Ozark Lake

Is There Anything More Dangerous Than A Bored Teenage Girl?

The girl was 15. It was summer, and she lived with her family in their summer home, in a patch of woods on a lake. Because she found nothing much to do at home, and because she did not have a car, she became used to walking a two-mile road to her best friend's house. It was a gravel road, winding and forested. On rare occasions, the girl's mother offered to drive--when she had planned a trip into town already for groceries or book club. She never offered otherwise.

"What has she got to do that's so important?" the girl always complained to anyone who'd listen.

The mother spent most of her time on the phone or in town, with other mothers. When the mother spoke the girl rolled her eyes. She was a gossip, and it made the girl mad. The mother complained all the time. The girl had a nice life. She lived in a beautiful house. All she did was mope. She had nice clothes. The mother had had crummy clothes when she was a girl. What was she so depressed about?

The girl's best friend was Connie, and she lived in a house just like the girl's, at the north tip of the woods. When the girl asked to walk there the mother would put down the polish for her nails and raise her eyebrows. She spoke of trucks filled with farm boys and highwaymen. It annoyed the girl, and she paid little attention. "Don't be dramatic,"

For the girl, life in summertime was mere existence. Her younger brother had been sent away to camp. She knew a few girls from school, but they lived on the other side of the lake, so she really only spent time with Connie. At times she thought she should get a job as a waitress because it would be something to do, but the nearest restaurant was 10 miles--too far to ride her bike. She watched television late into the night. In the morning she slept until her room was too hot for sleeping. She ate oranges or toast for breakfast and drank milk when she was thirsty. Most days she lay in a hammock her father had strung up for her, hoping to catch a spot of sunlight, and if it was the right time of day, she could. Her skin browned easily, and she was careful to avoid browning too much. Her mother had warned her against it.

The girl and her family lived in a large, square, blue-and-white bungalow, built into the side of a wooded mountain, by the shore of a lake. The mountain was small, like a bluff; a round top rolling out of the side of a slightly larger jagged mountain to the east. The mountains did not have names, at least not that the girl was aware of, but the lake at their base was called the Little Niangua, a branch of the larger, more crowded Lake of the Ozarks. The lakes had originally been a system of rivers and creeks that were dammed long ago, creating a series of connected waterways, deep enough and wide enough for motorboats. From above, the Little Niangua was shaped like a feather--the girl had seen it on maps--a narrow streak of dark water edged by wisps of cove that reached into the cracks between mountains. From the ground it was winding and unpredictable, surrounded by steep slopes of wooded land. Boaters flew through the channels and tipped to their sides around sharp bends, skimming the surface and leaving giant wakes that pleased swimming children near the shore and angered fishermen. The girl had never heard of two boats crashing, but she waited to hear of it.

On the weekends teenagers piled into boats and drove to a cove they all knew of, where they anchored and tethered together. There were at least 100 of them. They blasted the music on their radios and climbed into one another's boats. Occasionally the girl was invited to go with her friends from the other side of the lake. It made her angry to have to say no. She had been allowed to go once, and (continued on page 122) Ozark Lake(continued from page 80) she remembered it to be sublime. The boys had been familiar. They were older but not much older--17 and 18. They offered to take the girls for rides on their Jet Skis, but the girls never went. Connie said they were dangerous, and the girl listened because she trusted her. Connie would shake her head and mention a name, like Allison Webster or Mary-beth Peters, at which all the girls would scowl, checking one another's faces to make sure they all felt the same way. "I know," Connie would say. One had let her boyfriend pee in her mouth, and the other had been with two boys in a pool at the same time.

"She got infected," Connie said. "They had to pump the water out of her."

•

The girl hated her father, a lawyer who worked in a town an hour's drive from the lake, but he was rarely around. She figured he didn't notice when she took $20s from his wallet or when she wore tight skirts. But she had overheard him ask her mother if he should take the girl shopping for new clothes. Once he had left a note on her bed, a promise to build her a hammock, and it had made her sad. But then he had.

