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NOBODY IN FORKS EVER SWIMS. Under the category of universally acknowledged facts, that's the one truth Violet can swear by. The first time she's ever swum here in Forks (vacations elsewhere don't count) had been at a community pool that'd been drained and never filled back up again. If people want water, they go to La Push. But it's not very often that the weather cooperates amicably with plans, and every time it's nice out, the drive down to the beach on the Reservation usually collects enough bad luck to shade the sky a little greyer, a little more prone to an unfriendly shower, and by the time the vehicle pulls into parking, there's a storm hitting the coastline.
So, it's a little surprising—to say the least—when Violet spots the cluster of tiny figures standing on the edge of the cliff that she never would've spied out of her peripheral vision if it weren't for the loud, euphoric war-cry that'd torn out of one of the boys' chests as he dove headfirst into the crashing waves.
After school had let out, ever-uneventful and filled with side-eyed glances from her peers in the hallways (Violet figured pulling a knife on someone in the girls' bathroom was a little difficult to forgive and forget), she'd dropped by her therapist's office. This time, she'd made the executive decision to loiter in the bathroom before heading to the waiting area for her three o'clock appointment at the very last minuet to avoid sparking anymore conversations with Finn from last session. Immediately after the hour was up, Violet had called Aaron to let him know that she'd be heading over to Sage's house on her own. In record time, she'd bolted from the psychiatrist's office building and zipped down to the border between La Push and Forks, and down the scenic route alongside the ocean. From there, the crashing waves, the squall of birds and the sound of her skateboard wheels roaring against the tarmac burns her favourite lullaby into her eardrums.
Now, this: a handful of boys, copper-skinned and bare-chested, standing on the edge of a cliff, two more in the ocean, goading the others to jump. Violet recognises Paul's shout before she sees him, screaming his head off as he hurls himself over the edge in an artless dive. Another boy follows after, flipping in midair before plunging into the unforgiving waves, swallowed by flotsam and foam. Amused, Violet stops, kicking her skateboard into her hand, and wanders as close as the edge of the road would let her.
Even from this distance, out of reach of the sea, Violet can feel the spray whipping into the wind as the tide slams persistently into rock, slowly chipping away at it one grain at a time. And there are the boys and a single girl with her dark hair falling in two braids down her muscular back—Kit! Violet realises with a jolt—forged by summer impulse and reckless bravado, taking turns to wrestle one another into the hungry waves. A wind picks up, fluttering renegade strands of her blonde hair into her face. Violet adjusts her maroon beanie so it parts her hair just right, keeping it out of her face, and shuffles closer to the edge. And looks down.
