Sea Change

"Victoria," I whispered to the pretty girl in the mirror.   I pulled my hair back into a ponytail high atop my head. "No," I smiled. "Vicky."

I checked my Prada backpack. Everything was as it should be: hair brush, lip gloss, a shawl if it got cold, bus tokens and a couple hundred bucks in pin money.

I rushed out of my bedroom and down the maid's backstairs and blurted, "Amber! Going to the beach! Back by dinner." If there had been a response it was heard only by the slamming screen door. Most kids have a dad and mom. Not me. I have a Ben and Amber and that was alright with the three of us.

Amber and I spent the summer ensconced from Memorial Day to Labor Day in some beachside monstrosity in South Hamptons. This year's eyesore was on Great Plains Road and was blessed with ten bedrooms, six baths, an outdoor pool and a private beach.

Ben on the other hand toiled in The City as a soulless investment banker for a shady hedge fund. Late each Friday the man would hop the last train out of Pennsylvania Station, guzzling his way through vodka the three hours and seven minutes it took to arrive at the South Hampton station at 2:09 AM.

The minion would grab a yellow cab home and then fall into his own bed plastered. Around 2:00 PM Saturday he would rise, shower, shave and dress. He would then adorn himself with Amber like a Rotonde de Cartier Astrotourbillo chronometer. This after all was her raison d'être. The wifey role while dreary and mindless was extremely well paid. Ben would then proceed to drink, dine, deal and fleece his way through the well-to-do until well into Sunday morning

Like clockwork he would catch the 6:18 PM at the South Hampton train station. Before boarding he would peck Amber absently on the cheek and tussle my hair never quite sure who I was or why I was still there.

"You know my biggest regret, Kid," Ben joked one or more times to me. "Those fucking DNA paternity tests always came back positive."

Ben never kept it a secret that the exchange of valuable business time for fruitless family time vexed him no end. But he knew, as his father had and as his father had before him that it was an essential element of the façade. Amber and I knew our parts. Like the beach mansion, the Bentley and the diamond cufflinks we were swag that asserted Ben's success to his peers, clients and employer. And as we all know nothing succeeds like success.

For the remainder of the week Amber and I dwelt in separate realms. She kept herself entertained with an endless litany of spa, Pilates Reformer and quality time with whichever pool boy or landscaper offered his teen self. As for me I lived my summer self.

Ω

I rushed to the bus stop and waited with the others for the bus to Montauk. Once on board I rolled up my denim shorts to a scandalous height, cinched my belt accenting my slim waist and pulled the threadbare fabric tightly against my smooth crotch. I rolled the short sleeves of my button down shirt as high as they would get them showcasing emaciated arms that would be the envy of any runway model. Lastly, I loosened the lower three shirt buttons and knotted the shirt tails framing my smooth flat belly tanned to a dark copper.

Around me couples cuddled and cooed. Gaggles of girls bantered, giggled and snickered. Bands of boys cursed, bragged and roughhoused. All of it dull and rehearsed. But there was the sweet smell of youth laced with lust in the air. That cloying admixture of sweat, fear, bravado and libido. The bus, the passing scenery and the sea vibrated with the stench of teens in summer heat. I as was my custom sat alone a departed spirit drinking in the fragrant liqueur that oozed from every pore and orifice of the living.

My itinerary was pretty much always the same. I would wander the coves and marinas of Montauk. I walked slowly and never looked or spoke to anyone. I did though drink in the beauty of man and nature around me. If only by proxy I lived a real life where I was not a failed abortion.