Interested Parties

Tatyana Sundeyeva

The road to Pine Mountain Lake is a slithering two-lane highway up a cliffside with drops that make our heads spin, our stomachs uneasy. The locals, in beat-up pickup trucks, take it fast—tailgating our minivans loaded up with a month’s worth of food, bathing suits, and lawn chairs. At the top, the road opens up on a gated community of outdated vacation homes and cabins nestled around a lake of gold specks that sparkle in the afternoon sun. The air smells of dry grass and creaky wooden decks grilling in the sun. Beyond the lake is a one-stoplight Gold Rush town called Groveland, where the one coffee shop sells T-shirts emblazoned with “Where the hell is Groveland?” but we call all of it Pine Mountain Lake. The main street’s biggest attraction is the oldest saloon in California, its ceiling stuck with dollar bills from gold-mining hopefuls who took the railroad down from Hetch Hetchy to seek their fortunes. The hotel has rooms named after the ghosts of successful miners, and if you drive a little north, you’ll find the old hanging tree still standing.

When we were in school, it was a summer destination for people like us from Soviet countries. Former chessmasters and physicists played cards with nearly-blind Chernobyl survivors, while a few scattered townies in swim trunks tossed footballs over people’s heads or drank beers in the back of trucks. English was the second language.

We rarely spent time outside the gated community except to visit the town grocery store where we’d get strange looks despite being summer regulars. Occasionally, we’d order fancy espresso drinks at the town cafe. Few of us ventured into the saloon.

The summer of the wildfires was my first time in Pine Mountain Lake. My mom looked disdainfully at the lake’s public bathrooms that became overrun with flies by mid-morning, and dreamed of a summer-long pass to the Solage or Indian Springs or some other glamorous Napa Valley resort where the spoken language was hushed English.

I met Aida on my first day. Though she was my age, she was wearing a floppy hat and reading The Art of War on a towel in the shade. Under the brim of her hat, her eyes slid back and forth across the page. She saw me looking over from behind the old romance book I found in our rental, smiled, and nodded for me to join her in a slice of shade under the lone oak tree on the beach. This was a prime spot; parents and grandparents arrived early each morning to stake their claims with towels and lawn chairs, migrating the whole setup to follow the shade as the day progressed.

“I’m Aida, like the opera, not Ada like an old lady.” She laughed.

“I’m Victoria. Or Vika. But not Vicky.” I lay down to read next to her, our silence easy and familiar.

That afternoon, the annual retreat for a Russian gymnastics camp arrived, unleashing a barrage of ten-year-olds who didn’t know they were still children, who spent a week stretching provocatively and twisting into smug pretzels in the middle of people’s Frisbee games. But what drew everyone’s attention that afternoon was Aida suddenly bolting upright and sprinting across the beach, where another girl, Christina, dropped her parents’ cooler and darted as fast as her flip-flops would carry her into Aida’s outstretched arms. Their squeals drew chuckles from nearby beachgoers but they didn’t care.

Then Aida slipped off to the Marina cafe, where the few American families sat on stone benches under cherry-red umbrellas eating burgers and footlong corn dogs, and bought a basket of hot fries. With a nod of her head, she signaled us to meet her at the end of the pier where Christina’s parents couldn’t see us indulge. We dipped our legs in the cool water, occasionally feeling something brush past, and nibbled on the first American food we’d eaten all summer.

“Same house this year?” Aida asked, the water’s reflection turning her pale legs a greenish hue.

“Yep. Already hot as the devil’s sauna.”

“Better make good connections, OK? Meet nice connection you can marry. Connection that gives grandchildren,” Aida said in a heavy Russian accent. Each year Christina’s parents rented the same old house with no central air conditioning so people ended up inviting them over for lunch or dinner most days of the week. They referred to it as “making connections,” and Christina always had to come because they were doing this for her, they said.

Christina snorted and put her arm around Aida. “I’ve got my connection right here.”

Aida tickled Christina’s face with a lock of her hair and they giggled.

