The Passed Note Issue 9 February 2019 | Page 48

“I’m too old for a pink bedroom, Dad.” I said. “And I’m not leaving the lake till the end of the summer.” I hung up. “I’m going for a ride,” I said, without looking back at my mother. I heard the sizzle of meat hitting a hot frying pan, but she didn’t bother to tell me that dinner was almost ready. The screen door slapped shut behind me.

I grabbed my bike and headed to the gravel path that ran around the edge of the lake. I felt the little rocks crunch beneath my tires. I am in this moment, I thought. I spend my summers at the lake. I live in a big house on a hill. My parents are still married. I haven’t had to meet my dad’s slutty girlfriend. Not yet. The day was overcast and under the shade of the pine trees the path was a gray cocoon. I tunneled onward, with each push of the pedals thinking now, now, now. I bounced along the narrow wooden bridge above the dam that formed the lake, heard the whoosh of water as it spilled down the other side.

I turned off the trail at the old hand-lettered sign reading “Sawyer’s Rock.” I tipped my bike to the ground and walked out to the ledge. I grabbed the rope in one hand, felt its thickness, its roughness. Breathed deep its earthy smell of jute. The lake was quiet–I could see only one small fishing boat, so far off it was merely a speck. I heard a crow screech. Mr. Berman always said he remembered a time when there were eagles at this lake. I imagined one now, its