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sucking on my teeth in a fearful hurry. I was experimenting more than my mother even knew, looking for the perfect kiss, and I had it so clearly orchestrated in my mind that I knew I would not fail to recognize it when it came.
    The volleyball boy was looking at me, although at first it was with only sidelong glances, and I had to torture myself trying to figure out if he was going to look again. I arranged my legs out along the wall so their length would be noticeable. I don’t think of myself as pretty, but my mother always taught me to emphasize my best features—and I’ve been told that I have her long legs and her breasts, that my dark, curly hair is exotic. I’ve realized that these are things that boys like, though occasionally, when someone is first looking at me like the boy on the beach was, I feel deformed, and I imaginemy legs are spindly, my chest a lump of fat, my hair frizzed out like the Bride of Frankenstein’s.
    He was definitely looking. Lingering now, obvious; he wanted me to notice. The ball came toward him and he botched the shot, distracted. I laughed and he grinned at me. I was already plotting the rest of the summer. We would walk by the waves at dusk, our elbows purposefully brushing, the last of the sunlight outlining our skin in orange. He would stop, turn, move closer, gaze into my eyes. He would kiss me, perfectly, and my summer, the rest of my life, would fall in the shadow of that kiss, a warm powerful pressure that would sustain me.
    â€œI’m Mark,” the boy said. He was standing in front of the wall, twirling the volleyball in one hand. It sounded like Mac the way he said it, with a heavy Boston accent. Not the best name. Not necessarily the name of someone who’d change your life, but I forgave him for it. You never knew.
    â€œI’m Grace,” I said, giving him my mother’s name. I didn’t know why, exactly, maybe I didn’t want to have to say “Gráinne” five times over, or maybe I dreaded the mess his accent would make of my Gaelic name.
    â€œYou’re too pretty to be sitting all alone, Grace,” he said, and he smiled at me. It was that easy.
    I spent the rest of the day with him, sparkling with anticipation. I really barely heard anything he said, I was so caught up in trying to figure out when he would kiss me. I was constantly wetting my lips, checking my breath, sucking in my stomach in case he suddenly put his hands around my waist. It was exhausting, this waiting, and I had moments of doubt, where I would suddenly feel I had been mooning over someone who had no interest in me. Then I would be mean to him, I’d be tough and unreachable, and he would try even harder.
    After sunset, we walked to a bonfire, which was on a secluded stretch of beach, beneath high stone cliffs. About twenty kids were there, with radios and blankets, and they all seemed to know eachother. There were a few girls my age who looked disappointed or vicious when they saw Mark’s arm around my shoulders, and I imagined they’d come out that night with satin bras on under their flannel shirts, hoping maybe he would notice them.
    We sat cross-legged on a rough blanket, drinking Budweisers and lining up the empty cans so they sparkled in the firelight. The beer was bitter in the back of my throat. Mark was getting bolder; he’d given me his jean jacket to wear—it was slimy from too much sea air—and he was leaning into me, speaking with his mouth right up against my ear. The flames of the bonfire shot up toward the night, making a slapping noise like laundry in rough wind. The waves crashed, invisible behind us, and when it was quiet I could hear the foam sizzle down the sand like embers.
    When we were drunk we wandered up to the cliffs, out of the light of the fire. It was cold there and I tried not to shiver when Mark passed me the beer can. We sat without saying anything for a while and I felt myself moving beyond