Judging: Scoring each dive on a scale of 0 to 10 determined by the starting position, approach, take-off, flight, and entry into the water without applying preconceived prejudices.
THE LONG, V-shaped gate that blocks the access road to Smith’s Quarry is usually locked in the evenings. But that hasn’t stopped a Monarch Night in thirty years. We don’t question how the gate gets opened, and we don’t tell. Team policy.
I bounce my leg in time to the Drowning Pool song playing through Chip’s audio system. It’s a killer track for getting revved, but not the best for letting go of how colossally fucked-up my interaction was with Iris’s dad.
Halfway down the long access road we catch sight of the bonfire’s glow and Chip starts bouncing in his seat like a ten-year-old heading to Six Flags. He accelerates, forgetting this dirt road is nothing more than a long mound and the Dart rumbles and shimmies across the strip.
“Slow down before you hit a rock and swerve over the edge. I don’t know why we took your car instead of Bumblebee.”
“You think your foreign piece of crap can handle this dirt road better than my dragster?”
“Foreign has nothing to do with it, you dolt. I have four-wheel drive. And a warranty, which your piece of shit hasn’t had since when—1972?”
“The Dart’s a classic.”
The Dart lumbers over a huge bump two seconds later and we swerve, coming within millimeters of the road’s edge before Chip manages to straighten out.
“How much did you have to pay to have your sway bar replaced again?” I ask.
The reality of that number must register with him because he eases off the gas. “Is that better, Grandma? Hey. There you go. You can add me to your family tree.”
“Good idea. But I think I’ll put you in the slot for brother. Let gap-toothed Malone try to contest it.”
“Aw, aren’t you sentimental? Lasagna night at Chez Langford must have really gotten to you.”
“Piss off,” I say with a laugh.
The Dart’s wheels crunch gravel as we pull into a spot alongside Sully’s Honda. Time to put my game face on. Sully is reclining in his front seat, smoking a joint, waiting for us. We get out to see who’s with him and Amy pops forward and snags the joint from his’s lips.
“Hi again,” she says, flirty-smiling past me at Chip.
“Jesus Christ,” Sully gripes. “I think you pulled my skin off.” He licks the raw spot on his lip and I stare at his thick scar, remembering how he once tried to cover it with a pitiful mustache in ninth grade. He calls it his Joaquin panty-dropper. I rub my finger across the pea-sized moles on my right cheek; doubtful they have the same effect.
“Serves you right for bogarting,” Amy says. “Ace and I want some too.”
I doubt that’s true since Ace is curled on the backseat zoned out or passed out. It’s hard to tell.
“What’s wrong with The Flying Ace?” I ask.
“He started partying too early,” Sully says. “He’s already on the downswing.”
“Jeezus. We just got here. When did he start?”
“The minute we left the packie.” Sully takes the joint from Amy and offers me what’s left, a pathetic little roach likely to burn my fingers if I try to hold the thing.
“I’m good,” I say. “I like to get amped up before I dive out here. Weed makes me mellow.”
“More for me,” he says with a shrug.
Trey walks up between Chip and me, scratching the little black soul patch on his chin. “Who brought the liquid provisions tonight, boys? Not all of us like to damage our lungs.”
“Weren’t you supposed to bring the booze this time?” I give Sully a furtive, wide-eyed nod so he’ll play along. “It’s alphabetical and Sully brought it last time, so…”
“Oh man,” Sully chimes in. “We were counting on you. Does this mean there’s nothing to drink?”
Trey’s face goes slack and I stifle a laugh.
“T-H comes before T-R,” he says. “So technically, wouldn’t you be next, Mackey?”
“Relax Dumbass,” Chip says. “They’re messing with you. Ace and Sully took care of it.”
“Not cool, man,” Trey says. “Funny. But not cool.”
For someone Chip likes to call Dumbass, Trey Dumas is pretty smart. Like valedictorian smart. But he’s anal as hell. That’s probably what makes him a good diver. Technically.