Before the day was through, I learned that they competed in turning anything anyone said into sexual innuendo; quoted the best lines in foreign films; longed to travel, learn the accordion and the guitar; and meet boys who’d teach them the words for love in their languages. Watching them chat was like listening to old Russian folk songs, where the beat starts slow—a single drum—and builds—tambourines and stamping feet—until it explodes with the frenzy of a bonfire dance. The sun was setting and the evening breeze smelled of distant charred forests by the time we parted, visions of our lives taking shape before us.

Every summer would start like this: a reunion on the beach, secret fries on the pier, talking of the places we read about and the people we’d meet when we finally got there.

By the summer of the cicadas, we were a trio. We dropped our books and chessboards the moment one of the other girls arrived. Like magnets, Aida and Christina flew to each other across the beach and wouldn’t pull apart until their parents called them home to eat.

We knew all the other regulars by then. There were the summer-long visitors, grandparents like the Goldmans, flocked by grandchildren clamoring for ice cream. Young families like the Levins came up for the weekends with their two golden-haired toddlers and another on the way. The older moms watched the husband, Val, because he was a tennis semi-pro, and it had been decades since they had blushed like that. Finally, there were the weekend friend groups, a few years older than us, who had an adult sibling on the rental agreement. These were the party houses, the groups of fifteen or more who threw their money together to rent out the biggest houses with lakeside docks, who slept on bedroom floors and pool tables to drive the cost down. When they drove up the cliffside to Pine Mountain Lake, their cars were loaded with grilling meat and vodka. They never arrived early enough to grab a shady spot on the beach and instead pulled in bleary-eyed around noon, when families were heading home for lunch.

When I arrived, Aida and Christina were sharing earbuds and listening to something European, Aida mouthing the words while Christina bobbed her head. We splashed into the lake and swam to the deep end, where the water got cold and the seaweed grew tall. We sunbathed on the floating dock and watched the cloudless sky while Aida made up stories for us, entertained us with tales of how our lives would go when we got older.

“You will be swept off your feet by a handsome Flamenco dancer,” Aida predicted, gazing at me like a tarot reader, affecting an ambiguous Eastern European accent.

“Do men even dance Flamenco?” Christina asked.

Aida looked offended. “Claro que si!” She snapped her fingers like castanets.

“How?” I asked. “How will he sweep me off my feet?”

“Ah,” Aida’s ambiguous accent returned. “It will happen on a stormy night in Edinburgh. You’ll be rushing home from the library when there’s a sudden downpour, and you will run for cover with your books over your head. As you run to an awning nearby, a man will rush in, covering his head with his guitar case. Your eyes will meet, and he’ll know all the right things to say—but only in Spanish.”

My laughter was tinged with hope. I had told her I dreamed of going to college in the UK, of living in a castle and studying in a grand library, so Aida tailored my future to my desires, no matter how unrealistic. Hearing her tell it, you began to believe it, because she spoke like she believed it too. Aida’s dream was to study in the south of France, and every year she came to Pine Mountain Lake knowing a little more French. But Christina’s dream never settled—she wanted everything. Like Napoleon, she dreamed of conquering all of Europe. And Aida’s stories took her everywhere: Barcelona, Rome, Prague. Aida saved her best for Christina, invented dukes and pop stars and footballers who would swoon to Christina’s charms and sweep her away to villas, yachts, and penthouses. Aida did voices, too, giving each man a ludicrous accent the three of us giggled about, whispering choice phrases to each other like code words.    

When Aida’s stories ended, we swam back to shore. The cicadas sizzled around us like frying bacon while we lay out in the sun and watched older girls in revealing bikinis bounce around the volleyball court as keen eyes watched from the sidelines. Aida and Christina cracked jokes in a private language I re-learned every summer, watching idiot boys make fools of themselves for attention. Christina’s dad saw us lying out, and said with a chortle, “Even cows seek shade in this heat,” before poking the fleshy part of Christina’s torso with a sandaled toe, but her mom lay down next to us and asked us what we thought of the different boys, told us who she thought was a good match for each of us. We giggled at that too, because they were nothing compared to the men Aida invented.

