Clenched

Only Dean's extended arm pinpointed me from the water, while the girl's dark hair bobbed like a buoy, making her seem near and far.

I circled my strokes and faced the beach. Everyone playing cricket blurred.

Dean's arm motioned— Come in.

I trod-water. I heard my name ringing in my ears as Dean boomed it again. It lingered in the day's humid mugginess like a trickle of sweat behind an ear.

Grave thinking hit: Hell, I'm in trouble—big trouble!

He stopped yelling as I swam cagily slowly to the shore.

What to say to Dean?

I kept repeating this to myself, following each stroke to the beach.

Out of the water, my toes sank, creating tacky imprints in the wet sand. Then, the sand beneath my toes firmed to a squelch, and I heard the squishy suction underfoot. I dawdled towards Dean, thoroughly soaked, water dripping from lank hair, which I deliberately let cover my eyes.

Warm, dry sand suddenly stuck between my wet toes as I passed three clustered church elders. The tallest, once my Sunday school teacher, pointed at me. They resumed their conversation. I wondered, what had they seen? It seemed not only Dean—who saw all—glimpsed me.

I was for it, big time —Forget lying, I stressed to myself.

The elders didn't move towards Dean. I realised they heard the parson yell at me. They missed the flurry! My optimism swelled; the distance was my ally.

Dean hovered, hands on hips, a daunting prospect for a teenage boy. I approached my parson, my head low. He instructed me to sit in silence by the fruit boxes.

"Don't move," he added, towering above me.

I realised he was waiting to speak with the girl.

We watched her in the water of the bay. We were not looking at the same girl. His eyes locked on her as an adult, impatient for a girl to leave the water. I enjoyed a cute raven mermaid flexing her body, bobbing the waves. The amber-eyed girl stayed out in the blue-green swell for ages. Eventually, she emerged from the waves. I noticed her skin crinkled because she had stayed in the water too long. I fretted when I saw her hand clenched and squeezed my own.

One of my fingers stung; I studied a cracked and peeled cuticle. Embarrassed by my rough, uneven nails, I dropped my hands to my swimming togs.

I anticipated — She'd go straight to Dean and tell him everything.

Instead, she grabbed her beach towel. Dean, near me like a guard, motioned to her. She acknowledged his cue by moving toward him, drying her hair using her towel. I liked how her black hair shone slick under the high sun.

She stood in front of Dean. His Goliath size made her appear shorter than her actual height. Her left hand gripped her towel while her right persisted clenched.

I worried, gripping my wrist; she'll unload hell on me!

Relief as my tense hands pushed aside sand into piles, as she did the unexpected. The amber-eyed girl outwitted Dean. She anticipated his question, leaving him flabbergasted. He scratched his jaw, perplexed. This chuffed me because I often hesitated over words.

I liked her for telling the truth without revealing all.

The truth: in our turbulent confusion, I accidentally grabbed and stretched the ruffles on her bathers and nestled the shell.

This was not my intention; it just happened!

She approached the towering parson, "You're going to ask what happened? Nothing inappropriate, not what you think."

She kept drying her hair, working it in sections.

Dean persisted, probing; he sought confirmation of my closeness. It became apparent he wasn't sure if something improper had occurred, but he wasn't letting go. He never let go.

"I will have to contact your parents directly or through Parson Williams. Which do you prefer?" Dean prodded.

He gathered his outward composure in her presence. His feet stood apart, and his arms folded.

Why was her hand still clenched?

Geez, I could get grounded 'til next century if she exposed me!

Anxiously, my hands rose to my face, my nail in my mouth.

Strands of her hair hung down her neck and shoulders, reminding me of twisted liquorice sticks in their current dark tangle.

She responded to Dean, "It's okay, I'm moving on. I know what I want to remember."

I wasn't sure what detail I wanted to remember about the beach or the water.

She didn't glance in my direction as she spoke to Dean. It hit me deep in my stomach; she didn't want to remember me!

I noticed her hand tighten; I counted her knuckles.

She stepped away from Dean; she patted her wet bathers. Her swimsuit ruffles bunched pretty, a tad impractical, as they kept dripping.

She loathes me.

Dean remained fixed on his purpose; his brow furrowed at her untroubled attitude.

"I'll need your name. I'll get Parson Williams to inform your parents."

The girl gave Dean her full amber glow as the noonday sunlight glinted off her eyes.

"There is nothing you need to do. I'm in control of this, not you," she remarked.

She began to stroll toward a group of girls farther along the beach.

Dean said politely and firmly, "I need your name, please, Miss."

She spoke without focussing on him, "The detail is I'm on the lunch prep team, helping."

Her name!

I want her name circulated in my head.

She delayed prying Dean; he wouldn't deny serving hands.

Certain as sin, he was bound to ask her later. Dean motioned by flicking his hand for her to go after she had already commenced her sure-paced exit. I slumped, demoralised. I wouldn't hear her name, ever!

She spun a few paces from Dean and stated, "Taylor."

