I carefully tucked the photo into the rear of the book, hiding my parents’ faces from view. And then, because I didn’t know what to do with the strange uneasiness inside me, I started to flip through the poems. In the titular poem, “Diving into the Wreck,” the narrator puts on scuba gear and dives into the ocean to explore a shipwreck. I saw the ocean that Rich described, colors shading from blue to green to black as the diver descended. I saw the diver with her oxygen tank strapped to her back, poking through the ruins of something that had once been beautiful, taking photographs to record it. I saw the body of the diver morphing, female to male, male to female, the shape of her/him outlined by the shifting light.

  I thought of the Bernice Bing painting with the swirl of color surrounded by darkness, and in my mind her painting became inextricably linked to the poem. I saw the diver swimming closer to that swirl, that vortex, her hands parting the waves, her flippered feet kicking through the water. I saw her reaching for it as if it were a treasure long lost to the deep. But it was unreachable. The diver’s map was wrong. She kept swimming the wrong way, and the current would push her back over and over again, like the waves in the ocean pushing a frond of seaweed out and out. I was captivated by that imagined image: the diver hanging in mid-water as if suspended between past and future, as if trying to make a choice.

  I must have dozed off, because when my phone rang I was so startled that I jerked, and the phone tumbled out of my pocket and fell onto the deck. My heart was thudding in my chest as I reached for it, hoping that the screen hadn’t broken, and I was so startled to see Tasha’s name come up that I didn’t hesitate. I answered her call.

  “Aria?” Tasha’s voice sounded so familiar to me, and yet it hurt to hear it.

  “Hey.” I blinked. I felt like I was the diver, pushing against the current to reach the surface.

  “You didn’t answer any of my texts. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the lounge. Diving into the Wreck slid from my lap onto the deck. The photo strip slid partway out, and I nudged it back in with my toe. “Sorry. The reception isn’t so good out here. I must not have gotten them.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a beat, two beats of silence. I knew she knew I was lying. “How was Thailand?” I asked.

  “It was amazing. We stayed in this gorgeous little village on the ocean, and the food was like—I’ve never had Thai food like this.”

  Tasha went on, gushing about her two-week internship, while I barely listened. My stomach was churning in a weird way, and nothing Tasha said seemed relevant to what was happening now, to me. It had only been a few weeks since high school graduation, but it already felt like a year ago.

  “I’ll send you some pictures,” she was saying. “You have to see how beautiful it was.”

  “Wait—where you are now?” I asked, suddenly checking in. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Paris?”

  She paused. “I’m back for a week. We’re on the Vineyard for the Fourth, but we’re leaving on Saturday for France.” She paused again, then said, “I wish you were here. I really do. I’m sorry it didn’t work out this summer.”

  The churning in my stomach seemed to increase. “Have you seen Haley?” I asked. Unlike Tasha, Haley hadn’t contacted me since graduation, and I hadn’t contacted her. It was as if we had mutually agreed to the silent treatment so we could avoid being awkward together.

  “Not yet,” Tasha said. “It won’t be the same without you.”

  The only responses I could think of were mean, so I said nothing and stared down at the deck. The sun was burning bright against the brown cover of Diving into the Wreck. I began to imagine it burning so hot it would singe a hole through the cover.

  Finally, Tasha asked, “So, what have you been up to?”

  Steph and the open mic and the Dyke March and that conversation with Mel on Saturday night under the streetlight. Tasha had been one of my best friends for so long, it still felt natural to spill it out to her, but I caught myself in time. I felt superstitious about it, as if any tenuous friendship I’d begun with Steph and Mel would definitely vanish if I talked about it.

  “Nothing much,” I said instead, and then I fed her the same line I’d given my mom. “I’m taking an astronomy class on video.”

  “You’re such a nerd,” Tasha said, but fondly.

  “So are you,” I countered, and a little bit of warmth seeped into my voice.

  Tasha sighed. “I miss you. I don’t want what happened with Jacob to screw up our friendship.”