The hammock hung from a pair of oaks, a mess of twisted limbs covered in vines. The vines caused rashes if they were touched. He chopped them down and they grew back, so the girl learned to avoid them. She bought a radio. It was decent, but the hammock was in a low part of the woods, and the radio only picked up nearby signals, so she listened to news programs mostly. In June a local girl went missing. She had been a rich girl, apparently, pretty and smart. It was a tragedy. Her name had been Sharon O'Hara. The police never found her, and listeners called in to the radio station to help out. Some said she was in the lake. Others said they spotted her alive in a truck, looking scared and beaten. Nothing came through. Another girl went missing. The announcer on the radio urged vacationers to be vigilant. Young girls should stay at home and, when they had to be in public, not wear makeup or skimpy clothes. The girl thought it was silly, but she also wished she had been the girl to go missing. The mother didn't listen to the radio, and the girl kept the stories to herself, but it wasn't long before the mother heard of them from another mother at the supermarket. She told the girl to forget about walking to Connie's.

"They could be anywhere," she said. "It could be anyone."

•

It was July--in the morning. The girl was lounging, and then she remembered the lakeshore foot trail she had used as a child. It ran through the woods to a hidden cove, then along a rock wall that at its peak fell 20 feet, straight down, to the water below. She found die trail, a line of worn, packed earth, a few branches and things stuck in the path. On the way she stumbled over roots and scraped her legs on thorns. Gnats swarmed in black clouds at her face. Her shirt tore, and she stripped to her bathing suit. Before long she was halfway to Connie's.

At a ledge of rock she stopped to look and to rest. A boy drove past in a red motorboat, hollering and leaving behind a frothy wake. It was hot, and the trees did nothing to block out the sun. She figured he meant to annoy her, because he circled and boated back. She wanted to hold up her middle finger, and in the moment, the sun beating down, she felt a sudden pang of sick excitement, as if she had been dared, and her heart began to pound.

The boy slowed the boat and waved. He called out. She started walking but turned her head, looking with contempt. She made sure to toss her hair over her shoulder and crane her neck. He looked older than the boys she knew, wearing sunglasses and a white polo, which he wore unbuttoned and probably untucked--she couldn't see his bottom half. His hair was messy but shiny and cool, like guys she saw in the magazines, not dirty and unkempt like the local boys'. In the sunlight she saw the grooved muscles of his forearms and that his cheeks were flush.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked, cupping his hands around his mouth. His voice held a self-assured, conceited quality, high-pitched and loud. She didn't answer. He asked where she was going and she said, as if it was his business, she was going nowhere. He laughed.

"It's too hot to be out here for no reason."

"Sure," she said. She said it slowly.

"Sure."

He smiled, wiped his brow with the back of his hand and then covered his eyes, squinting. His lips curled back, and he put a hand to his hip. He looked expectant. "Why don't you get in?" he asked. She shrugged her shoulders. She thought he was pretty. Her mother always said she could tell a person by his looks.

"Where would you take me?" she asked.

"Nowhere," he said.

"Nowhere?"

"That's where you're going, right?"

"You're a smartass."

"Come on. I'll surprise you."

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"I think you want to have fun."

"I don't even know your name."

All she wanted was to get in the boat and go. It didn't matter where. If her mother found her missing, she would be upset. She would call Connie, sure. Everyone would know she was gone. It made her feel cruel, to think of her mother worried. She was surprised to feel that way. Worse, her father would punish her.

"Come on," the boy said. She couldn't tell if he was grinning or annoyed.

"How do you expect me to get in the boat?"

The trail was 10 feet above the water. She had gone diving from the rocks years before, with Connie, until their parents discovered them and told them to stop. They had obeyed at the time.

She disappeared behind the edge of the cliff, and he called out. It was quiet. Water lapped at the boat. A blackbird drifted overhead. Suddenly the girl appeared over the cliff, darting into the sky. She dove into the water with a muted splash. The boy whooped, punching his fist into the air. Seconds later she broke above the surface, smoothing the hair from her face. He threw out an inner tube on a rope.

