Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kiara hears it before she sees it.

The sixth graders are streaming out of their music and PE classes into the same crowded hall, water through a too-small channel, roaring and crashing and shoving. Kiara’s lost among them, dragged along by the current. The eighth graders have already joined them, released from the cafeteria, creating some kind of unholy, fermenting cauldron of AXE body spray, almost-teenage-boy sweat, and garlic bread. The same horrible mix that’s been cooking all year. Kiara can’t wait to escape it. In just a few hours, a whole summer, all theirs. Hers and her boys'.

She’s known John B and JJ for almost two years now - a sixth of her life! That’s forever, to her. They have a new friend, too - a quiet kid John B started inviting over a couple months ago. Or he was quiet. He talks all the time now, about weird stuff like medical school and dead bodies and how important homework is. JJ doesn’t seem to know what to make of him, but John B loves him, and Kiara has to admit he’s growing on her. She can't wait to watch him try to stand up on a surfboard.

All these friends, though, and she can’t find a single one of them. It’s not just the infinite bodies pressing up against hers, sweaty shirts prickling at her back, hands reaching around her to slap other hands. It’s the fact that she had to wait to get a detention slip because she threw a basketball straight at Cole R’s stupid face, and Mr. McCoy wouldn’t let the boys stay because they had to “get to class.” Like JJ would ever let them get to English on time anyway.

After a lecture on how other people’s words don’t give us the right to hurt others, Kiara had pretended to be sorry, accepted her detention slip, and rolled her eyes as she slipped into the hallway. Of course she gets detention on the last day of school. Of course Cole R gets away with nothing but a bloody nose. Typical.

Kiara’s still busy thinking of ways to escape detention - can they even punish her if school's out? - when she hears it. Not a sound, but the absence of it, never-before-heard in the halls of Kildare Middle School. The crowd stops moving, and into the quiet someone yells “you tell ‘im, Rafe!”

Rafe. The worst person Kiara knows. The human embodiment of plastic waste. She’d take ten Cole Rs if it meant she never had to speak to Rafe Cameron again. Or listen to him speak. He’s an eighth grader, skinny from his recent growth spurt, always wearing a polo shirt in some hideous orange or turquoise or mint color. And he’s rich, even by Figure Eight standards. Daddy’s money bought his spot in the Kook Academy the day he was born. Kiara vowed yet again that she’d never set foot in that place.

Kids are whispering, now, their voices rushing into the silence, trying to figure out what’s going on. Kiara starts pushing her way through the crowd.

“Well, what is it?” she hears as she gets closer. Rafe’s voice, floating above them all like he owns the place. “Daddy doesn’t tuck you in at night like mommy did?”

There’s a beat in which time seems to freeze. Kiara keeps pushing, but everyone around her is holding their breath, a wave poised, about to break, curling imperceptibly. And then there’s a deep, heavy thud, and with it sound crashes into the world, cheering and yelling buffeting her from all sides.

She almost elbows Pope in her haste to find out what’s happening. She stops, recognizing him - and John B behind him - both of them staring just ahead, intent.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and her heart drops out of her as she realizes what’s missing from the scene. Or who. “Where’s JJ?”

“He’s doing a JJ thing,” John B said, his mouth a flat line. He didn’t look at her as he said it, but he moved aside a little, letting her catch a glimpse of the impromptu boxing ring.

Rafe was flat on his back on the dirty linoleum, and JJ knelt over him, hand fisted in his baby blue polo shirt. The other hand was swinging. As Kiara watched, it connected with Rafe’s face with a crack.

“Jay, stop!” she yelled, but her voice melted into the chaos around her.

It was Rafe, so Kiara didn’t feel too bad. But someone had to stop JJ, and she didn't want it to be a teacher. No way would Rafe get punished, no matter what he’d done. All anyone would remember was JJ throwing the punches.

“Rafe! Rafe! Rafe!”

Someone had started to chant his name, and it was a brush fire, the spark roaring into flames in seconds. Rafe seemed to thrive off the crowd’s energy, and as JJ went in for another punch, Rafe grabbed his arm and shoved hard at JJ’s chest with his other hand, sending him sprawling sideways. Rafe rose to his feet, wiping his bloody mouth.

JJ was back up in moments, always so quick, but Rafe had a good foot of height on him. JJ charged again, fist flying at Rafe’s face, and this time Rafe saw it coming. He shifted just slightly to the side and kicked JJ’s legs out from under him, lips turning up at the corners, baring his blood-coated teeth. The crowd roared.

JJ was already scrambling to his feet again, fists up, but Kiara wasn’t going to let him get himself beaten to a pulp. She didn't doubt JJ would keep going until he couldn't stand, and she didn't doubt Rafe would, either. She darted between the boys, pushing JJ back.

“What are you doing?” JJ said, snarling at Rafe from behind her arm. “Let me get him!”

Kiara ignored him. Times like these made her glad she was two inches taller than JJ, even though she knew it drove him insane. “You’re a piece of shit, Rafe.”

Her comment was met with gasps and jeers and laughs. Rafe’s face contorted. He wasn’t smirking anymore. Good.

JJ was trying to skirt around Kiara’s arm without her noticing, icy eyes trained on Rafe. She pushed him back again, forcing him to look at her, begging him to stay put without actually saying anything. Thankfully, he seemed to understand, and his shoulders slumped. Right on time, because Mr. McCoy had pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

“What exactly is going on here?” he demanded, using the booming voice he usually saved for basketball games.

Rafe’s whole demeanor changed almost immediately. He turned, shrugging, giving Mr. McCoy some fake-ass look that involved big open eyes and a sad little mouth.

“JJ Maybank jumped me, sir,” he said. “I asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t, he just kept hitting me. It really hurts.”

Mr. McCoy leveled a positively searing gaze on JJ. JJ, with his clenched fists and furrowed brow and mouth drawn into a tense, white line. JJ, with no apparent injuries, a stained t-shirt, and Rafe’s blood on his fist.

“Come with me, JJ.”

“I didn’t do shit!” JJ said, voice raised. “He started it!”

“Be that as it may, you were the one throwing punches. And I never want to hear that type of language in this school. Come. Now.”

JJ kicked the air. And kicked it again. And then he shoved his hands into his pockets and followed after Mr. McCoy, his whole body drawn tight like the springs of the dirtbikes he’d cut out from magazines and stuck to his bedroom walls. The onlookers parted for them, staring at JJ as he walked by. Kiara could hear them whispering about him, things that made her own fists clench.

Once JJ was gone, someone high-fived Rafe, and then everyone started talking loudly and jostling into other people’s shoulders and shoving their way to class. As if nothing had happened. Kiara’s heart was hammering out of her chest, and JJ was probably getting kicked out of school or something, and nobody cared.

