Castles on the Sand

Two

My light-dazzled eyes can't see anything or anyone as I trip my way over the broken rocks of the beach. Fortunately, I'm pale enough to glow and a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Jean-Pierre?” I whisper.

“JP,” he says. “Just call me JP.” Only his close friends call him that.

I have no idea what to say to him next, so I hold out the beer. “Not my thing,” I admit. “You want it?”

“Sure.” He cracks it open and takes a swig. “So what're you doing out at a party like this?”

“I'm with Kailie. I think she's drinking herself into oblivion, so I've gotta drive her home.”

“That's nice of you.”

I shrug. That's the system. I never give it a second thought.

“I know it sounds like a line, but do you come to these parties often?”

“Depends on Kailie.”

“See, I don't. It's hard for me to sneak out of my house.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My parents are strict.”

A lot of people's parents are strict in Pelican Bluffs. Though there are some who fit the stereotype of the rich folks who just buy their kids off, many of the families want very much for the next generation to go to top schools and get top jobs. It doesn't surprise me that Jean-Pierre's are in this category. “Where are they from?” I ask. “Originally?”

“Cote d'Ivoire, or Ivory Coast in English.”

“That in... Africa?”

“Yeah, West Africa. Former French colony. That's why I've got the French name, but I'm probably boring you.”

“No, not really.”

“Howabout you?”

“Um... I'm from here, I guess. I don't know where my mom moved from, and I don't remember my dad.”

“Your mom not like to talk about her past?”

“My mom doesn't talk about much of anything other than clay and pottery. She's driven.”

“Sounds like she's more than driven. You know your grandparents, at least?”

“Nope.”

“You sure she's not some kind of fugitive from the law or something?”

“Nope. Wouldn't know.”

He laughs, which is a relief. Mom's obsession with her art has been raising teachers’ eyebrows all my life, back to the day when my first grade teacher took me aside and asked me if I felt loved and safe at home. “There's living for your art,” my fifth grade teacher once said, “and there's escaping life altogether with an obsession.” I'm the first to admit that their fears aren't unfounded. If I was lying on the kitchen floor with a bleeding head wound, my mother might very well step over me to get to her workshop in the shed and her precious pottery.

“Family can be overrated,” he says. “I shouldn't say that, but some days, when my grandparents and my parents are on my back about my grades, I wish I were an orphan.”

“Well, I guess I don't know what I'm missing, so I can't really miss it.”

By now we've walked well away from the campfire, which is a tiny glow in the distance. The endless ocean is on our left and sheer cliffs on our right. He finishes off the beer with a long pull, then crushes the can and stuffs it in his pocket. See, that's how things are in Pelican Bluffs. Underage drinking gets you in trouble, but littering on the beach, that gets you in serious trouble.