"I don't even know your name," she said.

"I don't know yours," he said.

He offered a hand.

"I need a towel."

He opened a compartment and pulled out a blue towel. She climbed in, and he wrapped it around her shoulders, placing a hand on her back. She shivered. He said she was pretty, and her cheeks warmed. She stepped forward, out of his reach, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

She pointed to the dashboard. "How fast can this thing go?"

"You wanna see?"

"Yeah. Show me."

"You better sit down. Sit here."

He motioned to a seat beside him. She moved to the front, stripping off the towel to her bathing suit. She laid the towel across a bench and spread herself upon it, laying down, gripping the metal railing. "You'd better hang on," the boy said, and then he laughed and revved the motor, cruising out of the cove into open water. He was a smooth driver, she thought. The air blew over in bursts, then in a steady, heavy flow. She couldn't see land drifting away, but she saw the blue of the sky open above and heard the water rushing by, and when he tipped the boat to turn she reached her hand into the water. He asked her if she liked it, and she told him she did.

She asked where they were going. There was an ice cream shop she liked. It floated on the water. Did he know it? They should go there. She thought her friends might be there. It was a nice feeling to imagine them seeing her with him.

"I'm thirsty," she said. "I want a malt."

"I know another place," he said.

"Do they have malts?"

"Yeah. I think so."

They drove further, past beaches and shops and marinas. White sails drifted on the water like clouds. A red parachute soared overhead like a hawk. The lake forked, and they turned into a narrow arm. A two-story building stood at the shore; with a sloped roof and wood slats for sides. Three stacked decks wrapped around the outside. At the third tier were picnic tables, circles topped by yellow umbrellas.

He parked the boat and took her to the top. They sat in a corner, in the shade. A waitress in a bikini walked by, smiling at the boy as if she knew him.

"Hideous," he said when the waitress had gone. "Isn't she?"

The waitress came back with a pad and pencil. The girl opened her mouth to order.

"Can I get a malt? Strawberry?"

"We don't have malts."

"What do you have?"

The waitress sounded annoyed. "We've got sodas. Lemonade."

The boy spoke, a drink the girl didn't know, and the waitress nodded. The girl told him it sounded delicious. The waitress brought a large round misted-over glass of red slush. Two straws. They both leaned in to drink, their faces nearly touching. She noticed lines in the corners of his eyes. She coughed.

"You like it?"

She had never tasted alcohol.

"Yeah. It's good."

She had liked the smell, ripe and sharp, but was relieved when it was gone. She had only pretended to slurp through the straw, sucking but never into her mouth. He didn't seem to notice; he drank it all. They talked about music and films. At one point the girl noticed the dark-red hair of a girl she recognized, an older girl from school. She was gorgeous and popular and hung out with older boys. It was rumored she was pregnant. She wore a bikini top and tight jean shorts. A guy with a receding hairline was with her. She had looked in the girl's direction once, and the girl felt nervous, like she might throw up. But the red-haired girl didn't recognize her, and she was disappointed.

"How old are you?" he asked at one point.

"Seventeen," she said.

He smiled. She asked.

"Twenty-eight.

Something turned in her stomach.

She felt as if he had pulled something over her. But she hadn't asked him before, and he had had no reason to tell. She didn't know what someone his age should look like. He looked young.

"That's old," she said.

"Not old enough to be your dad," he said. His head bobbed and his lips parted, as if he were laughing. Grunting uh-uh-uh sounds came out of his throat.

He left money for the waitress, and they walked down the stairs, to the dock. The boy's steps were steady, assured, and he took the girl's hand. People watched and she liked it. At the foot of the stairs she saw a woman, wrinkled and smoking, staring, not like the others, but with her lips closed, hard with contempt. The girl thought of her mother.