An arm fell over her shoulders. John B’s. “C’mon,” he said. “We have a poem to analyze.”

“How are you not… losing it?” Kiara asked as they were dragged through the crowd, Pope falling in on John B’s other side.

“It’s JJ,” John B said, as if that explained it all. “He’s probably gonna be thrilled once he realizes he missed English.”

Two and a half hours later, Kiara found herself sitting next to JJ in detention, summer sun taunting them through the smudged windows. JJ grinned at her, feet tapping on the tiles like they were trying to run away.

“I bet that poem sucked,” he said, trying and failing to whisper.

“It did,” she whispered back.

“One more hour and we’re outta here, zip zap, bon voyage, see ya kooks!” JJ's voice rose into a near-yell. He was the loudest person she'd ever met. She didn't mind.

“Quiet!” Mr. McCoy yelled back, not looking up from his book.

JJ mimed zipping his lips shut and threw an invisible key at Mr. McCoy’s head.

Kiara didn't tell him zippers didn't have keys. She just laughed. One more hour.

Chapter Text

John B doesn’t notice right away. In his defense, it’s only second period and he wishes he was still asleep. His bed at the chateau was so warm this morning, like a giant burrito, and it was literally dark outside when he got up. Dark! The sun hadn't risen yet! Making anybody do anything before the sun rose should be illegal.

Unfortunately, his dad was home today, and for some reason, he wasn’t big on skipping school. John B found this slightly hypocritical, since his dad skipped being a dad most days. He’d begged and pleaded and even attempted bribery, but nothing had worked, and now he was throwing his backpack on the floor and slumping into his desk in the second-to-last row.

Pope was already here, to nobody’s surprise. He was doing some kind of math that involved a circle with lines through it, like an old-timey evil tire filled with numbers. This was more evidence for JJ’s theory that Pope was an alien, because nobody did math at nine in the morning, at least not willingly.

“You know this is world history, right?” John B asked.

“I know,” Pope said. “But if I can get this done now, I’ll have less homework tonight.”

John B had to admit that wasn’t a bad idea. He’d try it if he could think that far ahead, but most of the time he scribbled out his homework ten minutes before it was due. Or copied Pope’s. Or claimed it had fallen out of his backpack. That particular excuse did not, historically, work.

Miss Rutherford asked everyone to quiet down, which was only partly successful. John B felt kind of bad for her, because she was young and patient and sort of pretty, with shiny-looking caramel hair. He usually shut his mouth, just for her sake. But then JJ would say something absolutely insane, and John B couldn’t help but laugh, and he’d whisper something back, and it would send JJ over the edge, and he’d accidentally fling his pencil across the room, and it would smack Katie Wallis in the side of the head. So Ms. Rutherford would probably have a mental breakdown by the time she hit thirty, despite John B’s efforts.

Maybe today she’d get a break. Today JJ was nowhere to be seen.

He was late more often than not, so John B wasn’t worried. At least not until Miss Rutherford had talked about trench warfare and John B had drawn a picture of a rat eating someone’s foot and Pope had taken three pages of detailed notes with bullet points and shit. And JJ still hadn’t showed.

When Miss Rutherford asked them to turn to their partner and discuss their favorite technological innovation that developed due to World War I, John B leaned over JJ’s empty desk and snapped his fingers to get Pope’s attention.

“Where’s JJ?”

“He's probably off… fishing or surfing or something. You know. A JJ thing,” Pope said. “He didn’t tell you what he was doing?”

John B shook his head, settling back into his seat and running his finger along jagged initials some long-ago student had carved into the desk. JJ didn’t skip without inviting John B. He wouldn’t go fishing without inviting John B.

There was only one reason JJ would skip without saying anything.

Shit.

John B wasn’t supposed to be here.

JJ would kill him if he found out. If things went well, JJ would find out, so John B was a dead man. But letting JJ just deal with all of it on his own made him feel like he couldn't breathe, almost, and so he'd take his chances. At least JJ would be alive to kill him.

There was also a possibility John B’s dad would kill him. Infanticide was frowned upon, and usually his dad was hard to rile up, but stealing the Twinkie was practically unforgivable. Not because John B was fifteen years old and only had a learner’s permit, because his dad didn’t care about that, but because it was his one of Big John’s prized possessions, second only to whatever he had locked in his office.

Whatever. Big John had been gone by the time John B biked home from school, forty bucks and a “be good!” note on the counter, which meant at least a few days unsupervised. John B had given about fifteen seconds of thought to his plan before grabbing the keys off the hook on the wall. Biking and walking were out of the question, and JJ’s house was too far from the water for the HMS Pogue to be useful. The Twinkie it had to be, so the Twinkie it was.

John B parked it a couple houses down the road. A dog barked at him as he got out, a scruffy black-and-brown mutt pacing behind a wire fence. Nobody seemed to be home, cracked driveway empty, lights off, but that didn’t mean much around here. He'd have to be quick.

John B jogged close enough that he could hear Luke’s rock music seeping through the thin walls, loud enough to cover his footsteps as he crunched through the dead grass in JJ’s yard. Small mercies. John B still slowed his tread as he approached JJ's window and peeked inside. He couldn’t find JJ at first, the room dull and gloomy despite the winter sun. As his eyes adjusted, he managed to make out the outline of his best friend. He was lying on his bed, turned away from the window, sprawled as he always was in sleep, like a skydiver or one of those bumpy orange starfish. Starfish? Starfishes?

John B knocked on the window, and then knocked again, but JJ didn’t stir. John B’s heart sped against his will, flopping against his ribcage, a fish pulled from the water. He’s fine, John B told himself. He’s always been a heavy sleeper. And he probably can’t hear me over the music.

JJ wasn't going to help him out here, so John B crept around back. The lawn was strewn with Luke’s junk - screwdrivers, cracked beer bottles, an engine that looked like it came out of a lawnmower. John B’s chest was hot as he gazed at the chaos. It wasn’t fair, what Luke did, how he made his son feel, how he made them live. JJ was the best thing in John B’s life, his favorite person in the world, he’d been trying to tell him that for years. JJ never really believed it. All because of what his piece-of-shit dad had spent fourteen years beating into him.

John B swept up a rusting putty knife and stalked back over to JJ’s window, caution abandoned in favor of results. He jammed it between the thin line where the window met the frame, sending little chips of white paint flying. With some shimmying and only two curse words, he managed to crack the window far enough to get his fingers under it and shove it open.

JJ didn’t move as John B crawled through the window, smacking his shin on the windowsill and letting out a soft curse. He ignored the bruise that was already forming, rushing to JJ’s side and shaking him awake.

JJ groaned into his pillow, and for a moment he sounded so much like he did every morning at the Chateau, face buried in the pullout, that John B’s heartbeat slowed. Then JJ’s head jerked upright, blue eyes suddenly wide, hand curling into his sheets.