The summer of the heat wave was the year we looked up from books or turned over while tanning to find heads turning quickly away, eyes darting back to safe spaces. Christina’s legs had grown long and lean, or maybe she suddenly became aware of them, because she began rolling down the waist of her shorts to make them fit tighter. Her tank tops became shorter, accentuating a plateau of skin made golden with tanning oil. With her red hair and gray eyes, boys said Christina looked like that actress they had a crush on growing up. Their parents told Aida she looked like a classical painting, a baroque study, Girl Reclining on a Lounger with a Book. Aida’s chestnut hair lightened, as though the gold in the water fused with her curls, and boys began to look at the curves carved out of her figure with lingering stares. She stuck to the shade, her skin barely turning the color of pale honey by summer’s end.

That summer, we invented the nonchalant hair toss, the thoughtful gaze into the distance, the search for someone across the beach—subtle ways to survey interested parties out of the corners of our eyes. At this, Christina dominated. She walked onto the beach every morning and with a few subtle turns to adjust her towel, had already noted in which direction to stretch her legs. This became second nature to her until we could tell by watching her, with our backs to the beach, that a new party entered the ring, could tell by her pout and the hand that pushed up her lush red hair that she spotted someone who, before the day was through, would sit on a picnic table and lean his arms on his knees and tell Christina that he wants to take a walk with her.

Christina never answered directly. She preferred to flit about the beach from group to group, to have options, to hold court. So, she laughed easily and stretched her legs and suggested he buy us a milkshake and invite his friends over. The three of us exchanged looks—derisive, nervous, amused—as the guy waved his buddies over to join us and shelled out for our milkshake. We knew how it would go: Christina would smile mysteriously, tease her hair with slender fingers, and field probing questions. Aida would make half-hearted responses to tepid small talk with a wingman until she finally let her gaze drift off to the horizon and I knew she could almost smell the lavender and cigarettes of the south of France. We knew the conversation would lead nowhere. We’d already appraised them the moment they stepped onto the beach and found nothing but paste and nickel. But we let Christina invite them anyway, because the days needed to be filled, and we were hungry too.

Our senior year, my family arrived first, followed by Aida. She looked different, content and patient. Her hair had grown long; it curled in ringlets that made you want to slip your fingers through them. Her parents set up their loungers and towels in the shade and Aida pulled out East of Eden, a worn bookmark sticking a quarter of the way in.

Christina arrived last. Her family’s minivan pulled into the beach parking lot ahead of a truck full of young local guys sitting in the truck bed. As her parents called for her to help unload the cooler, I watched Christina carefully extend one long leg after the other and climb out of the car looking distracted, letting the truckload think she hadn’t noticed them watching.

That year, when Aida and Christina ran to each other on the beach, their embrace turned heads. When we walked to the pier, eyes followed. And when we slipped our legs into the water and leaned back on our arms, it was for the last time.

Aida nodded along quietly and munched on fries while Christina told us all about her first boyfriend, a classmate who spent months taking her out before earning a kiss.

“What’s new with you two?” Christina asked when she was finished.

Aida hesitated. “I won’t be here next summer. I’m going to Nice.” Then she smiled. Small at first, then dazzling and earnest, letting her excitement show, the kind of smile that made you realize how rarely you’ve seen her smile like that.

“Oh, wow.” Christina nodded. “Your dream.”

She stayed quiet while Aida shared the details, the day trips she’d take, the school where she’d study, the homestay where she’d live. We watched her eyes light up, saw her come alive at the end of the pier.

As soon as we returned to the beach, the first suitors arrived.