He told her he would take her for a ride. She thought she should go home, but it was pleasing to be on the lake, in the boat, feeling the breeze and the sun. She lay down on the bench at the front, on her back, but pushed herself up to her elbows as they left to see where they were and recognized the homes. There were large cabins, white- and green- and brown-sided with tiny red-roofed docks. Of course they all looked similar from the back, heavily windowed and square-framed, but she was familiar with them and could tell them apart. She asked the boy where he lived.

"You wouldn't know the name of it," he said. "It's far."

"Where?" she asked. She said it casually.

He named something she had never heard of. She was unfamiliar with most of the lake. She could only ever tell if she was at home, or Connie's. Everywhere else was foreign because she never paid attention to where she was going.

He asked for her name. It made her uneasy. She pretended not to hear. He asked again, louder.

"My name is Sharon," she said.

"That's pretty."

He said his name was Kurt, and she said it was a cute name. He laughed, jerking his head backward. Brown curls fell over his eyes. She lay back down on the bench, feeling the hot sun. They cruised the lake at low speed, over the water. It relaxed her, and she nearly fell asleep. When she came to, the boy was still behind the wheel, driving. She could feel the wind rushing by, more intense than before, and she sat up. She didn't recognize the homes now. He was driving fast. It was late afternoon. There were people tubing and skiing. The boy saw she was awake. He was smirking, confident, like he'd remembered some secret joke. He winked at her, and she looked away.

"You bored?" he asked.

She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, shaking her hair loose to dry. Before she could speak, he knocked the lever forward, and they sped through a narrow channel filled with boats. He snaked through, nearly skimming pontoons and rafts and people. They honked their horns and the girl screamed.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked.

She got up and moved to the driver's seat. She reached for the lever and pulled it back. The boat slowed. She was afraid he was upset, but when he spoke he sounded amused, only slightly disappointed. He asked her what the big idea was.

She thought of something to say. Other boats drifted by. Some were anchored. They were near a beach. Young people listened to radios in their boats, dancing and drinking from glass bottles. A group of girls drove by. They looked like her friends, but she could tell they weren't. They lowered their sunglasses and stared at her, then at Kurt. She scoffed.

"I want to learn," she told him. "Teach me how to drive."

He pursed his lips, and the red parts of his cheeks firmed. His eyes squinted as if smirking.

"This is great," he said.

"Show me."

He told her to stand in front of him, and he said he would put her hands where they needed to go. She did so and he did so. Bumps broke across her skin. He pressed himself tight against her. She thought she heard him mutter something like "Oh God," and she felt the short blast of breath on her neck.

"Simple," he said.

She took hold of the wheel and turned the ignition. There was a clock in glowing green figures. It was five P.M. Had they been out that long? She cursed under her breath.

"Which way back to my place?" she asked, taking the boat into gear.

"What?"

"I need to get home soon," she said. "Or my mother will know I've been gone."

"Let's go get some food."

"I'm not hungry."

"I'll buy you another drink."

"I'm not thirsty."

He laughed. It sounded forced. He pulled a beer from a cooler under the passenger seat and twisted the cap off, throwing it into the water. His lips met the bottle with a loud smack. He tilted his neck back when he drank. She watched the muscle where it moved, swallowing, and she wanted to touch it, or maybe put her lips to it. He offered the bottle to her. When she pretended not to notice, he held it in front of her face.

"Taste it," he said, and she shook her head. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Which way takes me home?" she asked.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"Little Niangua."

"I don't know where that is."

"What do you mean you don't know where it is?

"I just know Ozark Lake."

She couldn't see his face; it was turned away. He was spread across a seat, his feet propped on the dashboard, head tilted backward. He took another drink. She asked him how the hell he had gotten there in the first place, to her house. Her voice was shaky. She tried to sound confident. She didn't know if she was angry or scared or both. Everything was mixed up. It wasn't even called Ozark Lake. What the hell had she been doing? Her head was filled, warm with blood. Her skin was hot when she touched it. She felt sick.

"I was just screwing around," he said. "I just drove there."

"You don't remember how you got there?"

"No."

