Free Sex & Violence by Carrie Mesrobian

the lift yet. I was wondering if Evan could take me out there with my gas can.”
    “Of course Evan would love to help you out.” My father nicked the boat keys off the hook and tossed them to me, and I was so surprised I didn’t catch them. Smooth. Baker bent over and picked them up.
    “We’ll be right back, Mr. Carter,” she said. “And some of the kids are getting together a few cabins down to watch movies tonight too. Can Evan come?”
    My father grinned, like Baker had just offered him a million dollars and not a big fat lie making Jim’s party sound like the polar opposite of the keg-stand pukefest I’m sure it would be.
    “Of course!” he said. “Of course, Evan can go!”
    I wanted to kill him, but fifteen minutes later, Baker and I were in my boat, approaching Story Island, the sun setting orange all around us. The island was almost frightening now, as the sunlight intensified how dense and overgrown it was. There was no dock access and along with the cattails, there were now lily pad-like things and fresh green reeds shooting up around the boulders, complicating everything with their little clots of bugs snarling around in the fading light.
    I was thinking Story Island was more of a penal colony than a vacation home getaway, when Baker explained to me that though the party was out at Jim’s, Jim and Skinny Blonde Chick Conley and Titanic Taber had gone out on Taber’s pontoon for some reason. Conley called Baker from the pontoon, freaking that they were out of gas.
    “Conley always has to fucking pre-party,” Baker said.
    I hated it when people used the word “party” as a verb, but I didn’t mention this to Baker, because she sounded pretty mad.
    Also, I was wondering what exactly a “pontoon” was. It sounded like Minnesota slang for “vagina.”
    “They’re around here somewhere,” Baker said. “Conley said they were near Story Island.”
    We slowed and circled the island until we saw them, and I realized that “pontoon” didn’t refer to girl bits but one of those flat-bottomed boats, a floating platform on which the youth of Pearl Lake thought it wise to “pre-party.” As we neared the pontoon, I silently wished Baker would just chuck the gas can at them so I could peel off and get back to my life reading Under the Waves and avoiding all these fucking people, but then Taber and Conley waved at us.
    “Anchor us here,” Baker said. “I’ll moor us to that No Trespassing sign.”
    That seemed like a terrible idea, but I did what she said.
    My boat slid next to the pontoon, and Taber’s huge blond self stood up and reached over for the gas can. I thought that would be it, but then Conley screamed, “Jim’s on the island!
    He’s out of his mind!”
    We looked over, and sure enough, we could see someone sitting on the scum-covered rocks. Jim. Shirltless, wearing big Oakley sunglasses and track pants and those athletic sandals with the knobby soles that I cannot stand.
    “What the fuck is he doing?” Baker asked, looking at the rings of boulders that I knew Barrett Archardt had used to bol-ster the shoreline of his island and protect it from erosion. But I didn’t mention this trivia to her. She sounded very angry.
    “I’ll go get him, Baker,” Taber said. “Just let me finish the gas thing.”
    “No, I need to talk to him,” Baker said. And she jumped out and waded toward the rocks through a bunch of dead cattails.
    “Tell him if he gets busted, I’m going to kill him,” Conley yelled at Baker, who didn’t turn around. “This was all his idea.”
    Baker continued grimly up the rocks. I just sat there silently watching her like a dipshit. What else was I going to do?
    Talk sports with Taber?
    “Baker! Baby! You’re here! Your hair is sparkling!” Jim shouted.
    He kissed her then and babbled a bunch of other crap I couldn’t hear. I considered my options. Start up the motor and leave? Jump overboard and swim home? But then I couldn’t resist eavesdropping on her