Andrei was a tall, bow-legged soccer player in Speedos who spent days dripping sweat on the beach volleyball court. Aida knew him from Calculus. She referred to him as the Great Oaf because he’d once spent a school trip clumsily trying to sniff her hair. That morning, as we watched him break off from his enormous entourage and amble across the beach with two guys—his auxiliary force—we knew exactly what was coming.

“Hey, Aida,” he mumbled, and I could sense Aida grow bored, feel her energy seep. “What are you girls up to?”

“Planning murder, you?” she mumbled.

“Huh?”

Her expression shifted and her eyes lost their edge. “I said we’re planning burgers. You?” knowing that this was the opening everyone hoped for. Andrei introduced his friends Igor and Ruslan and Christina tossed her hair as she took the lead that Aida handed her. His eyes on Aida, Andrei invited the three of us to a party at their house on Friday night. He pointed to the house on the hill overlooking the lake, the one with a dozen windows flashing in the morning light and a long trail of stairs leading down to a dock on the water.

“We’re staying up there. Grizzly Bear Drive. You guys should come. Half the beach will be there.” He watched Aida for a reply.

“Thanks. We’ll think about it,” she said, following protocol.

“What’s there to think about?” Christina interjected. “We’ll be there.” She watched Andrei’s eyes slide from Aida to her. “What time?”

“Nine.” Andrei’s teeth had suffered too many soccer balls, but he smiled anyway. “See you then.” And the three of them sauntered back to their group, who had been watching the exchange.

We turned to Christina. “Why did you say that?”

“It sounds fun. You heard him: everyone will be there.”

“I don’t want to spend my night with the Great Oaf sniffing my hair again.”

“Will your parents even let you go?” I asked.

“They’ll be fine with it. It’s just one night. And we won’t let him get within sniffing distance,” Christina laughed, but Aida looked annoyed.

“How are we getting there?”

“Vicky will drive us.”

They both looked at me, watching for signs of the response each one wanted, but I had no good reason not to take the car out that night, so I said, “Fine,” and Christina turned back to the water because the matter was settled.

We swam to the dock before lunch and watched the figures of Andrei and his friends play volleyball. When someone hit the ball out to the water, Andrei waded in to get it and nodded to us, his eyes always searching for Aida’s. She turned onto her back to watch the sky.

As the afternoon settled into evening and the beach began to empty, we lugged our things back to our parents’ cars. Andrei waved to us from across the parking lot as he loaded up his beach chair into an SUV and climbed in to join his friends. We watched the truckload of townie guys pile into their truck bed, the metal clanging with their weight. They saw us too, revved the engine to get our attention, backed up looking only at us.

They didn’t hit Andrei’s car. They braked just in time, when one of the guys in the truck bed yelled out. But a couple of guys from Andrei’s group jumped out anyway, started looking for damage and yelling, “Watch where you’re going, fucking redneck!” Before the driver of the truck jumped out to yell back, to herd his boys into the truck and drive off with a tire-burning skid, he winked at us, and when I looked over, Aida was rolling her eyes, but Christina’s lips were curled into a keen smile.

The next afternoon on the dock, the guys from the truck swam up while we were sunbathing. We shifted over to make space and four of them climbed up, dripping water onto the hot stone.

The driver, with short blonde hair and a snake tattoo around his bicep, watched us for a minute before leaning over with, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

He smirked. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

He seemed to like Christina’s attitude because he said, “Trevor. And these are Walt, Tim, and Kai.”

She smirked. “Christina,” she said, pronouncing her name in Russian, rolling her r, her consonants crisp. “Aida and Vicky,” she pointed to each of us.

“Christina,” Trevor tried to roll the r but it came out more like a hiss. “I noticed you earlier.” He exchanged a look with his guys, then added, “I like redheads.”

“We have the most fun,” she deadpanned.

Trevor laughed. “So, what are you girls up to tonight?”

Christina stretched and said, “We’re busy.”

“Oh, you’re mysterious, huh?”

She smirked.

