Perfect Couple (Superlatives 2)

“Happy Labor Day!” I sang.

Grace glared at me. The other cheerleaders laughed uncomfortably. One of them, Ellen, exclaimed, “Harper! I didn’t recognize you without your glasses.”

“I got contacts today,” I said.

They ooohed and cooed over me and told me how good I looked and how pretty my eyes were, which they’d never noticed before—all except Grace, who stared me down with a look that said, Oh, you got contacts so you could come to this beach to seduce my boyfriend, eh? At least, that’s how I interpreted it.

At my first chance, when the conversation turned to Chelsea’s story about fighting with a stranger over a pimento cheese sandwich at Disney World yesterday, which was the sort of thing that happened to Chelsea, I ducked beneath the surface to wet my hair. That would convince Grace I had no designs on her boyfriend. My hair was long and dark and board straight anyway, whereas she was still sporting her big blond curls. They were wilting a bit, though, now that Brody wasn’t holding her out of the surf. Her hairdo was wet around the edges, like a sandcastle nipped by waves.

As soon as I surfaced, I was sorry I’d gone under. My eyes stung. I hadn’t opened them in the water, but as I wiped away the drops, I got salt and sunscreen in them. I wiped them again, which made the stinging worse.

“I’m going down the beach,” I heard Grace say. “I saw some guys I know who are home for the weekend from Florida State. I’m scoring some beer. Tia, come with.”

“No, thanks,” Tia said.

“Why not?” Grace insisted. “You’re always drunk.”

“I am not always drunk,” Tia said self-righteously. “I am drunk on a case-by-case basis. And not on Labor Day. The beach is crawling with cops.”

“Ellen,” Grace said, “come with. Cathy?”

The other cheerleader, Cathy, giggled nervously. “Wish us luck!” The three of them waded toward the promised land of beer and college boys.

Kaye called after them, “If you get caught, do not admit you’re cheerleaders for our high school. We have standards.” She said more quietly to the rest of us, “Let’s wait five minutes and then go after them. We’ll watch from the water and intervene if they get in trouble.”

“Or we can just enjoy the show when they do,” Tia suggested.

By now I could hardly see through the slits that my stinging eyes had become. “I’ll catch up with y’all,” I said. “Back to the towels for me. I’m having contact problems.” Amid the chorus of “Oh, no!” and “Poor baby!” and “Do you need help?” I explained what had happened. “If I can wipe my eyes and run fresh water over my hands, I think I’ll be okay.”

I sloshed toward shore. But as I reached dry sand, I was anything but okay. My left eye stung. My right eye was worse. When I opened it, all I could see was blur. The beach was as bright as another planet with no atmosphere to filter the sun. I could hardly see my way back to the island of umbrellas and towels I’d come from. When I finally made it, I tripped over several boys and landed on the dog, who didn’t budge.

“Move, dog,” I said rudely. She got up, sticking her sandy butt in my face as I opened my cooler for a thermos of water.

Kennedy was telling the other guys about the indie film we’d seen at the Tampa Theater downtown last weekend. They were laughing uncontrollably. Kennedy was brilliant and had great comedic delivery. He would be perfect someday as the vastly intelligent, super dry commentator on a political comedy show. His shtick was as much about what he left out as what he said. At the moment, he was strategically omitting that we’d had an argument in his car on the way to the movie and that he still hadn’t been speaking to me by the time he dropped me off at home afterward.

“Right, Harper?” I heard him ask. He wanted me to verify some funny point in the movie—something he hadn’t discussed with me one on one, because we’d hardly talked since then.

This was his way of making up. After our fights, he ignored me until he just decided not to anymore. He asked me a question and I responded, and then it was like nothing had happened between us.

This time, instead of answering, I poured freezing water over my hand and wiped at my eye. Now it felt like I’d gotten sand in my eyeball. I tried to shift the offending particle into the corner where my tears would flush it out. That was a mistake. The stinging was intense.

I tried to open my eye. I couldn’t. My upper eyelid felt wedged shut by my contact. Was it possible that my contact had drifted that far back? Could it float even farther and get stuck on my optic nerve? Where was my eleventh-grade anatomy knowledge when I needed it?

“Guys,” I called. Kennedy kept up his blasé movie commentary while I went blind in one eye. Tears streaming down my cheek, I said more loudly, “Guys, do any of you wear contacts? I need help. I think my contact has shifted into the back of my eye socket.”

“Harper,” Kennedy said, “only you.”

I took in a deep breath to calm myself, but I was on the verge of panic. These boys were not going to help me. Kennedy would make fun of me while this piece of flexible plastic sliced its way into my brain and gave me a lobotomy. The girls would help me, but they were too far away to hear me yell over the surf, and I couldn’t open one eye, and now I couldn’t see out of the good eye because of the tears. I felt like screaming.

Strong hands framed my face. One thumb pulled at my lower eyelid. I was surprised Kennedy had relented and come to my rescue. My hero said, “I wear contacts, and I know all about this, unfortunately. Let me help.”