered.

  Now that glow worked its way to the left, heading to that hulking square-edged shadow of the decrepit old boathouse. The glow worked closer and closer, and he could see it begin to light up a gentle dim shine on the boathouse’s boards. He knew what it was. A phosphorescent glow stick. Someone brought a glow stick to see their way out to the boathouse. Why would they do that? Who would come prepared? It couldn’t be Taylor. It had to be somebody from the next-door cottage. Some neighbor coming out to take a look at this place for the first time. Or two people going there to make out. That was the kind of thing that would happen. It didn’t have to be Taylor and Colt. Taylor was back at the cottage, he was sure of it.

  Not a hundred percent sure so he continued his sidestroke again, eyes watching now as the glow worked underneath the closed garage bay door of the boathouse. He could see faint light in the gaps of the crooked boards of the old structure. Shit, he’d let them get too far ahead. Now he was less concerned with making noise so he busted out a solid Level XII Aquatic Academy sidestroke, heaving breath without fear of being heard.

  His body had grown accustomed to the chill of the water but he still felt cold at his core. Part of that he was sure was fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of discovering the truth of the unknown. Fear that he would pop up inside the boathouse to find Taylor naked with Colt behind her, gripping her skinny waist and pounding the shit out of her with that huge dick.

  “Fuck,” he grunted and squinted his eyes through a faster stroke. As he got close, he slowed and fell back to his breaststroke again for the sake of quiet. He moved as quickly as he could but trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t swim in there huffing and puffing. If it was the next-door neighbor and his girlfriend or his wife (it could be middle-age people, you know, Harrison, they liked to have sex, too) the guy might just punch the shit out of him for being a peeper. So he doggy-paddled until he was close then waited until his breathing slowed.

  The glow stick was moving around in the boathouse and he heard that girlish laugh again. It was fucking Taylor. He was sure of it. Again, not a hundred percent sure. It was teenagers. Not middle-age people. But still, if it wasn’t Taylor, and it was some other girl, the guy would definitely want to punch the fuck out of him for spying.

  Still paddling, he worked on building up the nerve. He had to go in. There was no way around it. He swam all this way just to know. You couldn’t turn back when you’d done that. He would just slip in, take a peep and get out. Unless it was Taylor. Then he was sure he would have a meltdown.

  The thought of it being Taylor had him trembling. He could feel his eyes swelling with a sadness. He even sniffed wetly, and it gave him the nerve. He kicked his heels up and dove deep, swimming under the water and kicking his legs in a big bowing crescent, breaking the water surface again, coming right up at the jagged maw of the old boathouse. In the daytime it was a faded denim color with white painted trim that had chipped and peeled. Right now, it was just all charcoal gray and black. He could see the boathouse’s open mouth, just a grim humorless black line a foot above the waves; could see the jagged rents in the battered old boathouse door.

  Inside the glow was static. Stationary. Like the stick had been set down on the ground. He bit his lip, knowing there was no turning back. Another few breaths preparation then he slipped straight down under the water feet first and paddled himself forward.

  37

  Slowly and silently, he emerged in the center of the boathouse’s bay, the ceiling and rafters above him tall and high and cavernous like a cathedral. Its old wooden structure shone in the ghoulish green of the glow stick, slashed with crosses of black shadows.

  Only his eyes had broken the surface. But as his ears came up, he listened. There was a moaning sound. A girl moaning. Wet sounds. Kissing. He was right, teenagers coming out to fool around. Or, possibly, a teenager and a man. A twenty-three-year-old man. It sickened him. It sickened him that Taylor would fall for that. But why? Couldn’t you see it, Harrison? Can’t you see with your eyes? The guy was hot. Just think—when Taylor had spoken to him on the beach, getting flirty with the guy, and you left, when you returned, Taylor’s friends had come skittering over to find out the goods. What did he say, Taylor? Oh my God, he’s sooo hot ... You know, I hear he’s got a big dick ... Me, too, me, too!

  He clenched his hands under the water and kicked forward.

  Now he could see the source of the light was blocked by two figures. The glow stick had been dropped on the decking at the back of the boathouse. There was a table and shelves that ran along the whole back wall, all of it empty. But there, sitting on the edge the boathouse deck were two people side-by-side. Their feet must’ve been hanging over the edge, but he could see that their hips touched and their torsos were turned toward each other. Their two faces were pressed together. They were kissing.