“Fuck,” John B said, eyes darting over JJ’s face, the dried blood at his hairline, the gash on his cheek. His left eyelid had turned a deep reddish-purple. It was almost the exact color of ripe juneberries, the ones they’d eat right off the bushes behind the Chateau.

“What are you doing here?” JJ hissed, scrambling out of his bed, almost falling as his leg tangled in the sheets. John B reached a hand out to steady him, but JJ ignored it, righting himself. “Go! You can’t be here!”

"I came to get you," John B whispered back.

"Fuck that. You have to go!"

“I’ll go. But not without you.”

John B was stubborn even at his best, and he meant it. He wasn't going anywhere without JJ. He'd go toe to toe with Luke if he had to. He'd actually really appreciate the opportunity. JJ wasn't stupid, and he knew John B. He knew John B wouldn't move unless JJ was coming with him.

JJ collapsed back to sit on his bed, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t,” he mumbled through his fingers, “Dad’ll be pissed.”

“He won’t know,” John B said, taking a step towards him. “We’ll leave through the window. I brought the Twinkie.”

JJ looked up at that, crooked grin on his face, stretching his split lip, a glimpse of his usual self bleeding through it. “You stole the Twinkie? Way to go, man.”

“I did,” John B said. “So c’mon. I didn’t steal it for no reason.”

JJ hesitated, glancing at his bedroom door as if Luke might burst in at any moment. When nothing happened, his eyes flicked back to John B’s.

“Okay,” he said, almost soft.

John B's face broke in a smile, relief coursing through to his fingertips as he beckoned JJ to the window. “C’mon then bubba. The Twinkie awaits.”

JJ trailed behind him, uncertain in a way he rarely was. John B could feel JJ’s eyes on him as he shimmied out, hands first, landing on his knees and elbows. He straightened, turning back to JJ, whose posture was oddly stiff, arms by his sides. That meant there were injuries John B couldn’t see. Climbing out of a window was not going to be easy, but it was the only option.

“You got it, Jay?”

“Yeah,” JJ said, setting his shoulders. “I got it.”

Every muscle in John B’s body begged him to help, but JJ wouldn't want help, so instead he watched as JJ gingerly eased his body through the window. JJ’s face twisted as he pulled his legs through after him, shirt falling down to reveal at least a few bruises painting his ribs, but he made it and pushed himself to standing, bare feet stark against the dead grass. John B clapped him on his back only a little gentler than he normally would. JJ didn’t like it when anyone was too careful with him, even when he was hurt. Especially when he was hurt.

“You ready to go?” John B asked. “Twinkie’s that way.”

JJ nodded, glancing one last time at the house, and the two of them hurried down the pockmarked asphalt.

JJ was quiet the whole ride home, almost curled into his seat. John B told him about his day, fishing for a response, but all he got was a small smile, even when he mentioned Pope had literally slipped on a banana peel at lunch, like in a cartoon. JJ’s gaze had been distant, his restless fingers the only part of him that moved, tapping along the seat. JJ was a firecracker, always moving or laughing or yelling or, sometimes, all three at once. Now he was silent and still, like he’d forgotten who he was, and John B had to admit it scared him.

JJ was lying on the pullout now, arm tucked under his head, just… staring. His hair was glinting in the setting sun, burning gold. The bruise on his eye had deepened to a dark purple, and it choked John B just to look at it. He swallowed and turned to the kitchen.

The freezer was nearly empty, just a half-eaten box of frozen corn dogs and an ice pack shaped like a baseball that John B remembered his dad handing him for a bumped knee years ago. John B grabbed it and searched under the sink for a dish towel without mysterious stains, landing on a gray one that looked clean enough. He wrapped the ice pack like his dad always did - something about frostbite or burns or something - and brought it over to JJ.

JJ took it, gaze already hooked on the wall again, and sandwiched it between his eye and the sheets. John B wanted to let him be, it was pretty clear he didn’t want to talk about anything, but he had to make sure he was okay first. His feet wouldn’t let him walk away until he was sure.

“Did you hit your head?” John B asked, and sighed as JJ shrugged. "That's not really an answer, bud."

“I guess,” JJ said, voice cracking a little. It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d been in his bedroom. John B almost hadn’t expected him to answer. “It’s not bad, though.”

JJ’s assessment of the situation was, generally, not to be trusted. “Do you feel sick at all? Or dizzy?”

JJ shook his head a little. “Nah, man. Just tired.”

John B sighed out another long breath. He could feel his hair going gray. “Okay. Can I look at your ribs?”

JJ didn’t protest, which was a little scary. Scarier still was what John B saw when JJ lifted his shirt. His right side wasn’t too bad - a couple bruises, pale blue and purple, decorated his lower ribs. His left, though, was a mess, and John B couldn’t even see all of it from the way he was lying. How the fuck JJ had climbed out that window was beyond him. John B wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk if he looked like that, but JJ had always been tough. Shouldn’t have to be. But he was.

“Shit, Jay.”

“Looks worse than it feels,” JJ said, the barest hint of a smile - or maybe a grimace - flitting across his mouth.

“Well, it looks like a fucking nightmare.”

JJ shrugged, tugging his shirt back down. “It’s fine.”

“Can I get you anything else?” John B asked. “That's all the ice we have. I guess you could put corn dogs on it. You might get some kind of disease, though.”

“Nah,” JJ said again. “I’m good, man. It’s good.”

John B sighed yet again, hand tangling in his hair. He watched JJ’s chest rise and fall, eyes still focused on something he couldn’t see, dried blood dotting his cheek. And he made up his mind.

“What are you doing?” JJ asked, lifting his head briefly as John B grabbed the fleece blanket from the couch, threw it over JJ, and climbed in next to him. JJ’s surprise made him look more alive, and that alone was worth it.

“You said you were tired,” John B said. “We’re sleeping.”

“Together? That’s some gay-ass shit,” JJ replied, but his head was already settling back down, ice pack pressing into his eye.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” John B said, weaseling his arm under JJ’s neck.

JJ huffed out a laugh, shifting a bit on the mattress. It was still early, the room pink with the dying sun, but John B was exhausted, everything hitting him all at once. JJ’s disappearance, the escape plan, the newer fear of what would happen once Luke found out. It was too much, he couldn’t deal with all that, so he let it go, watched it slip away into the pink. Right now, JJ was safe and he was here, soft blond hair tickling John B’s arm, breaths evening as he dropped into sleep. John B inhaled the scent of him - salt and weed and blood and something else he couldn’t name, something that was JJ’s, something that was every day they’d spent together out on the marsh or surfing or at fourth-grade recess - and closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

The Boneyard was teeming with people, like termites spilling out of their sandy mounds, drawn by the promise of hookups and beer somebody else was paying for. The sun had finally gone down, fires popping up along the beach to replace it. Kooks and pogues alike were well past buzzed by now, most sitting squarely between inebriated and hammered. Pope was the exception, just finishing his first Pabst of the night. He’d left a brown-eyed Texan girl to search for a recycling bin he was fairly sure didn’t exist, but Kiara would kill him if he didn’t at least try to dispose of it responsibly. It was fine anyway, the girl had seemed sort of distracted. Which was pretty strange, since carrion beetles were the most interesting thing Pope had talked about all day.