  My eyes grew hot, and I closed them for a moment. I had tried to convince myself I didn’t care that much, but I missed Tasha, too. As soon as I admitted that to myself, I felt something release inside me. “I don’t want that either,” I said.

  “Then answer my texts next time!” Tasha said, but she sounded relieved.

  I choked on a laugh. “Are you going to text me from France?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. And next time you can come to France, too.”

  “I don’t speak French.”

  “Well, I do so I’ll translate.”

  “Okay, when’s next time?”

  “Let’s go over Christmas. Christmas in Paris!”

  I knew that she wasn’t being serious, but I played along. “I want to stay at a five-star hotel,” I told her.

  “Obviously. We’ll get room service. Champagne,” she said in her excellent French accent. “It’ll be amazing.”

  “Fantastique,” I said in my bad French accent.

  “Oh, hey—I meant to tell you—I saw that boy Nathan at Mad Martha’s ice cream. Remember him?”

  The change of subject took me by surprise. “Nathan? Yeah, I remember.”

  “He definitely remembers you,” Tasha said suggestively.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. “What do you mean?”

  “I think he had it bad for you. He even seemed to be pining a little. And he definitely has gotten cuter.”

  I knew I was supposed to be flattered by this, but I just felt uncomfortable. “Really?” I said, trying to pretend like I was interested.

  “Oh yeah. If I see him again, I’ll take a picture.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Oh, I know,” Tasha said, laughing. “Take it as a favor from me. Listen, I have to go, but I’m so glad we finally talked. Let’s keep it up, okay?”

  “Okay. Have fun in France.”

  “I’ll text you. You better answer.”

  On the Fourth of July, there was a parade in Woodacre. Joan and I brought camping chairs down to Railroad Avenue, where her friend Tony Merritt had wheeled a big cooler full of water and Popsicles. Because the parade ended at a horse-boarding ranch, kids riding horses made up a big portion of the spectacle. There were also tractors bearing American flags, a giant papier-mâché unicorn pulled on a trailer, and a truck hung with Pride flags. In the truck bed, a bunch of people dressed in rainbow gear were waving and tossing candy out to the kids. They wore sashes that declared LOVE IS LOVE and JUST GAY MARRIED!

  After the parade, there was a flea market with vendors and food stands at the ranch, and Joan and I wandered through the stalls looking at carved wooden mobiles of flying pigs, or Tibetan singing bowls on bright silk cushions, or collections of Grateful Dead memorabilia. Tasha had been texting me photos from the Edgartown Fourth of July parade—which, like every New England event, had people dressed up in colonial costumes carrying fake muskets—so I sent her photos of a flying pig mobile and a selfie in front of the papier-mâché unicorn.

  Tasha texted: What is that doing in a 4th of July parade?!

  I replied: It’s Marin

  That night we went to a barbecue at Tony Merritt’s place. It was about a fifteen-minute walk from Joan’s house. Tony was a carpenter and had a workshop on his property, and Joan told me he had done the built-ins in Grandpa’s office as well as her art studio. We brought Analemma with us because she was friends with Tony’s dog, Goldie, a pit bull–yellow lab mix with the sweetest eyes and extremely bad breath, and I realized Tony was the person who sometimes walked Ana. There were many people at the barbecue I didn’t know, but some of them knew who I was because Joan had told them about me. There was a lot of “Congratulations on MIT!” and “Sounds like you’re following in your grandpa’s footsteps!”

  Tony grilled tri-tip and sweet corn over wood in a big firepit, and veggie burgers on a gas grill. We had brought a tangy coleslaw, and others contributed food as well: slices of heirloom tomato drizzled in balsamic vinegar; peppery arugula salad with coins of bright white-and-pink radish; big wedges of dripping watermelon. As darkness fell, kids began to light sparklers that sizzled and spit. Through it all, I noticed Tony always kept an eye on Joan. He made her a special mojito with mint grown in his garden. He brought her a new napkin when she dropped hers on the ground. He served her slices of rare tri-tip first, with a flourish.