  His stomach tightened again at the thought that it could be her. Would she really do this? Would she really take another guy out to this boathouse while her boyfriend was here on the last weekend they would spend together? Take him out so she could make out with the guy? How could she be like that?

  He wished he could say it was impossible. There was an inkling in him. A little goblin of doubt dancing around, teasing him, jumping up with a flute at its mouth, popping poisonous darts at him. Jabbing little thoughts.


  I’m on the pill now because I’m going to college. I want you to be the one to officially take my virginity.

  Why? Because others would now be getting in line?

  Mr. Brooks. Poor Mr. Brooks.

  Trish and her hungry eyes. Trish dancing around from man to man after the divorce.

  Bad Riley. Bad Riley and all the boys she slept with. Bad Riley and her bad reputation.

  It was in the blood. It was in Taylor’s blood and she’d already shown him the signs. This was their last weekend together. She meant that literally.

  Tears came now, and he squinted his eyes to squeeze them away and still see the two people on the deck. He shook it off, pinched at his nose so he wouldn’t sniffle. His heart absolutely thundered in his chest. He kicked his legs, got himself a little closer. The bodies were too cast in shadow to see their details, but he could tell a few things. The boy was on the left. Man, probably. He was muscular. Jacked. The stick glowed behind them and showed off the big round globes of the guy’s shoulder muscles. He had curly hair. It was wet and slicked back, but at the nape of his neck there were the distinct crescents of curls. Golden curls, probably—but everything was green and black in here. The girl was thin. Thin and leggy ...

  It was Taylor and Colt.

  Or was it Shelby and Colt?

  Or was it some muscular guy and some girl hot girl from next door, Harrison? Don’t make a fool of yourself here.

  He took his two fists and pressed them on either side of his ribs, slipped them down and pushed hard on his stomach trying to crush the pain and nausea that swirled underneath. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be, but dammit, it really looked like it. It really did look like Taylor and Colt.

  They kept kissing, heads slowly rocking together, their wet mouths making sucking noises. Was it Taylor? Was Colt slipping his tongue into her mouth? Was she taking his tongue? Was she giving him her tongue?

  Now his fists beat lower, began to rap against his hipbones. This was all too much. His heart rate was through the roof. His brain was screaming inside his skull.

  Their hands were exploring each other’s bodies. She was touching his neck. He was touching her neck.

  Colt was touching Taylor’s neck!

  It occurred to him he could just shout out now. Shout out Stop! When the two people jumped up, and he saw it wasn’t Colt and Taylor he could duck under the water and swim out of here. But it also occurred to him in his haste he could whack his head right against the support structure of the boathouse door. Bang his head and break his neck. Or he could make it out, break the surface, then some jacked-up football player he didn’t even know would grab his ankles and pull him back under the water, put him in a headlock and punch his face while he breathed in gallons of lake water.

  Or he could get away. But he also couldn’t ...

  So he had to watch. He had to paddle here and watch what could possibly be his girlfriend make out with another guy. He was baring his teeth, snarling at her silently. Gritting teeth together with hate. Hating Colt. Hating Taylor. But not sure he should.

  The figures upped the ante on him.

  The girl’s hand caressed the boy’s—correction, man’s—chest. She stroked lower and began to touch at the muscles of his stomach. Yes, Colt had a great body. Put your hands all over him, you whore.

  The guy mimicked her. No details could be seen, but he could tell the guy’s forearm dipped lower, his hand probably gripping her left breast right now. Squeezing Taylor’s pert little B. Her nipple probably pressed out the fabric, he would feel it hard against his palm and he would love it. The girl made a panting gasp. It sounded like Taylor. But fuck, it probably sounded like every teenage girl.

  Now he could hear a hand on quick-dry board-shorts fabric. His heart stuttered and skipped a beat. The girl was touching the guy’s shorts. Her hand was between his legs. Holy fuck. He opened his mouth and panted silently as he watched, and the water splashed at his face as he bobbed up and down. Outside a motorboat droned, coming close.

  Now the guy’s figure moved—his right arm drawing up, the elbow pointing out. His hand grabbed at the waistband of his shorts, and his body shifted as he began to tug them down his thighs. He heard the girl make a gasp. She touched his cock. He was sure. That gasp was from the feel of the boy’s large size in her practically virgin hand.

  No, Taylor wasn’t a virgin, at least with her hand. He’d assumed she’d messed around with boys before him. She’d never had sex before him but that didn’t mean she hadn’t done other things. Still, she would gasp because Colt had to be the largest. Or maybe she was just turned on. Shit, the way his brain was flip-flopping, it might’ve been his own gasp, and he didn’t realize it.

