fade away youth// rafe cameron

1-SIPPING CHERRY COLA

The Outer Banks, Paradise on Earth.

The place I've called home my whole life. It's the sort of place where you either have two jobs or two houses. Two tribes, one island.

My friends and I are Pogues. Pogues, pogies, the throwaway fish. Lowest member of the food chain. There's a few downsides of Pogue life we're ignored and neglected. But the upside of Pogue life? We're ignored and neglected, which means we do whatever we want, whenever we want. My friends and I are from the cut, the southside of the island. Home of the working class who make a living busing tables, washing yachts, running charters.

Since it's summer my friends and I have one goal; to have a good time, all the time. We're hanging around doing a little trespassing at a house being built in Figure Eight. Figure Eight, the rich side of the island. Home of the Kooks. The Pogues' natural enemies.

"That's what, a three-story fall to the deck?" Pope asks. "I give you about a one-in-three chance of survival."

Pope Heyward. The brains of our crew. A finalist for the Lucas T. Vanderhorst Merit Scholarship. And the smartest person I know. Little bit of a weirdo. He wants to be a coroner. His father's this legendary character, Heyward. Anything you want on the island; Heyward can get for you. Now, I'm not sure Heyward knew what to make of his oddball son, but it doesn't matter. He's a Pogue, just like the rest of us.

I look up and see John B on the roof, beer can in hand.

John Booker Routledge. The leader of our little crew. He lives out in an old fish shack on the marsh. The Château, as his dad used to call it. John B's dad disappeared at sea nine months ago, looking for a shipwreck. Who disappears at sea these days? JB's mom split when he was three. Last any of us heard she was in Colorado. His Uncle T is supposed to be his legal guardian since Big John disappeared. At the moment, he's in Mississippi, building houses which means it's just John B right now. But he's not alone. He's got us.

John B puts his finger in his mouth before holding it up to the wind. "Hm. Should I do it?"

"Do it!" I shout at him.

"Yeah, jump," Pope agrees. He holds up a screw gun. "I'll shoot you on the way down."

"You'll shoot me?" John B asks.

"Yep," Pope tells him.

Kie steps out of the house and onto the deck. "They're gonna have Japanese toilets with towel warmers."

Kiara Carrera. Or Kie, as we call her. When not saving turtles or listening to Marley, or getting a dolphin tattoo, she hangs out with us. I'm not really sure why, though. So, she's a rich kid, actually. Foot in both worlds. We're the same that way. Her family owns The Wreck, this Outer Banks institution. Total cash cow with the tourists. And my place of employment for the time being. You know, I'm not really sure how her parents feel about the guys. They all have a thing for her. They think of me as a good Kook role model. If they only knew the truth. They aren't too fond of the guys. Maybe it's the fact that they all have a thing for her.

"Of course. Why wouldn't they?" JJ remarks.

JJ Maybank. It's been, JJ, John B and I since the third grade. Best friends. JJ is the latest in a long line of fishing, drinking, smuggling, vendetta-holding salt-lifers who made their living off the water. Best surfer I know. Just don't tell him I said that. Mild kleptomaniac and a future tax cheat.

"This used to be a turtle habitat, but who cares about the turtles, I guess?" Kie remarks.

"I can't have cold towels," JJ states.

Kie looks up at John B. "Can you please not kill yourself?"

"Don't spill that beer," JJ warns. "I'm not giving you another one."