“All right, that’s cool. I’m just asking because I think you’re pretty fine and I want to get to know you better.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Christina smiled and nodded to us to get back in the water, feigning boredom. Aida didn’t hesitate before jumping in with a splash. I slipped off the dock after her and treaded water beside it while Christina took the ladder down.

“So, Christina,” Trevor persisted, “where are we going tonight?”

“A party,” she said, descending to the last rung.

“I love parties. Where?” he asked, leaning over not to lose sight of her as she slipped down the last rung of the ladder into the lake.

Christina smirked, touched a finger to her cheek, savoring the tension, then pointed up at the house on Grizzly Bear Drive before letting go and allowing herself to float back, into the deep cool lake.

The night was still and stifling and we could hear the music from the bottom of the hill. We turned up Grizzly Bear Drive, moving slowly up the dim road, our windows down. Along the street, power lines cleaved the trees in half, their branches forced apart into angel wings. Among the dry August grass, only clusters of rigid pink flowers remained, Resurrection Lilies that bloom when all else around them is dead. Christina sat up front in a shirt that slipped off her shoulder, touching her hair in the reflection of the side-view mirror. Aida sat in the back, fidgeting with the trim of her dress. I dressed up too. We pulled into their drive and Christina capped her lipstick, then looked back at Aida in the mirror and said, “Shall we?”

Andrei opened the door and led us in with a patchwork smile. Sitting around on plush couches were all the people we’d seen in their group. No one else from the beach was there. Heads swiveled to watch us, evaluating our dresses and lined eyes and lipstick. The girls, cloistered on a large sectional in the middle of the room, frowned or squinted as we passed, but the guys watched us over the lips of their cups. They watched us follow Andrei through the vaulted living room to the bar in the kitchen. Christina asked Andrei for a Screwdriver and he poured it heavy, the orange juice barely turning the vodka yellow. I picked up a beer to hold while Andrei offered Aida her choice of drinks. She settled on a vodka and Coke but poured it herself.

“We’re out on the deck,” he said, leading us out past the pool table where two guys paused a game to chalk up their pool cues and watch us go by.

The deck was barely lit, with one white sconce light illuminating a table of grilled meat leftovers and mayonnaise salads that were beginning to crust. In the darkness beyond the deck, gnarled forms took shape. At the head of the table sat Andrei’s older brother Misha, the one who must have booked the house. His girlfriend was draped across his lap and around his neck. Her shorts read: I have the pussy, I make the rules.

Andrei sat near his brother. We said hi and moved to sit together in a cluster of empty wicker chairs when Misha sneered, “I got more action in elementary school,” and waved towards Andrei’s crotch, suggesting that one of us should have sat in his lap. Andrei stared into his cup. Aida set her drink on the table and crossed her arms while Christina took a deep sip of her Screwdriver and threw back her tousled hair.

“So, where’s the rest of the beach?” Aida asked Andrei.

“Huh?”

“You said half the beach would be here.”

Before Andrei could reply, Misha interrupted. “We are half the beach. Or did you expect the babushki and dedushki to be here too?” His girlfriend grinned with her head resting against his collarbone.

Aida didn’t reply but threw a scalding look at Misha.

“Andrei, you’re a soccer player, right? What position do you play?” Christina said, watching Andrei reinflate as he recounted his entire soccer career for her. Misha whispered something to his girlfriend and she slunk off to the house.

She returned a minute later with a new drink that she handed to Misha, followed by the two guys who were playing pool earlier. They sprawled around Aida and me, dividing us among themselves. They were brothers, sons of a millionaire developer in a wealthy suburb of San Jose. We knew this because Christina’s mom told us one afternoon when she mentally matched Christina up with the older brother. Christina scoffed then; it was ludicrous to imagine him with his beady black eyes and toddler’s paunch standing next to her. His name was Leon, and on the deck, he started talking about their basement sauna and their pool’s multicolor lights while the younger one, Sergei, told Aida about the features of his car, and her eyes went hollow, a statue’s gaze, the purest marble.

