“Aren’t you coming?” Lizette said. Emmett hadn’t moved from his beach chair, its metal legs, like his
own feet, half-buried in the sand. A gust of wind fluttered the umbrella. A seagull sailed overhead,
pinching a Cheeto in its beak.
It was one of those bright, golden, blazing-hot weekends that demanded beachgoing like a government
mandate. The shoreline was packed from the pier to the inlet of Dog Beach, skateboarders threading
through pedestrian traffic on the boardwalk, dreadlocked White dudes blasting music and smoking
doobies on the seawall. Mothers fussed sunscreen over the backs of children erecting castles in the sand
while taut, tanned, glistening bodies chugged sparkling water and jumped up to spike volleyballs over
nets.
Ocean Beach was a six-minute drive from Emmett and Lizette’s apartment, but between trying to find
parking and trudging through scalding-hot sand for a spot, it had taken them most of an hour to get
settled. Emmett was glad they’d persisted. He luxuriated in the salty breeze, the expanse of blue sky
stretching upward and out, the r epetitive crash-and-drag of waves against the shore. The sensations of the
beach stirred inside him like bits of his soul lain dormant.
He imagined getting into the water, splashing around like he had when he was a kid. Back before he
realized his body was different than the other boys’; before he started ke eping his shirt on to swim, then
switched to rash guards, which attracted fewer questions; before finally, hating how naked their clinging
fit made him feel, he withdrew from the water altogether.
Lizette rose from her towel and wiped the sand off her legs, the fullness of her body on proud display.
The bikini was one of her bestsellers, colorful and perfectly cut to draw the eye to her biggest assets.
“Come on. I want to go in.”
“You go. I’ll watch our stuff.” Emmett dug a paperback out of the GORDITA-brand beach bag, a
rom-com about fit, perfect gays. “Fuck the stuff. Come on!” “Really, I’m good here.” She tromped back
toward him, lowering her voice. “You can’t still be self- conscious, Emmettito. You’ve lost forty
pounds.”
“Thirty-nine, actually.” She started to clap back, then threw up her hands. “Whatever. You do you.”
From behind the pages of someone else’s story, Emmett watched her turn and walk out to the water. As
usual, she seemed totally unbothered by how she stood out among the crowd, how her body jiggled or
who was looking. She lived like she only had one chance.
Emmett would get there one day. Thirty-nine pounds sounded like a lot, but he was still big. Especially
here. But the real him was in there somewhere: proportional, fearless, free. Just a little slimmer, he
thought—a little more himself—and nothing would stop him from making a splash.