  Tony was a white guy with salt-and-pepper hair in his late fifties or early sixties, probably younger than Joan by at least ten years. But I could tell she liked his attention. She let him wait on her in a way that showed she enjoyed it. I thought she might have taken extra care with her appearance tonight, too. She wore a new blouse in a bright gold-and-teal print, and she had put on dangling earrings that looked like beaten brass shields. But she was still wearing her wedding ring. I wasn’t sure what to think.

  We walked home with Analemma afterward, and the road was so dark we had to light our way with a flashlight that Tony insisted we borrow. Every so often we heard the distant popping of fireworks. Some dogs couldn’t stand them, but Analemma didn’t even seem to notice. She pranced ahead of us happily, as if she were leading us home.

  “That was a nice day, wasn’t it?” Joan said contentedly as we walked.

  “Yeah.” I was a little surprised; I felt pretty good about it, too.

  She linked her left arm through my right, drawing me closer. She smelled like woodsmoke; I probably smelled like it, too.

  “Tomorrow morning Steph’s coming to do some gardening, but I’m going to Berkeley to see a friend,” Joan said. “I’ll leave her check in the kitchen. Can you give it to her?”

  “Sure.” I felt a rush of excitement at the idea that I’d see Steph again—alone this time.

  “We should have her over for lunch sometime. Ask her when she’s available.”

  “Okay.” I wondered whether she could detect the sudden racing of my pulse.

  “You know you can ask me anything,” she said quietly.

  I tensed up and said, “I know.”

  “I understand you’re not a little girl anymore, as much as I want to remember you as one.”

  I felt immediately self-conscious, and I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to, because fortunately at that moment my phone dinged. I pulled it out of my pocket to read the text. “It’s from Tasha,” I explained.

  Tasha wrote: Everybody says hi!!!!

  Attached to her message was a video, which was frozen because reception really was bad in the woods, but as we walked, it jerked into life. There was a group of people lit up by a bonfire, with a great swath of darkness behind them. Tasha must have shot it at a beach party. They all screamed in unison: “Hiiii, Ariaaaa!”

  I recognized Haley and her sisters, and Tasha’s little brother, and over on the right was a guy who looked vaguely familiar to me. Tasha’s next text message cleared it up.

  Look at Nathan!!

  She sent a separate photo that was kind of grainy because of the low light, but it was unmistakable. There was Nathan, quirking an eyebrow at the camera, and I had to admit he did look cute. He had his arm around Haley, who had kind of a pained smile on her face.

  I showed Joan the video of everyone saying hi to me, but I didn’t show her the photo of Nathan and Haley.

  Nathan was the first boy I kissed. I was fifteen. It happened the summer after freshman year, when I went to Martha’s Vineyard for two weeks and stayed with Haley’s family outside Edgartown. Tasha was at her family’s cottage in Oak Bluffs, and we planned to meet up almost every day. Nathan’s parents had rented the house next to Haley’s, which shared the same private beach.

  Haley, Tasha, and I had bought bikinis at the Chestnut Hill mall in preparation for the Vineyard. Mine was turquoise with white palm fronds printed all over. Tasha’s was red-and-white striped, like a candy cane. Haley’s was navy blue with white stars. I remember squeezing with them into a dressing room at Bloomingdale’s, examining one another in the mirror and giggling. It felt like my whole body was exposed, breast and belly and thigh, but I also saw what I looked like, and I thought I looked good—finally. Haley and Tasha looked good, too, but I was the late bloomer in our trio, relieved to have caught up at last.

  I remember Tasha asking, “You’re sure I don’t look too slutty?”

  She was taller than Haley or me, and her long brown legs were already muscled like a marathoner’s, since she did cross-country. Her breasts were bigger than ours, but her butt was almost flat—something Haley would later tease her about. That summer Tasha had her hair in long thin braids that she wore loose or wound up in a big twist at the nape of her neck. With her lush lips and high cheekbones, I thought she looked like a model, not a slut.

  “You look sexy,” I assured her.