I concentrated on her melon orange towel, dragging sand, her hair closer to dry.

"Jenny," she said, clear and confident.

 The fingers of her left hand loosened their grip on her towel. Her right hand remained clamped, showing the world her knuckles. She whirled and went along the beach to a group of girls helping prepare lunch.

Dean corralled me to himself. Despite his suspicions of my floundering arms in the bay, he decided to save my floundering soul. The resolute churchman gave me a dose of 'good old-time religion.' His harsh voice ranted, but it was easy to avoid listening.

A melody played in my head, composed around two words: Jenny Taylor.

"Luke," he pitched sternly, "God has called you."

Dean had a way of making your conscience tune in as your ego strayed. Or maybe plain old-fashioned, he just raised his voice. My parson, like my mother, was a hell-bent stickler to my unripe revelation years ago at a Christian rally.

At a Gospel revival, I blurted, 'God called me to be a missionary.'

Sweet Jesus, I was a kid!

I was burdened by guilt for exploding fireworks inside my neighbours' letterboxes.

Dean ranted on a sun-filled beach, "The path is straight and narrow; do not stray."

My eyes roved along the beach; it spanned broad and wide.

"Embrace salvation over eternal damnation!" he spewed endless soul-stinging words.

My yearning dream was to embrace my first girl. I retreated into my quiet self. He mistook my silence as contrition. I wasn't sorry I swam out to her. I drooped in self-pity because I didn't say anything!

My daydreams of Jenny floated fuzzy. I had nothing to say about God's calling — I intended to build Greek-style columns as an adult.

Dean regained my attention with his final words, "When today ends — you and I will wait for your mother — here!"

I pushed my feet deeper into the sand and clasped my hands around my knees. Mum would mete out the long-term consequences beyond Dean's harangue. The parson's stony face loomed close, his frame a Philistine column. He blocked the sun where he stood. I sank farther as I sat cross-legged, my butt burrowing into the sand.

He made me sit out midday until our lunch break near the apples and the cut watermelon. Nearby, the elders and Dean organised the trestle tables. A team of girls, including Jenny, put plastic containers on the tables. A self-serve lunch, piling sliced white bread rolls at the far end.

They opened containers of fillings, including luncheon meats, piles of shredded lettuce, bright near mulberry-coloured beetroot, juicy pineapple chunks, sliced cheese and rings of red onion. Closer to me on a trestle were the condiments, tomato sauce, mustard and mayonnaise beside the piles of fruit. Whilst the table closest to me had countless paper cups. Beside this trestle were two huge plastic bins filled with cordial.

I peeked; one looked lime coloured, and the other a red raspberry mix. Some sandflies tasting the sliced watermelon caught my attention. Well, more Jenny's delicate fingers shooing flies. My heart lifted as her hand was unclenched.

She wore white shorts over her bathers. Sitting on the sand next to a lime-flavoured cordial mix bucket, I wasn't easy to see—still, no eye contact from her.

I smelt the zesty tart of the lime. The lime's aroma suggested sparkle and effervescence, which contrasted with my flatline hesitancy with girls. I contemplated on the beach, my current hell: I would die before I kissed a girl!

Watching the beach cricket, I tried to avoid frustrating thoughts, but the game stopped. Dean's blaring voice suited the outdoors. With a sound like rolling thunder, he called every kid to lunch. His voice resounded up and then down the beach. It ricochetted over the bay's swell to the swimmers in deeper water.

I occupied myself by observing a nearly endless line of kids. They each filed past the trestle tables, filling their bread rolls. Everyone grabbed a piece of fruit and a drink cup. The combination of individual choices intrigued me. Some selected meat only; others chose to put everything on their roll except the meat.

I saw James; he didn't wave to me, concentrating on stuffing his roll. The beetroot and red onion remained unpopular. Jenny whisked along the trestles at the head of the girls who helped set up. She swiftly put the works on her roll. I liked how she sampled everything.

She didn't peer at me when she chose a piece of watermelon and a cup of lime cordial at the end trestle. I remembered not to chew my nails. I aimed to avoid creating a poor impression if she glanced in my direction. Well, add to her impression of me! I wondered, what did she think of me?

The elders, Dean and the younger adult helpers filed along subsequently. My sister Mary, assisting with younger kids, gave me her usual scowl. When the lunch area cleared, Dean motioned me to get a roll. I wanted everything like Jenny. I reached the red onion. Procrastination, yes, no, I decided no! I chose lime cordial like Jenny. Dean instructed me to eat my lunch alone.

He made the call for seconds, and like a flock of seagulls, heaps of teenage boys cleared the trestles.

When the elders announced the lolly scramble after lunch, Dean pointed and glowered, "No, not you."

Later in the afternoon, Dean motioned for me to join my peers. The day closed with age group prayer and thanksgiving circles on the beach. My parson led the senior group; he invited Mary to lead the littlies.

Around the ensemble, I couldn't see Jenny anywhere in the round — where is she?