Christina listened intently to Andrei’s answers, but her eyes roamed the deck until Sergei noticed and grabbed a chair near her. She smirked and took a few more gulps of her drink, letting the shirt slip off her shoulder with a practiced toss of her hair.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” Leon said to Aida.

“I talk when there’s something interesting to talk about.”

“Ooh, OK,” he smirked and turned to me, but I just pursed my lips and looked into my beer. He moved to lean against the deck beside Christina, who pushed up the side of her hair and took another drink, scrunching up her nose as though she didn’t like it.

“Are you a dancer?” Leon interjected. “You have a dancer’s body.”

“I am, actually.” She pivoted to Leon. “I do Latin dance.”

“Can you teach me?”

She smirked but stood up and put her arms out. “Well?”

Leon slid in, putting one hand in her palm and the other on her lower back. She didn’t correct him, just held his gaze and told him which leg to step with. Sergei turned on a Latin playlist on his phone and when Christina moved her hips, it was for an audience.

Aida watched closely, her gaze scrutinizing each guy, noting his posture, his grin, his focus.

When Sergei brought Christina another drink, Aida said, “Maybe you should slow down,” which earned her a glare from Misha. “She’s a big girl.”

“I’m a big girl, mom!” Christina threw her head back when she laughed and bared her neck—carrion for the birds—so Aida just watched as Sergei cut in while Leon wrapped his hands around Christina’s waist from behind. A couple more guys came outside to watch, settling in around us, filling up the space with their whetted appetites. Even Misha’s girlfriend watched intently, her eyes focused with the rest of them on Christina’s rolling hips.

Misha whispered again in his girlfriend’s ear. She giggled and nodded.

“I have an idea,” she cooed a moment later. “Let’s go skinny-dipping!”

“That sounds fun!” Christina looked at us, but didn’t see us sitting on the edges of our chairs,  arms across our chests, our breathing growing shallow.

“It does…but we actually have to get going soon,” Aida suggested, trying to sound easygoing.

“She’s right,” I added. “I should get the car home.”

Christina shook her head, grabbed her cup, and finished what’s left. “I can find a ride.”

“I’ll take you. I’ve got a Range Rover. It’s the new one,” Leon interjected.

“Just a quick swim?” Christina pleaded with Aida.

“Yeah, Aida, just a quick dip,” Leon mimicked in a mock falsetto. “We’ll bring her home safe and sound, mom.” He exchanged a grin with his brother.

“We promised your parents we’d only be gone a little while.”

“Yeah, we should go...” I ventured.

“You two are welcome to leave,” Misha jeered. “Christina will stay, won’t you?”

Christina gave Aida a pleading look. Aida responded with a glare.

“I don’t know,” Christina sang out dreamily, but Leon grasped her upper arm.

“Come on, babe. Stay five minutes. I’ll take you home right after. Just a dip.”

One of the other guys, a friend of Misha’s, judging by his age, chortled and mumbled to Misha, “Yeah, just the tip.”

Andrei looked from his brother to Aida. “You should probably go,” he muttered.

“It’s settled,” Misha announced. “You two know the way out.” Almost imperceptibly the group shifted around Christina, enveloping her while leaving us standing apart. Leon waved and wrapped his other arm around Christina’s shoulder.

Suddenly, someone opened the sliding door. “Mish’,” one of the other girls poked her head out. “I think you should come. Some guys just showed up.”

Misha sprang out of his chair, startling his girlfriend, and stormed off the deck, followed wordlessly by Andrei and the guys. Aida and I exchanged a look before leaning over to see the commotion through the glass door.

Across the living room, at the front door, a crowd of people was gathering. Christina giggled and grabbed Aida’s drink. As Aida watched Christina close her eyes and smile, she said, “We need to leave. Now.” But Christina shook her head, her eyes still closed. “I want to swim in the moonlight.”

We heard raised voices and stepped into the living room.

“We ain’t leaving. We were invited!” A voice yelled.

“Bro, no one here invited you! Get the fuck out,” Misha yelled back.

