The water was too cold and the shore too far away for the first option. They sat on the boat for an hour as the sun began to slip behind the horizon. Finally, they waved down a ski boat whose skipper offered to pull them back, a slow process, moving inch by inch. Sherri thought she’d die of impatience as they puttered back to shore in the waning light. By the time they ditched Rye, got back to Mitch’s car and drove up the long gravel drive that led to the parking lot at Alpine Valley, everyone was already there. The guys from her high school whose job was to direct cars stood around in their money aprons.

“You want VIP parking?” Trent Eagan, her old lifeguard crush, spoke to Mitch without registering that it was Sherri sitting in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, VIP,” Mitch said, but Sherri stopped him.

“Don’t fall for it. It’s a scam. There is no VIP parking. He just wants to pocket the extra five bucks.”

“That you, Sherri Taylor?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell Dave D what you’re up to if you don’t let us park for free.” Dave Dodge was the manager. Everyone knew him. He was referred to as Dave D, Double D, D Squared.

Trent laughed. “You got me.” He waved Mitch in and smiled sheepishly at Sherri. “I hear you’re one of those Bunnies now.”

Sherri smiled and waved as Mitch drove away. They parked, and she pulled down the visor to inspect her appearance. Her hair had dried into ringlets like Nellie Oleson’s on Little House on the Prairie, and her jean shorts were still damp. She put on a fresh coat of lipstick and some mascara while Mitch pulled out an eight ball. Within moments she was lit again, full of energy, no longer nervous about running into. She led Mitch by the hand past the campgrounds and the woods, and when they crested a hill Mitch looked admiringly at the sea of fans. They could have been explorers discovering a lost civilization. They walked through clouds of marijuana and cigarette smoke and stepped on beach blankets, towels, and crushed red Solo cups.