And then the rain came. We watched the lightning crack along the rim of the hill, and the rain fell harder until it sounded like gravel passing through the boughs of the pines. No one else came down from our camp on the hill. The old tape deck played its worn Queen tape, batteries still holding out. We are the champions, we are the champions.

The two of us waded in, knees high and splashing. We dipped our shoulders into the water of William's Pond as if it would save us. We were up to our necks in the warm brown water while the cold, hard rain fell upon our faces.

You looked up at the sky, catching rain in your mouth. Your wet, brown hair was matted to your head, and you wore that dark, muddy water like a cloak around your naked shoulders.

And even I, the forever pessimist, even I thought the syrupy water of William's Pond was a better, safer place. And as long as the tape deck played, I wouldn't get out and I wouldn't let go of you.

We stayed in the water until the lightning stopped. The rain passed over the hills and the tape clicked off. Then Mark and Sadie came down from the camp.

Mark said, "You two are crazy. That was a lightning storm. You two could have been stewed."

And Sadie, she had nodded to you, like she was answering a question. "Let's go up now," she said. She had brought down two huge blue towels. You swam towards the beach then. By the time you got out, you had slipped back into your bathing suit.

And I waited, watching to see if you would turn your head to me. But you were talking to Sadie and Mark. So I slipped my Jams back on, and climbed out too.

We all walked up to the camp. But it was not the same after that. We were both seventeen and tied together then.

For years, I thought it was just a first love thing. Being seventeen and that secret feel of your skin under the water--something longed for and waited for. I thought it would pass through me and leave me, that memory of you. I thought I would get older, get married, have kids, move on to other things, other people. But now I'm twice the age I was then, and I'm driving home once again, alone. And now I know. I missed my love. I missed my train.

***

That night, all of us sat around the campfire. You were drunk, a little more than the rest of us. You danced beside the fire, holding Sadie's hand and trying to shag. "I love beach music," you sang.

Sadie's hair flashed in the light -- she was less drunk, a better dancer. Mark and I passed the bottle of Strawberry Boone's Farm back and forth, the taste warm and overly sweet.

We heard the hoot of an owl up in the high pines. You said, "There's a kind of moth with eyes on its wings like an owl." You sat down, leaving Sadie to dance by herself. "And when a hungry bird swoops in, it sees those eyes and turns away, thinking of the owl."

Mark walked the bottle over to you. "Yeah, I learned about that in school." He took your hand and tried to get you to dance with him.

"No more dancing," you said.

You moved over beside me. "Have a drink," you said, and I did. You sat down and laid your back against my knees. And I forgot about owls and birds and moths. I just thought about you--your long body stretched next to mine, inch against inch.

***

I am talking with Sadie. She has two kids now, and we are at McDonald's so they can play in the PlayPark. Her hair is red and long again, and she still has that shy way of hiding her eyes within her hair when she is broaching a subject she isn't sure about.

"You look good," she says. "You look just like you did when you were a kid." She has brought me some napkins and salt packets and ketchup for my fries. She watches me eat.

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