“Yes they did and we ain’t leaving. Move!”

“I’m calling the cops,” Andrei announced.

“I fucking dare you! Go ahead! Tim’s dad is the sheriff.” He smirked.

Andrei hesitated. Through a parting in the crowd, we could make out Trevor’s blonde hair and the shapes of his friends. From across the room, we watched them yell and gesture, on the threshold, until suddenly everything broke loose. Misha tried to slam the door in Trevor’s face, but Trevor kicked the door back with such force that it hit Andrei in the nose. Misha lunged forward and met Trevor’s buddy with a punch, while Sergei and Leon leapt back and started recording the whole thing on their phones.

It didn’t last long, the clash. Trevor and his friends were outnumbered, and they knew it. After landing a few hits on Andrei and Misha, they sulked back to their truck, noses bloodied and hands clutching at their faces while Sergei and Leon sneered, still filming, and yelled, “You’re going to be famous!” and “Fucking pussies!” until we lost sight of the truck careening down the drive.

As the crowd dispersed, we noticed that Christina wasn’t next to us. We found her in the kitchen, at the window, staring into Aida’s cup.

“Did you see that?” Aida asked.

“Huh? No, I was thirsty.” Christina’s voice drifted off.

“Let’s go.”

Christina nodded and let Aida lead her out by the hand. We passed Misha, who was holding ice to his face.

“How the fuck did they know about the party? Who the fuck invited them?”

“Hey Misha, we’re heading out,” Christina said.

“Yeah, whatever, bye,” he turned to his girlfriend who pulled his ice pack off to dab at his cuts with iodine. “Not worth the trouble,” he mumbled.

We didn’t say a word on the drive home. Aida just sat in the backseat looking out the window and Christina tucked her shirt back onto her shoulder.

The next morning, it was clear something had happened. The beach was hush with it. Those in the know exchanged tragic looks, while scouting parties approached newcomers with the news. Aida and her family showed up first. She nodded to me from across the beach when I got there but didn’t come over. When Christina arrived, Aida didn’t rush to her, but sat looking out into the water with her headphones on. No one seemed to be swimming. Even the Americans knew about it. But they didn’t know everything. All they knew was that a family, trying to beat the weekend traffic, was driving the road to Pine Mountain Lake late last night when they lost control on a nasty turn and plunged over the edge. There was another set of skid tracks—a truck, the rumor went—but the sheriff assumed the father was unfamiliar with the road or dozed off at the wheel. We knew the truth. We’d watched them for years, the Levins, watched their golden-haired children dance in the sand while their dad played Sea Monster, ascending from the surf with a great deep roar that made them giggle. We’d watched them learn to swim with floaties on their chubby arms and watched their mom feed them cut up grapes while bouncing the baby on her hip. We’d all blushed at Val’s acrobatics as he set up his family’s tent on the beach every weekend of the last three summers.

This summer would end in whispers and somber glances. By the next year, the barrier along the cliffside would be repaired, reinforced, spotless. The tracks would be long gone, swept away by mountain winds and winter snow, the road ready for the next group of summer visitors. Aida would be living with a family in Nice, from where she’d go on to college in Paris. She wouldn’t return to Pine Mountain Lake. My mother would get her dream of Napa in the form of a poolside timeshare condo with another couple, while I would spend summers interning on the East Coast. Christina would continue visiting Pine Mountain Lake until she married Leon, took a month-long honeymoon across all of Europe, and replaced Pine Mountain Lake with annual summer cruises to Mexico. But all that would come after the summer of the accident.  Now we sat apart and held our breaths, listened all day for the distant sound of helicopters airlifting the wreckage, but all we heard was the lapping of the lake.

Tatyana Sundeyeva is a Russian-Jewish writer originally from Kishinev, Moldavia. She writes short fiction, travel writing, and novels. She has been published in Cleaver and Hadassah Magazine. You can find her on Twitter @TeaOnSundey or at TatyanaWrites.com.