  Now he exhaled long and slow. His open hands slipped down his own stomach, caressing his hipbones. His cock had grown fully hard and poked out the front of his swimsuit under the water. Why the fuck would that happen? He gripped it through the material.

  He could see the girl’s arm moving. They were making out, and she was giving this guy a hand job. Holy fucking cow. He couldn’t believe it. His own cock throbbed between his legs. It was astounding. He was inundated with jealousy and hate and rage. He wanted to punish her (if it was her!), but his body was going wild and his mind was doing crazy cartwheels. He held his breath and watched.

  Now the guy had his hand on her tummy, and he could see his shoulder roll forward, the guy’s hand slipping into the girl’s bikini bottoms. The bikini bottoms that were hardly even there. Slipping in and touching Taylor between her legs. Another guy maybe even putting his fingers inside her.

  Harrison had seen Colt’s muscular hands on the beach. The guy had nice hands. Masculine, well-formed with big knuckles. Thick skin and thick veins, tanned, manicured, clean fingernails. Would he put one finger inside her, or two?

  He squeezed his cock harder. Then the decision came to him.

  Aroused or not, he couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t watch this. It had to be stopped.

  He waded closer, got right underneath them. He put his hand out close enough that he could grab at their feet. He looked up between their knees. No light touched their faces. He couldn’t be sure. It sure did look like them though. It really did.

  He squinted and studied. The girl slowly jerked the guy off and her hips wriggled as he was sure the guy was slipping his finger in and out of her.

  Fuck, Taylor, how could you?

  He looked at the feet. It was dark, but he could tell where they were. He put his hand out very near to touching them. Something occurred to him.

  Now he bobbed even closer, getting below them. He couldn’t see their heads or faces or bodies at all, but against the ghostly luminance on the rafters above, looking almost straight up, he could clearly see the shapes of their feet just above his face. Their feet dangled over the edge and they were outlined against the green glowing roof.

  The girl had small, narrow feet. And one thing was for sure, on the second little piggy on Taylor’s right foot would be a gold toe ring. A three-year-old bit of jewelry studded with a pale blue gemstone held in a thin-arm golden clutch.

  Slowly, he extended his hand. He could see it shaking and trembling against the green glow. He steadied himself, held his breath. Above him they kissed. Sloppy sucking sounds. Moaning in their throats, snorting breath through their noses. Slick hand on cock sound. A wet finger in pussy sound.

  With sudden anger he lashed his hand out pinched at that toe.

  The girl screamed and shrieked and the two figures jumped up and away.

  He was gone. Slipping below the surface, doing a steady underwater breaststroke headed for the lake.

  Nice and easy, Harrison. Don’t whack your head. Don’t end up in a wheelchair. Be cool, be calm. Swim like a cucumber.

  He stroked and stroked, legs kicking, arms paddling, his heart pounding, but his breath good and steady. When he came up it was nighttime air all around him. Sounds of parties and distant music and a drone of a motorboat.

/>   There was no toe ring. It wasn’t Taylor. Hallelujah, it wasn’t fucking Taylor.

  38

  Whoever that guy was, he was muscular, and if he figured out someone had grabbed his girl’s foot—not some curious pike or something—he’d be mad and looking to show off for the girl, strangle the little creep that did it. So as much as he wanted to bellow frigid air out of his lungs and shout in triumph up to the burgeoning stars above, he kept his mouth shut.

  Mostly he swam underwater. He didn’t head back to the lake house. Not directly. He made his way clockwise around the island so if anybody was following they wouldn’t think to do something so strange. He swam around the island, going deep underwater for long jags, breaking the surface quietly and listening, going around in circles and watching to see if someone would follow.

  Once around the island he felt a little better, pinpointed where the house was; could see the lights in the kitchen and some of the bedrooms, could see the shimmering fire halfway down the hill to the lake. It made him feel warm despite the cold. He even pumped his fist a few times under the water.

  What was wrong with him? How could he think Taylor would do that? He didn’t even want to circle around the arousal watching that scene had provoked. It overwhelmed him with jealousy yet while he watched he’d sprouted a really solid erection. Don’t think about that, dude, just get back to shore. Don’t get hit by a boat.

  Now that he felt safe from pursuit, he made a straight line along the surface, alternating breathing on his sidestroke. Soon he saw the bobbing, rigid shape of the swimming dock. There were people in the water near shore, two heads and shoulders wading just off the beach.