Another thing that was strange? Kiara hanging out with them again, and not with the girls wearing gold necklaces and ripped jean shorts that looked cheap but cost two hundred dollars, or the guys who had been golfing since infancy. It gave Pope whiplash, although John B didn’t seem to mind, falling back into her presence like she’d never left, arm looped easily around her shoulders. He wasn’t sure how JJ felt - he’d been different ever since she’d gone, but Pope couldn’t put his finger on what had changed. He was moodier, maybe. Distant.

Pope was glad she was back. But he was pretty sure she’d leave again soon.

Abandoning his fruitless search, Pope tossed the can into a loose trash bag that would probably be forgotten on the beach. Kiara was too far away to see him, and what right did she have to judge, anyway?

Pope took a deep breath through his nose. He knew he wasn’t being fair to her. But the wound was too fresh, too deep. It reminded him she always had something else to go back to, other friends to fall back on. On his good days, Pope knew she loved them, knew she was one of them, even if her family had a multi-story house with a balcony and stuff. On his bad days? He thought maybe she was just playing pogue, like it was a game or a joke. For him, for John B and JJ, it was their life, and sometimes he thought she would never understand how hard he was working to escape it.

Pope made his way back towards where he’d last seen his friends, weaving through a mix of alcohol and smoke and that weird, fishy smell oceans sometimes had. The beach had begun to clear out, earlier than usual. Most Boneyard events stretched well into the early morning, but already fires were abandoned with their coals still bright and hot, plastic cups teetering half-full beside them. As Pope wondered about the party's sudden death, a cheer rose up from the far end of the beach, by one of the lifeguard stations. A crowd had gathered, phone flashlights glittering in the darkness.

Not gone, then. Drawn to something.

Pope jogged over, unease flopping in the pit of his stomach as the situation became apparent. A crowd, surrounding the watch tower, and above it all, JJ. Stupid, reckless JJ, his boots clanging on the aluminum roof.

John B was easy to find. He was hanging back, not quite part of the crowd, but his eyes were trained on JJ.

“What’s he doing?” Pope hissed as JJ tossed his empty can off to the side, squaring his shoulders in preparation for something Pope did not want to see.

“A JJ thing,” John B said, amusement coloring his voice.

This was extremely unhelpful, but not unexpected. John B and JJ were Pope’s best friends, and Pope knew he was theirs too. But the relationship John B and JJ had was on a completely different level, something beyond friendship and straight into brotherhood. Or maybe telepathy. The two of them communicated with glances and vague touches and laughs and, sometimes, seemingly nothing at all. It was like how mantis shrimp could see colors humans couldn’t even imagine. Pope was a human being, walking through life blindfolded, and John B and JJ could see distant planets in each other’s every move.

It was endearing, sometimes. Not now.

As Pope watched, horror mounting in his gut, JJ grinned. And then he flung himself forward, spiraling towards the sand twelve feet below.

Frozen for a moment, something between rage and concern warring in his mind, Pope evaluated every choice he had ever made. Why was he friends with people who tried to do flips off of lifeguard towers? Why wasn’t he at home, starting to study for AP Bio? Why was John B laughing like his best friend hadn’t just possibly gotten himself killed?

Just like that, Pope’s heart was beating again, and he started shoving his way through the onlookers. He couldn’t see JJ, not with the crowd in the way, laughing and shoving. So Pope shoved harder, ignoring indignant yelps from entitled kooks.

Thankfully, the crowd was already starting to disperse. Drunk people had the attention spans of fruit flies. In their wake, Pope found JJ, just sitting in the sand, leaning back on his hands. He looked perfectly content, as if he hadn’t just tried to break his neck a moment ago, and gave him a bright smile as he approached.

“Hey, Pope!” he said. “What’s up, man? Did you see my flip?”

“Yeah, I saw your flip all right,” Pope said, lungs relaxing a fraction. No signs of a skull fracture, cervical spine intact, oriented to person, place, and time. “Why on earth would you do that? You can’t do a flip.”

“Yeah, but I did!” JJ replied, smile unflappable. It was clear that the can JJ had tossed aside hadn’t been his first. “And everyone liked it.”

“Everyone stops to look at car crashes,” Pope said, reaching a hand out to help JJ up. “It doesn’t mean they like them.”

JJ took the hand, rising unsteadily to his feet. Or to his foot. He was very conveniently avoiding standing on his right foot, letting the toe of his boot trail behind him in the sand. Pope sighed, which was much nicer than the other responses he was considering.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I probably have to look at that foot, don’t I.”

“No,” JJ said, but he let Pope drag his arm across his shoulders and lead him up and away from the shoreline.

“That was awesome, dude!” a familiar voice called.

John B was stumbling towards them - also clearly multiple drinks into the evening - with Kiara trailing behind. JJ grinned even wider at the praise, lunging towards them and stopping short when Pope’s grip on his arm prevented the forward motion.

“It wasn’t that awesome,” Pope said, “considering I’m pretty sure he broke his ankle.”

“For real?” Kiara asked, suddenly incensed. “JJ, what the fuck!”

“S’not broken,” JJ said, eyes wide and blue as the ocean itself. “I’d know.”

Pope did not pause to examine the concerning nature of that statement, busying himself instead with dragging JJ over to where the Twinkie was parked. Kiara wedged herself under JJ's other shoulder, which was marginally helpful. John B did not help, preferring to kick up sand behind them with every step. Pope’s sneakers were going to contain a whole-ass desert by the time he got home. Even so, getting JJ loaded into the Twinkie was surprisingly easy. Pope did not advocate for alcohol as a coping mechanism, but he was beginning to consider that it might be more beneficial than he’d previously believed. A drunk JJ, it seemed, was actually better behaved than a sober JJ.

Although he had just jumped off a roof. So maybe not.

Pope offered to drive, knowing any other option was likely to result in multiple deaths, and Kiara called shotgun. He technically wasn’t supposed to drive yet - John B was the only one of them who had his license - but John B was in the back, his head on JJ’s shoulder, and it was very possible he wouldn’t know what a stop sign was right now. It was the right choice: by the time they arrived at the Chateau and slid the Twinkie’s door open, John B was asleep, drooling on JJ’s shirt. To Pope’s surprise, JJ was still awake, grinning up at him and Kiara, still riding the high of his terrible choices. Pope poked John B with his foot until he blinked his eyes open, bleary and confused.