A family in a boat--father, mother and two girls--drove by. She thought of talking to them, to ask directions. They were eating sandwiches. The mother wore a broad-rimmed hat with feathers, as if she didn't know this was a lake and she was in a boat. The girls scowled, hunched over in their seats. When they passed they glanced at the girl, and she noticed them. They stared at Kurt, their mouths open. They looked stupid, and jealous.

"We're lost," the girl told him.

"You're kidding," he said.

"I'm not."

"That's fucking crazy." He sounded amused.

"What are we going to do?"

"We need gas. It's low." He pointed to the gauge. She hadn't noticed the gauge before. It made her feel worse.

"Do you know where there's a station?"

"Yeah. I know one."

He told her where to go. She drove at top speed, following the setting sun, because that was where he had said she should go, and that was all she knew of her home, that Little Niangua was in the west. She'd heard her mother say it once. They were on a remote section of the lake. Houses were tiny and few, gold specks hidden in thick, blackening forests.

He said she was going fast. Even he wouldn't take the boat that fast. Officials might pull him over. She acted as if she were listening. He kept talking. The high parts of his cheeks were red, and his lips seemed fuller. He was licking them. She didn't know how many beers he had drunk, because he threw the bottles into the water when they were empty. Once, he asked her if she had a boyfriend. She said no. He'd made a face like he was incredulous.

"You ever fallen for anyone?" he asked.

"I don't fall for people," she said.

"Well I have."

"How'd it turn out?

"Not so hot, but I got a feeling things are changing. Things are turning in my favor."

She said nothing.

"You got a crush on anyone?" he asked.

"No."

"I do," and he paused for what seemed like a long moment. "She's gorgeous."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and opened her mouth as if to speak and closed it back.

"Thinks she's smart, too."

"Who is she?

She held the hair off her face. The sun made her skin freckle across her nose. For the first time she realized how he was looking at her, how he had looked at her all day, not like other boys, who were grinning and rowdy--pleading at best. His eyes were dark, shadowed beneath his brow. The red lips were pressed together, turned at the corners. He looked hungry. She told him she didn't know any girls around here.

"You just know Connie?" he asked.

She felt her heart pounding. She could hear it in her ears, too, thumping like the music on the radios. Had she mentioned Connie?

"You know Connie?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"How?"

"Just do," he said. "We have fun together, me and Connie."

She had questions. She could have asked him where he had met her, when and what they had done or if they were friends. Did he even know her? Or just of her? Connie didn't keep secrets; she would have told her of him. Why hadn't she?

"Then it's her," she said. "I really only know Connie, and if it isn't her, I don't know."

"I'm pretty sure you know," he said.

She didn't want to say anything. She felt if she could only keep quiet, then he would be quiet. Lines were drawn in her mind. He could be the one; he could hurt her. The day seemed planned. Everything she had felt was something else entirely. When he touched her it had been possessive--he had grabbed her hand hard or planted his fingers into the skin on her back. In the moment she hadn't noticed; it felt protective, maybe, but they were around other people. The things she'd done weren't spontaneous; she'd done them to make her feel interesting, like she had felt when she jumped off the cliff, or at the restaurant, or even on the boat, at first. Now she wondered what had made her do it. She wanted to blame her mother. She thought of her searching, upset. It felt good to do so, but she also knew it was unfair.

For a while she drove. As long as she could do that she thought, Okay, I can handle this. He said nothing. She thought he was asleep but didn't turn to check. Her eyes were fixed away. The mountains, at first blue, turned to black in the darkening light. They were alone on the water, the lake left still and shimmering. They came upon a beach of rocks, and the water shallowed. Thin flags of smoke wafted from the shores. Three fires blazed like stars. Someone was burning leaves, or trash. The red flames spat upward, squelched at the tips in the black night air. The girl knew they were illegal, and she felt comforted that they had been placed there. She didn't know why.

Her heart quickened when she saw a red sign appear above the line of trees on the right-hand shore. She heard him move. He was awake. The sign read GAS and listed prices. He pointed. Below the prices were other signs, nailed crookedly down a rusted post. They read things like Bait, Beer and Cigs. She told him she wanted cigarettes.