Sully tosses Chip his car keys. “Pop the trunk, Butterfly Stroke. Beverages are in a cooler.”
Chip returns a few minutes later in a clatter as he shifts the weight of the cooler in his arms. When Amy hears the familiar jingle she squeals and hops out of Sully’s car like he’s carrying a crate of puppies.
“Down girl,” Chip says, giving Amy a crooked smile as he places the cooler at his feet. “No need to lose your mind.”
Most girls I know would freak over the dog reference. Not Amy. She flings her arms around Chip’s neck and slobbers his cheek with kisses. “I always lose my mind around you. You know that?”
Sully rolls his eyes at me and shakes his head. The rest of us know those two are made for each other whether Chip is ready to admit monogamy or not.
Chip reaches into the cooler and tosses me an energy drink. “Give one of these to Ace.”
I catch the red and gold can. Phoenix—now with even more caffeine!
This stuff has its place. Before intense meets. Early morning practice. Tests. But I can do Ace one better tonight. I pull two Adderall capsules from the baggie in my jacket and pop the tab on the can. I shake the contents of the capsules into the energy drink. Tiny performance-enhancing balls roll through the air in a mini-avalanche, sizzling upon contact.
“Wake up, Ace. I’ve got something special for you.”
Ace bolts upright and stumbles from the car, dark red hair matted in the back, eyes half-moon slits. “Is that a Big Mack Attack?”
“Could be. You’ll have to try it and find out.”
He clamps onto my shoulders, giving me a little shake. “I can always count on you to bring it when it counts, Mackey.”
That’s me. Expectation fulfiller. Strong finisher.
We help collect the booze and head toward the bonfire to join the larger group. Monarch Night is a dive team ritual, but the swimmers and their dates, who are supposed to be sworn to secrecy, are always invited to join the festivities. We may score individually, but we’re still one team. There are a bunch of girls hanging around some guys on the team, laughing at their jokes, and I wish Iris’s dad hadn’t shown up at the tent and screwed up our plans.
I grab a beer from the cooler and hang back looking at my phone, struggling over whether or not to send her a text. It’s also a legit way for me to avoid being too near the raging fire without being conspicuous.
Chip walks up to me with his arms out like Frankenstein and grunts. “Mmm. Fire bad.” He backhands me in the chest with a smirk and hands me his beer. “Hook me up too, brainless.”
He knows me too well.
I’m about to slip two Adderall capsules into our beers when I notice Les Carter standing slightly apart from the group, staring like he’s keeping tabs on Chip and me. Maybe to rat us out to Coach; I’m not sure. But I know I can’t trust the guy to have my back if he wants to go to Stanford. That’s just a fact of competitive sports.
“Fucking Les is watching us,” I mutter.
“Somebody should slip that guy a mickey,” Chip says. “Just once, so he’ll relax.” Chip turns, angling his body to block me from Les’s view. “Hey, Les Is More. You gonna rip that new dive of yours out here in the dark? Now that would be something worth staring at. I, for one, would love to pass judgment on that action. Not that anyone on our team would ever do that with Monarch Night being sacred and all.”
Chip to the rescue.
“I probably could,” Les says. “But I think playing it safe and clean is the way to go.”
“To each his own,” Chip says and turns his back on him.
It’s better Chip said that to Les than me since I was standing here thinking that somebody should reintroduce Les to Amy, his pot-smoking BGF. A sudden high-pitched whistle blares from the path leading to the main road, making me accidently spill half the contents of an Adderall capsule on the ground. I throw an extra one into my drink for good measure, then look up to see who’s coming. Hoping it’s not the cops.
The whistle sounds again—caw-caw—and I pause. I know that signal.
But it’s not until Chip says, “My man, Rocco Bennett,” that it clicks into place.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Rocco always comes,” Chip says. “He’s one of our boys.”