  “You could never look slutty,” Haley said. “But what about me?” She twirled in the dressing room, her blond hair flying out. She was petite and cute, with perky B cups and a round butt, and she bumped her hip against Tasha’s and gazed up at her with a grin.

  “You want to look slutty?” Tasha said, laughing.

  “No,” Haley said, pretending to be offended. “But what do you think?”

  “You both look great,” Tasha said, and she put her arms around us as we gazed at ourselves in the floor-length mirror.

  Back then, none of us really understood what slutty meant, other than that it wasn’t something we wanted to be called. We hadn’t yet learned that the line between sexy and slutty was so thin it could move with a whisper.

  * * *

  —

  I met Nathan one afternoon while Haley and I were walking from her house to where we planned to lay our towels out on the beach. He was part of a group of older teen boys playing volleyball nearby, and I eyed them through my sunglasses as I approached. They had the blond good looks of kids who went to boarding schools like Choate or Phillips and learned how to sail like a Kennedy during summers on the Cape. One boy in particular—he had sandy hair and a tight stomach and was wearing blue board shorts—seemed to notice me a couple of times. As we walked past, he actually turned his head to watch, and a volleyball came out of nowhere and smacked him in the shoulder.

  I laughed. His teammates, who were ribbing him over not seeing the ball, noticed, and a few seconds later they pushed him out of the game toward me. He seemed slightly abashed, but not enough to resist their encouragement.

  “Hey,” he called. “You’re distracting me so much I might as well say hello.”

  His smile was that perfect summer-boy grin—freckles, white teeth, blue eyes—slightly sheepish but mostly self-confident. He had a buoyant spirit I was drawn to right away. In those first couple of minutes while we introduced ourselves, I practically planned out the whole summer in my head. He’d buy me ice cream in the afternoons; we’d walk along the beach and he’d hold my hand. He’d kiss me at sunset as the water sighed onto the shore; I’d melt into him as he told me I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever known. By the end of the summer, he’d have fallen in love with me and would promise to visit in the fall. All this flashed through my mind even before I managed to say, “I’m Aria.”

  “Nathan. Have I seen you around here before?”

  “I don’t know,” I said coyly. “Have you?”

  His smile grew more flirtatious. “You gonna be around tonight?”

  I wanted to say Yes, absolutely, but Haley and I had discussed how to act around boys and decided we shouldn’t seem too eager. If you were too eager, they didn’t want you. “Maybe,” I said.

  “Maybe, huh?” He leaned in a bit closer, and it seemed as if I could feel the warmth from his bare skin radiating at me. “We’re having a bonfire tonight on the beach. After sunset. You should come.”

  My body buzzed with his nearness and the fact that this was happening right now. I was meeting a cute boy and he was interested in me and I was going to be kissed—I could feel it. “I’m here with my friends,” I said a little breathlessly, and glanced at Haley. She was laying out her towel with her sunglasses on, and I wondered whether she was watching out of the corner of her eye.

  “Bring them,” Nathan said.

  “Yo, Nate, game’s not over yet!” one of his friends called.

  He glanced over his shoulder and then back to me. “I gotta go. But come out tonight. We’ll be right out here.”

  “Okay,” I said, and then realized I’d agreed when I was trying to play it cool.

  * * *

  —

  That night I wore a baby-blue sundress with spaghetti straps, and I probably should have worn a sweater because the wind off the Atlantic could get cold, but I wanted to look cute. I had washed my hair and let it dry naturally into waves, and then Haley sprayed some product in it to make it look “beachy.” I put on makeup—eyeliner because it was dark, shiny lip gloss to make my mouth look kissable—and I thought the girl in the mirror looked great, if a little nervous. I had never kissed a boy before, and I was well aware of my lack of experience. I planned to change that.

  I went to many more beach bonfires after that one, but because it was my first, it stands out in my memory like all first experiences. I still remember feeling like I didn’t quite belong there with all those pretty, rich kids. I still remember feeling a little awkward when Nathan asked if I wanted to go for a walk down the beach, alone. I hoped that if he noticed the blush on my face he’d chalk it up to heat from the fire.