“Get up, man,” Pope said. “Kie, can you help me move JJ?”

“I can walk,” JJ said, but he let them slot themselves under his shoulders again. “I have, like, feet and shit.”

“We know,” Kiara said, “This is your punishment for making stupid decisions.”

Her tone was light, but JJ quieted a bit, staring down at the feet in question as they manhandled him up the stairs to the porch. Pope didn’t look behind him, focusing instead on getting JJ over to the threadbare couch, but he could hear John B clomping after them. JJ pulled himself free as they drew nearer, flinging himself sideways into the couch cushions. He sighed into them, body stilling, a rare sight when it came to JJ.

John B chose that moment to join them, shoving JJ’s body aside and weaseling his way onto the couch.

“Fuck you,” JJ said, but there was no malice in his voice as John B wrapped an arm around his shoulders, smiling and pushing him upright.

Kiara rolled her eyes at them and disappeared into the house. Great. That meant Pope had to wrangle his stupid idiot friends by himself. It also meant he probably had to deal with JJ’s foot slash ankle slash leg situation. At least Kiara had flicked the living room light on so he’d be able to see the damage.

“I’m gonna take your boot off,” Pope said, kneeling down and starting to untie the laces. “I have to look at your foot.”

“Why?” JJ asked, already giggling as the idea formed in his mind. “Do you have a foot fetish?”

John B, of course, started laughing too. “My feet are way better than JJ’s. You can look at them, if you want.”

“I see your feet every day, dumbass,” Pope replied, sliding JJ’s boot off carefully. Even though he didn’t deserve it. “You wear flip flops, like, ninety percent of the time.”

“That’s true,” John B mused. “Maybe JJ’s feet are more valuable, then. They’re rare.”

“Supply and the man,” JJ said. “That shit.”

“Supply and demand,” Pope corrected automatically, removing JJ’s sand-covered sock. He had known it probably wasn’t pretty, but still sucked in a breath involuntarily as JJ’s foot emerged. His ankle was puffy, blue-purple bruising already spreading under the lateral malleolus, which itself had almost disappeared with the swelling.

“Shit,” John B said, briefly sobering as he leaned forward to look.

“Well, it’s definitely at least sprained,” Pope said. He sat back on his heels, contemplating the injury. “Can you move it?”

JJ wiggled it in a small, obedient circle with only mild wincing. “See? S’fine.”

“Not fine,” Pope said. “Sprained. But yes, I agree, it’s probably not fractured.”

“How do you guys only have one ice pack? And no clean towels?” Kiara asked, reappearing with a small bundle in her hand. “I had to wrap this thing in your dad’s shirt.”

Pope took it, unwrapping it to reveal an ice pack shaped like a baseball, the kind parents put in little kids’ lunches. Not ideal, but it was cold, it would work. He rewrapped it, grateful Kiara was smart enough to be somewhat useful. Unlike John B, who was reaching to poke JJ’s ankle. Pope slapped his hand away, replacing it with the ice.

“What’s that for?” JJ asked, peering down at him. The artificial light pouring through the window split his face into gold and shadow.

“RICE,” Pope said. “Rest, ice, compression, elevate. It’s what you’re supposed to do for a sprain. We really should elevate it, too.”

“I don’t need rice,” JJ said, trying to pull his foot away. “It’ll be fine, I said.”

“You always say that,” Kie pointed out. “You’re like the boy who cried wolf. Nobody believes you anymore.”

John B nodded his agreement, apparently deciding he was going to be helpful for once. “Yeah, bud, just let Pope ice it.”

JJ grumbled something Pope pretended not to hear, but surrendered anyway, eyes closing as he leaned back into the couch. Pope sighed and got up, the impression of the floorboards pressed into his knees. Dealing with these idiots was like running a daycare for toddlers. Toddlers someone had given caffeine and flamethrowers.

Fist-bumping Kiara, who took his place on the floor, Pope made his way into the Chateau’s bathroom, washing the sticky remnants of beer and sand off his hands and flicking the light back off as he left. By the time he returned, JJ was stretched out on the couch, feet propped up on John B’s legs, ice pack resting on his bruised ankle. Both of them were sound asleep already. Kiara gave him a silent grin from the other couch.

“How’d you get him to elevate it?” Pope asked, not bothering to whisper. John B was drunk, and JJ slept like the dead on even his best days.

“I can’t tell you,” she replied. “I’d have to kill you.”

“All right then, keep your secrets,” Pope said, and then winced at his own terrible British accent, returning to his usual voice. “I owe you one.”

“You all owe me, like, ten thousand ones,” Kie said, making room for Pope to sit next to her. “That’s why I keep you all around.”

A few weeks ago, even, that would’ve hit too close to home. Now, though, it just felt safe. Familiar. Something she would have said years ago, something she’d say again in a few years.

Pope let the tension melt from his muscles, tilting his head back and breathing in the night air off the marsh. The moment felt endless, but in a good way - no matter what, they’d always have each other. Moments like this. Under the stars, Kiara’s hair tickling his shoulder, the couch warm and familiar under him, John B snoring up a storm. It was nothing to the kooks, maybe, but it was everything to him.

Chapter Text

It’s been a little over two weeks since they arrived at Poguelandia, and they’ve fallen into an easy routine. Everyone has their own chores - finding fresh water, gathering food, fortifying the shelter, fishing, even making spears and tables and hats. They’re pretty lucky, honestly - the island may be uninhabited, but there’s abundant food and nobody to run from. It really is paradise.

Sarah still can’t stop holding her breath.

She’s not even sure if her dad - Ward, she tries to call him now - is alive. He hit his head, he might be gone. It could’ve killed him, even if John B didn’t.

Part of her hopes he’s alive, and she hates herself for it.

She’s wound tight, on edge, has been for weeks. Months, maybe. Even as the others laugh around the fire, she keeps turning back to the horizon. She tries to stop, to anchor her gaze on John B or the flames burning bright against the night sky. She knows checking again and again only makes her more anxious. Nothing’s ever there. No boats, no planes. There’s no point in looking.

It doesn’t matter. The fear builds like an itch until she can’t help but scratch it. She looks. Nothing but dark sky, melting away into darker sea. She doesn’t feel better.

“I keep looking too,” Pope says from beside her. He’s quiet, his eyes dark and serious in the firelight. He looks younger, innocent, almost. Not that any of them are really innocent anymore. “For a boat, or something. Someone has to be looking for us, you know?”

Sarah stares back at him. She’d hoped they wouldn’t notice the way she couldn’t pull her eyes off the ocean. She couldn’t explain it, if they asked. None of them would understand - to them, a boat on the horizon was rescue.