“Not anymore. The Sharks made him co-captain.”
Chip’s face twists in confusion.
“Coach told me yesterday. Said he wanted to keep it on the QT.”
Rocco steps into the light of the bonfire and gives a round of fist bumps and bro hugs to the team, saving me for last. “Theo Mackey, the myth, the man, what’s up?”
“You forgot legend?”
“We’ll have to see about that.” We clasp hands and bump shoulders. “A little birdie reminded me you guys would be out here tonight so I thought I’d come by and make sure we were copacetic before our meet.”
“We’re good,” I tell him. “But you know I can’t let you stay.”
“Come on,” Rocco says. “You’re really gonna make me cut out? It’s not like I’m here to spy on you guys or anything. Just let me hang like old times. I don’t like the way we left things, Big Mack.”
And by left things he means telling me to go fuck myself when I made captain. Because, as he put it, things came to me too easily, which is total bullshit. Seems petty, I know. Because the real chasm between us started the night my mom died. Nobody knows this, but earlier that night Rocco and I stole some of my dad’s weed and a bottle of GP’s whiskey and got faded deep in the woods behind my house. We were so messed up he tried to kiss me. In retrospect, I may have overreacted when I pushed him to the ground, but I didn’t see it coming. I love the guys on my team, just not in a romantic way. I don’t know if Rocco was embarrassed or pissed, but he left, speed-walking through the woods to his house, and I snuck back into my room through the window where I lit matches until they almost burned my fingers, trying to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Except one of those matches got away from me that night.
It bugs me that I can remember all of this without a problem, but not other things leading up to the fire. At least not collectively, which makes what I am remembering confusing as hell.
“Are you gonna say something, man, or should I just leave?” Rocco is tugging on his ear, waiting on my response like I’m Judge Supreme, and I guess I am when it comes to Monarch Night.
“Is that what you were doing at the demo earlier?” I ask. “Hanging like old times?”
Rocco is about to explain himself when Chip, of all people, steps forward. “Don’t be a jerk, Mackey. It’s Rocco Raccoon. Let him stay for old-time’s sake? We know Andover doesn’t have any of our Monarch-type rituals.”
“It’s true,” Rocco says. “They have after-parties, but—”
“They don’t throw down like us, do they?” Chip says.
The answer is on Rocco’s face. No response needed. But he made his choice.
All eyes are on me, waiting for me to make the final call. Rocco stares at me with the dark eyes of a wounded animal behind Clark Kent glasses and the raccoon label Chip pinned on him freshman year becomes funnier. I check out the statement on the T-shirt he’s wearing under his pinstriped blazer—
MY
PEN IS
BIGGER THAN YOURS
It’s hard stay mad at him, even after everything. And it’s my bad for never telling him I didn’t care if he’s bi, gay, or whatever, just that I wasn’t.
“Fine. You can stay on one condition, Captain Bennett.”
“Cat’s out of the bag, huh?” Rocco says sheepishly.
“It is now. I’ve got a little birdie of my own.”
The collective murmur of disbelief rises up behind us on both sides. I know Coach didn’t want the guys to know yet, but that’s not fair to them or me. And with Rocco here, they were bound to find out. Why else would he come?
“You can stay, but only if my guys agree they won’t rip dives they’re planning for our meet against Andover. Otherwise, I’ll make sure they’re relegated to first-seeding bait, no matter how well they do tonight.” A few guys laugh, but I’m not joking.
“Most of us rip the same dives,” Rocco says. “What’s the big deal?”
“Maybe we do, maybe we don’t, defector. But that’s the condition. Take it or leave it.”
He raises his shoulders and surveys his old team to see if they’ll agree and a bunch of grumbled “Yeahs” and “Okays” fill the air.
“Always by the book, eh, Mackey?” Rocco says.
“He wrote the book,” Les says. “Good luck getting any new dives out of him.”
