That you might think a thing true.

Just by thinking about it at all.

“To the island,” Brandon says. “I dare you all.”

“Fuck that,” Natasha says.

“Why? It’s not that far.”

“We’re not into dares,” Natasha says. “We like physical feats. Games. Not dares. We want to live long enough to make terrible decisions in college.”

“Dudes,” Brandon says. Now he’s up, shirtless, wiry, pointing to the island that looks far. The water looks real blue too. “It’s not that far!”

“Then swim to it,” Dana says. “Douche.”

“No dares,” Natasha says. “Games, cool. Dares, dumb.”

“This is a challenge,” Brandon says.

“They’re not into it,” Ritchie says. Little Richard. That’s their nickname for the decidedly not little Richard. “Forget about it.”

Brandon eyes his friends.

“Fine,” he says. He sits down in the sand again. “Lame.”

Nobody disputes this. Brandon isn’t scaring anybody.

“Daphne,” Stewart says.

“What?” Kit says.

“Half of me,” he says, “wants to kiss you right now. That shot was so dope.”

Kit misses the compliment; she’s stuck on how she misheard him.

She almost laughs. It’s that absurd. She really thought he said—

“Stuff it,” Natasha says. “Nobody’s kissing Kit without going through me first.”

Everyone at least smirk-laughs at this. Kit hears genuine carefree syllables in their laughter.

Why doesn’t she hear this in her own?

They’re gathered with their shoes and socks off, feet in the creek that leads to the lake that, yes, features a small island, overgrown with thin, half-bare pines, a shoreline of dark, sharp rocks. Not an appealing place. Then again, the creek isn’t really either.

“Daphne…” Brandon says.

Kit doesn’t ask what this time. She feels a little heat at the base of her neck.

“…to think of all the dead stuff in a lake that big.”

So, nasty, not Daphne.

What is Kit doing to herself? Why is she doing this?

Maybe she’s not.

“You guys are fucking with me,” she says.

She stands up, walks along the creek.

“What do you mean?” Little Richard asks.

Behind her, they’re asking one another who’s fucking with who? Natasha tells the boys to knock it off, but they sound like they really don’t know what she means. And maybe she doesn’t either. She’s just backing Kit up no matter what.

Kit takes the creek edge toward the lake, alone, careful not to step on any of the angular rocks or roots. Alone now, she thinks of the story Natasha told, how Daphne was a “freak” who was into heavy-metal music. How people in town killed her for being who she was.

Having grown up in Samhattan, Kit has heard the name Daphne before. But it’s always been akin to autumn wind: in the name blows, and out by winter. Like those who speak it don’t really mean to, and certainly don’t want to. Kit’s never thought to look into it any more than she would the bogeyman. Before a few days ago, Daphne was a word more than it was a name. In fact, part of the reason it bothers her now is that she can’t recall anyone ever explicitly saying the name. Daphne wasn’t a tool used by parents to scare their kids to sleep. Daphne wasn’t something the bad kids threatened you with on the playground. Daphne wasn’t even something best friends whispered about at sleepovers.