Free Before My Eyes by Caroline Bock

looks at me, smiling, pleading. There’s no other adult to tell her—or me—what to do. I look around as if to double-check that my father—or mother—aren’t suddenly appearing. We are alone, and I realize, free, free: unfettered, unburdened, unleashed, I think, running through synonyms at top speed, for at least today.
    â€œWhat are you waiting for, Izzy?” I say, kidding her, dashing along the boardwalk without her, squinting into the sun, resolved to have a last day at the beach that will sustain me through the winter.
    I expect her to follow me. But she stands there, alone, looking panicked into the blinding sun, as if I am going to leave her. “Izzy, come on. Let’s go,” I say, and her thin legs scamper to me. She entwines her fingers through mine. She swings our arms together. I am never going to have a moment alone again, am I? We walk, our hands locked, toward the far end of the boardwalk.
    The Atlantic Ocean stretches before us, miles to the east and miles to the west. At the far end to the east is beach, ocean, and more ocean, and at the far end of the western horizon is New York City with its skyscrapers and bridges in miniature, like a model, against the blue-blue skies. Before us is the chance to be lost in ourselves.
    â€œLook,” Izzy says, pointing back toward the restrooms. I hope Izzy doesn’t have to go to the bathroom already. It will take us a half hour just to get her bathing suit pulled down and back up.
    â€œHe talked to me.” She points to the bulky guy with the shaved head and mirrored glasses, now pacing near the men’s room.
    â€œWhat did he say?” I ask, focusing instead on the beach. I like to lie near the edge of the crowds, near the dunes and sea grass.
    â€œHe liked my bathing suit. And he wanted to know your name, Claire.”
    â€œI hope you didn’t tell him.”
    â€œI told him: Claire Wallace.”
    â€œSo you didn’t give him my middle name, too?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Claire.”
    â€œDid he want to know your name, Izzy?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood. Don’t tell strangers your name.”
    â€œI didn’t! I said I told him yours.”
    â€œI got that.” I glance back toward him again, but now he’s gone into the bathroom or the crowds, become a shadow in the light. “I’m sure he’s harmless, just another guy who likes to hang out here.”
    â€œClaire, when are we going into the water? Can we dive in? Can we dive right into the biggest wave? Can we? Can we, Claire?”
    I should warn her against the dangers of the sea. I should tell her to be cautious. I need to let her know that I am in charge, that she can’t be running off. I’m the grown-up here. Instead, I whisk her onto the blistering sand, each of us doing a little dance. I shoot to the left and dash between blankets, jumping over other people’s shoes and sandy towels and bare legs. I shouldn’t be running, but I am, and she’s following right behind me, screeching and laughing. I lick the air. Taste the sea in my mouth.

Max
    Friday, 11:30 A.M.
    â€œYou load the ice in, Pete.” I snag a cold bottle of water out of the freezer and roll it along my face. The sun beats down. This day is never going to end.
    â€œOkay, Maxie,” says Peter with a loopy smile, as if he’s been thinking of this retort all summer. He hates being called anything but “Peter,” except by me.
    â€œMaxie?” I say back to him as if I’m angry. “Who you calling Maxie?”
    â€œYou,” he says, staring at the floor, as if I’m mad at him.
    â€œI like ‘Maxie,’” says Trish. “How’d you think of that, Peter?”
    Peter shrugs, proud of himself. “He called me ‘Pete.’”
    â€œHey,” I say as if I’m angry. In fact, nobody has ever called me “Maxie.” Most kids, guys on the team, call me