Poguelandia was her rescue.

“Yeah,” Sarah manages to reply. “I bet your parents miss you.”

Pope turns back to the fire, eyes shining in the low light. “I miss them.”

Sarah doesn’t know what to say to that, but Cleo saves her from having to answer, piping up from Pope’s other side. “You’ll see them again, man. A boat will come for us, or they’ll send one. I know it.”

The laughs have died down now, and Sarah can hear the fire crackling. The ghost of a smile is still etched across John B’s lips, but Kie looks solemn, and JJ is staring at the ground, twisting one of his rings around his finger.

“I hope so,” Pope says. “This place could be worse, but I want to go home.”

JJ’s eyes snap up at that, meeting Pope’s over the fire. “This is our home.”

Pope’s mouth hardens. “No, it isn’t. We sleep on the fucking sand, JJ. This isn’t home.”

“It is now!” JJ says, springing up, gesturing at their makeshift shelter. “We have food, and I’m gonna make a flag, and we can make beds too, if you want them that bad.”

Pope’s on his feet now too, and Sarah does not like where this is going. “It’s not about the beds, JJ. We can’t stay here forever. Eventually, we’ll run out of food or water, or someone will get seriously hurt, and then we’re done for!”

“That’s not gonna happen!” JJ yells. “You know doctor stuff, we can plant shit, it’ll be fine!”

“No, JJ, it won’t be!” Pope’s yelling back now, his voice spilling across the sand. “You don't get it! I know you don’t have anything worth going back to, but the rest of us have families we miss!”

Even the gentle breeze rustling the palm trees seems to lull. Pope’s eyes widen, as if he’s only just realized what he said. JJ’s hands are fisted, his jaw clenched, but he doesn't reply. There’s a moment of pure silence.

John B is the one to break it, rising to his feet and leveling a look at Pope that Sarah’s never seen before. She's is briefly grateful she’s never been on the receiving end of that look, not from John B, not even from Ward or Rose.

“Apologize,” he says.

Sarah doesn’t know if it’s the look or the command or the way JJ’s eyes are shining, but something shifts in Pope and the words come tumbling out. “I’m sorry, JJ, I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck you,” JJ says, no longer meeting Pope’s eyes. Or anyone’s. Sarah watches him turn and stalk off down the beach, into the night. The fire is dim now, coals glowing faintly in the darkness, and he disappears quickly.

“Should someone go after him?” Sarah whispers, afraid to break the silence with her voice.

“No,” Kiara says, bending down to poke the coals around with a stick. “Give him time. It’s a JJ thing.”

The fun was over after that. Nobody was laughing anymore, and the dying embers of the fire provided little comfort. The night air was warm and humid, normally so peaceful, but with JJ gone it just felt oppressive.

One by one, the pogues trickled off to bed. Kiara first, then Pope. Cleo was still sharpening her spear in the fire's last light when John B reached a hand out to Sarah, silently leading her to the patch of sand that was theirs. Pope was right, it was nothing next to the 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets of Tannyhill, but with her friends' breathing settling around her, and the waves crashing in the distance, and the breeze ruffling her hair, she had to admit it felt like home.

John B fell asleep fast. He always did, and then he’d snore. It was kind of cute, honestly. (She was definitely in too deep. Whatever. He was worth it.)

His arm was draped over her, warm and solid, but she was restless. No matter how long she closed her eyes, sleep never came. It often didn’t these days - she was getting used to nightmares and sleeplessness. Not a symptom of the island, but a side effect of everything that had brought them here. Everything they’d been through.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She extricated herself from John B’s arms and started down the beach, skirting around a now-sleeping Cleo, grateful for the sand that muffled her steps. The night air was soft on her arms, the stars bright overhead, tiny diamonds winking in the moonless night.

A memory rises, unbidden. Christmas morning. She was six, maybe seven. Her dad had handed her a blue velvet box. Inside was a necklace with a golden chain and a golden letter S studded with real diamonds. She remembers them glittering in the early-morning sunlight.

“A grown-up necklace,” he’d said, smiling down at her, “for my grown-up girl.”

She’d worn it every day until the clasp had broken, and then tucked it away in her jewelry box, the one with the little spinning ballerina. It was somewhere in Tannyhill, she knew, gathering dust. Along with the rest of the bubble wrap.

She looks back out at the ocean. Nothing.

She’s been walking for maybe ten minutes when she finds him. He’s sitting with his back against a palm tree, facing the ocean, but he’s looking down. His hands are tangled in his hair. He doesn’t move as she settles down next to him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, curling her fingers into the sand. It’s almost a whisper.

He exhales, shaky but slow. “Nah. He’s right.”

She wants to tell him that’s not true, but she can’t. She wants to say she gets it, but she can’t say that either. It hits her, then, what it’s like to be JJ Maybank. To know you’re missing, but nobody misses you. Nobody’s looking for you, nobody’s waiting for you to come home. The thought makes her shudder, a little. Even with Ward the way he is, she knows he loved her. Knows he still does. She knows Wheezie misses her too, that much is obvious. Rafe might even miss her, in his weird, twisted way.

She checks the horizon. No boats.

“I don’t think it matters if he’s right.” She carefully plans each word before it leaves her lips, aware of how fragile this moment feels. “We’re your family. We’d do anything for you. We love you, JJ.”

His form is vague, melting into the darkness, but she sees him lift his head.

“I know,” he says, voice cracking a little. “I know that.”

For a few minutes, they just sit together, listening to the waves, and the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It feels like the island breathes with them, stretches out into the quiet.

“It’s home for me too, you know,” she says eventually.

He turns towards her. She can’t see his face, but he doesn’t sound surprised. “I know,” he says again.

“I keep thinking I’ll see them,” she says, and once she’s set the thought free she can’t hold any of it back. “A boat. A plane. I keep thinking they’ll be coming to take me. Lock me in my room, kill you all, I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s anything they wouldn’t do, not anymore.”

He’s silent, but she knows he’s listening. She swipes the tears away before they can run down her cheeks, voice falling to a whisper. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Yeah,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I know Pope’s right. If one of us gets hurt, we’re fucked, that’s it. But these two weeks, they’ve been the best. The best of my whole life.”

Sarah nods. “They’ve been pretty good, huh.”

“I mean, there’s shit I miss,” JJ says, his voice starting to pick up the way it does when he’s trying to make John B laugh. “Weed. Uh, beer. Surfing. Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

“I’ve never been surfing,” Sarah muses. “Is it fun?”

“Oh, it’s the best, man. I’ll teach you.” She grins - he sounds eager now, like a little kid being asked about his Spider-Man shirt. “We’re gonna have to make some boards, for sure. There’s been some six footers out there, no way are we skipping out on those.”

“Oh, of course not,” she says, playing along. “That would be tragic.”

