Entry #39: THE ONLY WAY TO CHANGE

THE ONLY WAY TO CHANGE
77,000 words
YA Magical Realism

We snuck into the beach at Hanna Park together, but I stood on the dunes alone. Colton took off with his girlfriend while I parked the car. The usual jumble of bodies circled the bonfire, and a bad playlist blared from mini speakers. People always invited me to these parties. My liver’s shot, so I came in handy as a designated driver. I didn’t go for the people, though. I went for the salt water.

I kicked off my loafers and walked to the shoreline. City park status kept the condos with their blaring lights off Hanna’s coast, and up close the night was all black water and white moonlight catching on the breakers. Memories of coconut sunscreen clung to the breeze.

“I thought I felt my gaydar going off! Glad you’re here, Evan.” Jake Morgan’s high pitched laugh rang in my ears. 

Jake jogged behind me, dragging a piece of driftwood toward the fire. His spiked black hair reminded me of a tuxedo urchin. I turned away from him as he passed by, and his knuckles jabbed me in the back. I gritted my teeth, with irritation knifing its way through my chest. 

“I’m gonna punch you in the ovary, Morgan.” Some girl shot me a dirty look, clearly missing my Anchorman reference. 

I shoved my hands in my pockets and stared at the crashing waves. I don’t know why I thought senior year would be different. I’d never had a girlfriend, and I was dateless on a Saturday night. Again. Before the night was over, I had to ask a girl out. 

The tide stretched higher, wetting my feet, and something tangled in my toes. I pulled a thin red ribbon from the damp sand. It slipped from my fingers and caught on the wind, swirling toward a girl sitting apart from the party. Dark hair whipped around her shoulders. I adjusted my glasses, but I couldn’t make out her face in the shadows. 

Talking to her one-on-one might’ve given me an actual shot, whoever she was. But in the opposite direction, my classmates’ faces glowed in the light of the fire. Voices muddled together in excitement. They looked the same as they did every weekend: happy. I’d never minded walking the beach while they partied, collecting intact shells for my aquarium or imagining rogue lionfish lurking beneath the surface.

But they always left in pairs. And even if my car was full, I still left alone. 

“Frank the Tank” from the movie Old School crossed my mind. He got drunk at a party and streaked through the streets. In almost every one of Will Ferrell’s movies, his characters spent their wild nights drinking. I needed to stop obsessing and just do something. Channeling my comic hero seemed like a step in the right direction. Just for one night. Just enough to loosen up. One beer. 

I cut through the crowd, fished a can from the cooler, and cracked it open before my conscience could stop me. 

“Dude.” Colton hopped up from his camp chair and grabbed my arm. “What are you doing?” 

The threat of hulk mode bubbled in Colt’s green eyes, and there was a rip in the collar of his Atlantic Coast Athletics t-shirt. His girlfriend drank from a red Solo cup, hiding her face. I glanced between them and narrowed my eyes. Colt wasn’t drinking because he had conditioning hours to make up the next day. But he’d been slurring and red-faced at another party a week earlier. 

“Something different.” I lifted the can to my lips. 

That first sip tasted like change, cool with only a hint of bitter. 

Colton reached for the can, but I jerked it out of reach. Foam sloshed over onto my fingers. I stepped back and gulped down more of the bitter swill. 

“Don’t make me take you to the hospital, man.” Colton pointed a finger at my chest, a gesture that usually meant a fight was brewing. But an obnoxious laugh broke through the tension. 

“Oh, Evan Evans has a beer!” Jake Morgan held up his phone, and his camera flashed. 

I flipped Jake off and headed back to the shore, brushing shoulders with Colt along the way. If I was anybody else, that would’ve earned me a right hook, but I guess ten years of friendship was enough to give me a pass. 

“Evan, come on,” Colt called after me. 

I chugged the rest of the beer, ignoring my best friend and my churning stomach. Colton looked out for me, but he didn’t understand what it was like to be saddled by my disease. He played football. He ate and drank whatever he wanted. Girls asked him out, not the other way around. 

The music changed and a flock of sophomores rushed across the beach. They blocked my path, and I dropped my can when two of them thrust their half-empty drinks toward me. They danced and sang and blurred together with the ocean kissing their feet. Dizziness clouded my head, and I struggled to focus the girl closest to me, Sally Ryan. Her blonde hair swung around as she moved, and her dress was so short I could see what color her panties were. (Yellow.) 

Sally was more than just long legs and a coy smile. She sang in the chorus at school, she lived in my neighborhood, and she always waved at the mailbox. Guys should’ve been lining up for a chance with her, but she’d never had a boyfriend. Kind of like how I’d never had a girlfriend.

With one beer down, I wanted another. I sucked down the girls’ half-empty drinks and worked up my nerve. I struggled to imagine Sally going out with me, or even hooking up with me that night. Things got fuzzy when I danced up behind her. Well, not danced, really, but nodded my head and shuffled my feet in my awkward way. 

She leaned closer to me. The encouragement built my confidence, and I reached for her hand. But instead of being all smooth, I stumbled and almost fell face-down in the surf. The next wave crashed higher, splashing up to my knees, and the girls all scattered. The water soaked up the oppressiveness of the heat and any lingering embarrassment. I waved to Sally to come back. The motion of my arm sent my head spinning. 

Another wave slammed into my chest, landing my butt in the soggy sand. But I didn’t mind. The ocean, limitless and constant and full of life, felt like home. The music warped in sour-slow-motion, and the firelight shimmered behind Sally’s head like a halo. I tumbled backward in the sand and flapped my arms and legs in the sticky wetness. Way to get the girl, Evan. 

A sharp pain in my temples broke the revelry, like shards of glass exploded in my brain. I closed my eyes and clutched my head. My body stilled, sinking while the waves washed over my shirt. But all I knew was this semi-conscious daze. 

I wondered if I was having the world’s fastest hangover. Images flashed in my head, a dream-like, fast-forward progression of scenarios. The breathless sound of shock and tears after the announcement that Jake Morgan was dead. Periwinkle-blue carpet at the visitation. The smell of honeysuckle at a funeral. And in my car afterward, I was kissing the absolute last girl I’d ever want to go out with or be seen with or kiss. The weirdest girl at school, with ash-back hair and old lady clothes: Harmony Maxwell.