"And I have to pee," she said.

She pulled the boat into a stall, alongside a gas pump.

"You gonna help me tie it off?" he asked, grabbing the wheel, but she pretended not to hear, stepping out of the boat, onto the dock and inside a wooden shack, through a door where a neon Open sign hung. Inside the shack it smelled of rotten dead fish and gasoline. The girl asked a balding, greasy man behind the counter for a phone.

"What you need it for," he said.

"I need to make a call.

"You one of Rob's girls?"

"You got a phone or what?"

"I don't got a phone."

"You got a map?"

He gave her a creased brochure from a broken display case. "Two-fifty," he said. She didn't have $2.50. She spotted a set of knives behind the counter and asked if she could see one.

"Which one."

"The big one."

He laid it on the counter. She grabbed it by the handle and told him the boy coming in to pay for gas would cover it and the map. She tried to walk out casual, but her legs felt wobbly and she thought the man might stop her. He said something behind her and she kept going. A door on the side of the store pointed to restrooms. She followed it outside. The boy wasn't by the boat, filling the tank. She peered around the edge of the shack and saw him enter. When he went inside she got into the boat. She cut through the ropes with the knife and pushed from the dock. The boat floated backward into the water. She turned on the engine, crashing into a buoy. She didn't even see the boy running out of the shack, onto the dock, but she heard him shouting. When she reached the middle of the lake, she turned and saw his figure on the edge of the dock, a thrashing shadow.

She opened the map. It confirmed she should go west, but she was at least 20 miles from home, and the tank was still low. She felt as though her heart had stopped. Never had she been so desperate. Her eyes were stinging. The wind had run her hair ragged. The air was getting cold, and she wished she had clothes to wear. She had no idea what she would tell her mother.

•

The boat ran despite the needle hovering below the empty line. Black mounds of land rolled past. Dark flecks of fish broke the surface as if breaching. A single white crane swooped downward to the waves. The girl feared getting stuck in a cove, or on a sandbar. Snakes hid in the weeds, and mosquitoes hovered like a fog. When the engine spluttered and the boat stopped, floating at a standstill, the girl waited. The lights of houses were on, a few hundred feet from shore. She was unsure where exactly she was trapped, but she guessed from the map and the way in which the lake split into three channels that she was floating near home.

The lake was deserted. Nobody was outside. She checked for paddles in a side compartment, to row ashore, but there were none. She spotted a crumbling concrete stairway and thought of swimming to it, but the water was dark and still and deep. She could yell for help, but who would hear her?

When she heard the distant sound of water crashing on the surface and spotted the speck of a Jet Ski in the distance, she didn't know how to react. It would be another stranger. Someone worse. Or a policeman. But there was no flashing light or horn. At one point she thought she should duck and hide, but she thought of her mother and felt determined. Hoping someone would see, she waved her hands in the air, despite the fact that the boat was cast in shadow; it had floated to the southwest shore. She yelled.

The Jet Ski moved closer. A thin streak of silver shone on the dash. The girl realized the knife was still out. She moved to hide it. The glove compartment was locked. She picked it. The door popped. Something glinted inside. An object was half hidden beneath a green notepad: a shiny metal gun. The girl stared, her breath drained, choking. She lunged over the side of the boat and vomited into the water, the yellow foam glazing the surface, then drifting.

She felt weak and her limbs were shaky. Looking up, she could make out the form of the stranger on the Jet Ski, the boy or man who apparently had pursued her to this point--because that was what it had become, a pursuit. It made her feel smart to have made it that way, and the sudden feeling made her stronger.

"What are you trying to do?" he asked.

She didn't answer. He gripped the handlebar and stood up. The Jet Ski made a rattled sound. He looked taller.

"God. I didn't think I'd find you." He said it half smiling, head tilted back.

"You don't know what I had to do to get this," he said.