“Never let a good swell go to waste, that’s rule number one.”

Sarah giggles. “Okay, well, we better get some boards going then.”

“We will,” JJ assures her, “but Kie says we have to finish the roof first.”

“Ah. Wise old Kiara.”

“She is pretty wise,” JJ admits. He shifts, sliding down into the sand and arranging his arms behind his head. Sarah mimics him.

“I’m glad you’re here, JJ,” she finally says, watching the North Star wink at her.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here. Cause John B would be going insane, otherwise. He never shuts up about you, it’s so fucking annoying.”

Sarah laughs. “Well, I’m glad you don’t have to hear it.”

For the first time since they’ve arrived, she finds her eyes slipping closed because they want to, not because she’s forcing them. She doesn’t even need to take one last look at the ocean before she drifts off. No matter what’s on the horizon, they’ll handle it together. Pogues for life.

Chapter Text

The Chateau was quiet.

It was usually quiet. It had a strange sort of magic that mellowed out even the wildest of its inhabitants. Things moved slow and sweet here, the breeze off the marsh whispering gently through the grass, the hammock swaying lightly at its touch.

Today, though, it was an empty sort of quiet. It was a Thursday, so Kiara was with her parents. Her mom had suggested weekly “coffee dates” a couple months ago and, to John B’s surprise, Kiara had agreed. Every Thursday, she took the Twinkie over to Figure Eight, reusable coffee cup in hand, and listened to her parents drone on about the Island Club’s spring gala and what Martha had done with her landscaping. Pope had asked how she could handle it, after everything they’d done, but John B understood. They were her parents. She’d always love them, and they loved her too, even if they weren’t the best at showing it.

Sarah and Cleo were at the hardware store. The girls had been seized by a fit of inspiration last night and decided they needed to plant a garden, grow their own vegetables and herbs and whatever, so while Kiara was trying to plant the seeds of a healthy parent-child relationship, they were buying actual seeds.

Pope was hanging around, but he wasn’t really adding to the Chateau’s energy levels. He sat on one of the fraying couches on the porch, reading some library book that was so old the cover was maroon fabric instead of pictures or words. For his part, John B was trying to collect the empty beer cans and single socks strewn about the Chateau so it would bear some resemblance to a home adults could actually live in.

This left JJ as the only one unaccounted for. It had been years since Luke had shown up, but realizing he didn’t know where JJ was still sent John B’s heart racing.

“Where’s JJ?” John B asked, keeping his voice carefully level as he poked his head out onto the porch.

“He’s… doing a JJ thing,” Pope said, looking up from his book and sighing at John B’s clear confusion. “You know. It’s the eighteenth.”

He said it as if John B was supposed to know what that meant. John B pulled his phone from his pocket, expecting a text or call from JJ or maybe even an event in his calendar marked “JJ’S NOT HOME BUT IT’S OKAY,” but was greeted instead by a smiling picture of Sarah and exactly zero notifications. The date and time hovered above her head - Thursday, April 18.

“Shit,” John B said, finally realizing what Pope meant. Leave it to Pope to remember days of the week and all that, but John B was supposed to remember this day. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and reached for the keys to the Twinkie where they hung on the little hook by the door. His hand swept through thin air twice before he realized the hook was empty because Kiara had taken the Twinkie.

Well, plan B. The cemetery wasn’t far, maybe two miles. His bike would do the trick.

Biking to the cemetery made John B feel eleven years old again. They had biked almost every day at the time. No car to drive, and neither of their dads had particularly cared where they went or what they did, so they’d biked over the entire island until every path was worn into their memories. It had been years since they’d biked anywhere, and John B’s bike was a little too small for him now, but he made his way to the cemetery by instinct.

John B hopped off his bike as he arrived, leaning it gently against one of the myrtle trees. They weren’t flowering yet, but come summer they’d be covered with bright pink flowers. It wasn’t a bad place to be buried, he thought. Sure, it was right by the road, but it was quiet, surrounded by myrtle and tall, skinny longleaf pines. It was all grass, too, no paved paths like some cemeteries had, which was good for deterring kids like him and JJ had been from biking around the headstones. It had worked, they never biked near the cemetery, but that wasn’t because of the grass.

John B wound his way through the graves. He'd only been here a few times before, but it didn’t take long to find JJ. It was a small cemetery, and he knew where JJ would be even before he saw him.

The whole cemetery was nice, but the back, where JJ’s mom was buried, was beautiful. A big, twisting oak tree spiraled overhead, shiny green leaves waving in the breeze, casting her headstone in dappled sunlight. The ground was littered with leaves, little brown ovals that fell in the fall and were never disturbed. JJ sat among them, silent and still. Almost nobody ever saw him like that, but he didn’t flinch as John B sat down next to him. John B had always been the exception.

“Bree,” JJ said. His voice was soft, almost contemplative. John B didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking about.

“Jay,” John B responded. JJ’s mouth twitched up, just a little, and then fell into a thin line, pressed down by the weight of the day. John B watched him find the words he needed. Patience came easy when it was JJ.

“I miss her,” JJ said eventually, so quiet John B could barely hear him.

“I know,” John B replied. He scooted a little closer, enough so that their legs were touching, and JJ tipped his head over onto John B’s shoulder like John B had known he would. They stayed that way long enough for John B’s arms to go numb from holding up his weight, oak leaves imprinting themselves in his palms. At least fifteen unread texts had vibrated in his pocket. Maybe the girls were back by now, maybe it was just Pope asking where they were. He didn’t check. It wasn't his silence to disturb.

By the time JJ rose to his feet and offered John B his hand, it could have been minutes or hours later, John B didn’t know. What he did know was the smile stretching across JJ’s face as John B accepted his help, JJ pretending to steal his bike as they left, JJ complaining about his feet hurting a mile into the walk back. He knew JJ saw the pile of empty beer cans lying on the Chateau’s living room floor - the remnants of his futile effort to clean - and immediately stomped all of them flat. He knew JJ begged him to take the HMS Pogue out to fish and grinned as John B caved immediately.

He knew he could never say no to JJ, but that was okay. JJ was always worth it.

Chapter Text

Kiara was late. The others had been quick to check the surf forecast, declare it was a weekend anyway, and flip the sign in the window to CLOSED. Before Kiara could blink, their boards were tied haphazardly to the Twinkie’s roof, its engine rattling in the spring breeze. They’d badgered her to come with them, of course, but she told them she’d catch up - she was finishing a custom board for someone who had a uniquely intriguing Leo aura, and the jellyfish she was painting were the best she’d ever done. (Every Leo had to have at least one jellyfish on their board. It just felt right.)