I shift my eyes to Les so I can … I don’t know, thank him or something, but he’s already walking away. I haven’t had any love for the guy recently, but he did just give me props.
“I guess we can do this one last time. You ready?”
Rocco rubs his palms together. “Yes I am, comrade. For old-time’s sake.”
A dozen flashlights click on and we hike up the wooded path to Pikes Falls. The September air is dank with the smell of wet pine needles and rotting mushrooms, but we lucked out as far a temperature goes. This afternoon hit in the mid-seventies, so it’s still reasonably warm. But when the days are warm and sunny, and the nights call for a jacket, the only thing left to follow the farce is snow. Not a form of precipitation I’m down with since it can hit without much warning. New England weather at its finest. We’ll still have weeks of undulating temperatures, but this will be our last outdoor swimming adventure. Monarch Night marks the end of one season and the beginning of another.
The swimming hole and cliffs are far enough from a main road that it’s dark out here—dark and creepy as hell. But the real fear factor for most newcomers is the Old Stone Church, the only building left unharmed when the state elected to open the Chance River, flooding four towns in the 1930s to create a reservoir. They annihilated homes and farms, forcing people to leave their livelihoods behind. The graves were exhumed from the cemeteries, and the bodies reburied elsewhere. Iris might not buy into the urban legends, but it’s common knowledge that there are buildings and houses at the bottom of the reservoir and swimming hole—ghostly remains of a once thriving New England valley—and that the people who refused to leave still haunt the reservoir, the Old Stone Church, and nearby Blood Woods.
I trample over rocks and twigs thinking about being out here with Mom and Uncle Phil. I am like her when it comes to diving, but I’m still not sure what she meant by “Don’t blurt out everything you see. Not everyone will understand.” I didn’t mention how I thought I saw her behind our old house to Uncle Phil because I’m pretty sure that was just wishful thinking. Brought on by the suffocating hope I felt that she’d make it out alive.
We’re almost to the top of the hill when I hear distant voices on a nearby cliff. “We’re alone out here,” I mutter. Mostly to myself, but suddenly Amy latches onto my arm.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” The last thing I’m ready to admit to her—to anyone other than Uncle Phil—is that my mind’s been playing tricks on me.
“Seriously. Did you hear something, Theo, because I can’t find Chip? One minute he was right behind me, and then—”
There’s a sudden hard snap behind us. Someone or something grabs Amy around the waist. She screams bloody murder as her hand is wrenched from my arm. I drop into a defensive stance as her shriek echoes through the trees before finally ending in Chip’s hysterical laughter.
“You should have seen your face,” he says.
“You’re such an ass,” Amy says. “Did you and Theo plan that whole stunt in advance?” She slaps Chip’s arm, but at least she’s laughing.
“Nope. The genius was all mine,” Chip says.
“Well-played,” Les says, holding a flashlight under his chin for ghoulish effect as he walks closer. “Don’t you know she’s a total chicken?”
“It’s true,” Rocco says. “Remember the time she got locked in the girls’ bathroom in middle school? Seventh grade, I think. The whole school heard her wailing like a banshee.”
“I remember Les was the only who let me out,” Amy says. “And that’s why he’s my BGF.” Les and Amy share a smile that makes my eyes roll back into my head. “Maybe I’ll start my own band and call it Banshee’s Scream. To hell with Bliss.”
“You can be my banshee any day,” Chip says, grabbing Amy in a bear hug. He spins her around in a circle. “Wail for me, baby.”
“Oh. I will,” Amy says. “After you impress me with a daring leap off the cliff.”
“No problem, señora.”
“Señorita,” I say. “Unless you’re ready to marry her.”
Amy puts her hands on her hips, challenging Chip to answer. He kisses her instead, his wisest move to date, and they start making out. The rest of us know by now to ditch them. We keep trekking up the craggy hill, eager to see what level of daring we all have in store for the cliff tonight.