She moved to the glove compartment and slid her hand inside. Her palm met the hard rubber grip of the handle. She had never used a gun, and she didn't think she could use one now. She didn't want to. It could be a toy, a water gun. She couldn't see enough to tell. But it didn't feel like plastic. If it were real, she thought, it might not be loaded. She breathed in. It didn't matter.

"I don't think I want to know," she said.

"Don't you?" he asked.

For a moment he was silent, moving carefully closer.

"I thought we were having fun," he said. "I thought you were having fun."

And then his arms were open, as if to show her he held nothing, like he couldn't possibly hurt her--and why would he want to? She was sure this was false.

"That's all I meant to do," he said.

"Have a good time with a pretty girl.

Now what am I supposed to do?"

He floated, feet away from the boat.

The girl moved to the back, near the motor. She pointed the gun toward him. The barrel shook.

At first he looked surprised. His arms were back up in the air, and his face lost the hard look it had had before. His mouth hung open.

"What're you going to do with that?" he asked.

He laughed. It sounded forced.

"That's not even loaded," he said.

"Like I'd believe that," she said.

It didn't come out right, and she thought she sounded stupid. She tried to calm the shaking through her arm. It shook worse.

"That's a flare gun," he said. "Can't you even tell that?"

He'd seemed to slow, and that was all she wanted. More time. Time to think. She didn't believe him, but she also didn't want to hold the gun, or whatever it was, anymore. She set it down, softly, on the floor. When she looked up he was inches from the boat.

"What should I do?" he asked.

The voice was ragged, despairing, like he hadn't swallowed. She noticed the pathetic quality. He hadn't planned it this way, she thought. She thought, I've got the upper hand. Of all the girls he'd been with, none had given him this trouble. Or had they? Had there even been any? She was sorry for him but didn't know why. He grabbed the edge of the boat with both hands, as if to launch himself inside.

"This could have been fun," he said.

He lumbered. His hands grasped the smooth white of the boat. She knew the moment was important. But all she could think of was the lake. She was soothed, stupefied. Water rippled, seamless, behind a dark silhouette of the boy as he swung a leg over the edge. Houses on the southern shore were lit, window lights flickering like fire on the waves. Families were sitting down to dinner. Boats were raised on stilts, or tethered to the docks.

She thought of the people who didn't live near the lake and how they spoke of the beauty of it. She disagreed with them. The water was green and stank, and there were bugs, but she hadn't ever cared enough to tell them so. She had never cared about much. She didn't tell them what she thought, and how she knew, because she lived there, that the water was only beautiful from a distance, when a low rising or setting sun cast the deep middle of the lake in a rich blue. It looked different now. All this land, rising, these mountains, and the rippling water; she had never noticed before.

Her hands were behind her, holding to the slick edge of the boat. For a moment she felt relief. Her breath softened. A breeze blew across the water, lifting the hair from her face. It felt weird to notice it. He looked at her. His eyes flicked upward, then downward, like water gliders.

It happened suddenly and silently. Like a fish she allowed herself to slip backward, into the water. It hadn't called for force. The movement was smooth and easy as a dream. Water filled her nostrils. A swell of warmth spread from her chest, like fear. She fell deeply. Her body rolled, and then she reached her arms to the surface. When her head broke above the water she didn't look backward.

The boy, or man, called out. The girl kicked her legs. Her mouth opened for air and she tasted sweet mud and fish. A loud pop sounded, like snapping tinder from a fire. All she felt was the chill of the water, moving to the edges of a black, rippling plane, and all she saw was the black expanse of land before her, and above her, and then there was what she could not see, but what she knew was there. And she thought, at long last, that she was prepared, and she swam to it.

Second prize in this year's competition goes to Mark Baumgartner, 29, a Ph.D. student at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, for "Like Gods of the Sun." The two third-place winners are "Donkey Hammer" by Rose M. Bunch, 38, an MFA student at the University of Montana, and "Seed" by Katherine E. Standefer, 20, an undergraduate at Colorado College.

Young girls should stay at home and, when they had to be in public, not wear makeup or skimpy clothes.