By the time she made it down to the beach, the sun was rising high in the sky, shortening her shadow. It was finally warm enough to surf all day without a wetsuit, and that’s what the others had been doing. They weren’t alone - she glimpsed several other surfers bobbing among the waves, most watching the horizon, a few paddling back out or catching a wave.

As she wandered down the beach, she marveled at the sand under her feet, the seagulls screeching overhead, the glittering green sea to her right. She’d spent her whole life here, on this island, and it felt more beautiful every year. She wanted to protect it more every year, too, and the other places like it in the world, so that people could keep experiencing them for centuries. Keep surfing the waves, or sitting on the beach, or watching pipers pick along the shoreline. Its fragility only made it more important.

Her pogues were exactly where she thought they’d be: in the Tree Graveyard, as JJ had named it almost ten years ago, a little section of the beach with several thick, water-worn logs bleached white by the sun and partly buried in the sand. Sarah and John B had managed to fit themselves into one plastic beach chair. They made it look comfortable, Sarah tucked into John B's side, his arm around her. She was watching Pope and Cleo, who seemed to be stabbing the wet sand closer to the shore with bits of broken driftwood. As Kiara drew closer she realized they were drawing. Or trying to.

“That doesn’t even look like a boat,” Sarah laughed, “it looks like a broken boomerang.”

“It does. I'm not getting on that boat,” Kiara agreed, walking up to them and leaning easily against John B’s chair.

“Okay, well, it’s not supposed to be perfect. It’s just a sketch.” Pope etched something that looked like a spider or a ball of lint into the sand.

“What?!” Cleo said, throwing her hands up. “Your part maybe. Mine’s a masterpiece!”

Kiara smiled down at Sarah, still laughing at the not-quite-boat, and John B, who was rotating one of his bracelets around his wrist, gaze distant.

“Where’s JJ?” she asked him, realizing that despite the chaos, she hadn’t seen the one person who usually caused the chaos.

“He’s doing a JJ thing,” John B said, tilting his head towards the water.

Kiara turned, shielding her eyes, and gazed at the crashing waves. She expected to see him executing a flawless tail slide or being demolished by a wave or getting barelled, all classic JJ things.

What she didn’t expect was to find him in the water next to his board, just beyond the break. She had to squint to see him, nothing but his golden head visible as it shone in the spring sun. He was gripping the tail end of a longboard, one of the nine-footers beginners rented from the little hut further down the beach. There was a kid on it, she realized. Small, wearing a wetsuit despite the warmth. JJ was looking out to where the horizon met the sea, searching for a good wave, she guessed. After a few moments, he must’ve seen one start to form - not that she could see it, but he was always the first to spot them - and he turned to the kid, saying something she couldn’t make out. The wave started to rise behind them, the very tips of it frothing white. It was an easy wave, a good one for a kid, maybe two feet. As it neared them, the kid started to paddle, his skinny arms dipping wildly into the water, and JJ pushed the kid’s board forward in perfect time with the wave.

Kiara watched the wave sweep the longboard right up. The kid stopped paddling and crawled to his knees. He pulled one leg in front and carefully rose to his feet, arms out at his sides, stiff as the driftwood around her. He was still hunched, wobbling like a baby deer, but as he drew nearer Kiara could tell he was smiling, wider than the blue sky above them. He made it almost all the way to shore before the wave died out and he slipped off the side of the board, landing on his feet in the shallow water.

“I did it!” he yelled, waving to a woman waiting by the shoreline. She was clearly his mom - same dark hair, same tan skin. Plus she was filming him, which would be weird if he was just a random kid. “Did you see that? I did it!”

“You did!” the woman called back, “That was amazing!”

John B hadn’t been staring off into the distance, lost in thought, like Kiara had assumed. He’d been watching JJ. JJ, who had climbed back on his board, who was raising his arms above his head and cheering loud enough to be heard from beyond the break.

“Good job, bud!” she thought he yelled before he glanced behind him, saw something else she couldn’t see, and shifted onto his stomach. Just a minute or two later and he was lifting his board out of the water and high-fiving the kid. The boy was still smiling, face alight with his triumph, but JJ's grin was even brighter.

“That was awesome!” JJ said. “You’ll have a 360 in no time, dude!”

The kid’s mom looked a little pale at that, but she smiled at JJ, tucking her phone back into her tote bag.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “You don’t know what this means to us. He’s been begging to surf for almost a year now and I just haven’t known how to get him started.”

JJ ducked his head, but Kiara saw his dimpled smile peek out. “Of course, ma’am. No problem.”

“Thank you!” the kid echoed, hefting his board up from the sand with skinny little arms. His smile revealed a missing tooth.

The boy’s mom gave JJ one last smile of her own and led her son down the beach towards the rental stand. Kiara could hear her telling him how proud she was as he dragged his board back through the sand. JJ watched them go. Kiara wondered if he was thinking of his own mom, who’d taught him to surf when he was even younger than that boy.

As their voices faded, JJ unstrapped his leash and picked his board up, making his way to the Tree Graveyard. He had to skirt around the giant hole Pope and Cleo were now digging with their bare hands. Kiara was pleased they’d abandoned the fruitless drawing, but she’d have to make them fill that hole in before they left. This beach was a Kemp’s ridley nesting site.

“Good job, man,” John B said as JJ set his board down gently in the sand, fins up, and wrapped the leash around it. Handling that board was the only thing JJ ever did gently. He ducked his head again at John B's praise, cheeks pink from embarrassment or sunburn. Kiara suspected the latter. Trying to convince JJ to put on sunscreen was like trying to convince a wet dog not to shake.

“Yeah, whatever,” JJ said, hand scrubbing through his salty hair, making it stick out in multiple directions at once. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“Sure, bubba,” John B said, reaching out to grab JJ around the waist. He pulled him into the already crowded beach chair, right on top of its current occupants.

“John B!” Sarah laughed, pushing JJ’s shoulder away. “This chair can’t hold three people!”

“Sure it can.” John B freed his other arm from around Sarah’s shoulders to pin a squirming JJ. “It’s holding three people right now.”

Kiara watched as JJ pushed John B’s arms off his chest long enough for him to slide onto the ground and roll away, successfully coating his entire body in sand.

“Oh no.” John B said. He was already climbing out of the chair despite a bewildered Sarah’s questions. “You don’t get away that easily.”

JJ yelped and scrambled to his feet as John B hurtled towards him. The two of them took off in the direciton of the water, John B doggedly pursuing JJ as he skirted around Pope and Cleo’s turtle-death-trap hole. Kiara shook her head as she watched John B tackle JJ into the surf in what was definitely not a lifeguard-approved manner.

“Why are we friends with boys?” Kiara asked, smiling despite herself.

“Unfortunately, I’m dating one of them,” Sarah said. “But I have a feeling I’d be here either way.”

Watching JJ surface and push John B underwater in retaliation, Kiara had to agree.