I stick my hand in the water and let it lap up to my elbow. The voice of the water slowly clears the beer out of my head. Somewhere on shaley cliffs above me, maidenhair ferns hang down, and every few minutes, a drop of water lands on my face. From here, the party is only a flickering orange glow against the trees and a few hoarse shouts.

I lie down on the rock and close my eyes. The moss is soft, and the occasional drops of water that reach my face remind me of the woman in the rain in the Jacques Prévert poem. If I pretend to be French, I might forget about where I live. I hear sirens, and blue lights flash over my head through the trees. I listen to the commotion that has started above me, shouts and the running of feet. The police coming to flush the underage drinkers home is a regularly scheduled feature of weekends in Colchis. After the excitement dies down, I make my way back up to the party. The fire has become a glowing orange mound of coals. People are quieter than they were before, but it’s a warm night, and there’s still a buzz in the air, like anything could still happen. I don’t see Grimshaw anywhere, or Mike Lyle, or the Corvette. An old Blazer and a bashed-in pickup truck are parked on either side of the bonfire, close enough to blister the paint. Stretching over the fire from the top of one to the top of the other is a long board. I’m trying to figure out the point of this when somebody shouts, “Who’s gonna walk the plank?”

“I’ll walk the fuckin’ plank,” somebody slurs. It’s the valedictorian again. People cheer. He crawls on top of the pickup, and they help him up onto the roof. Of course, as soon as they let go of him, he staggers forward, twirls around, and then falls off, which everybody thinks is very funny. They beat him on the back, even though he falls clear of the fire, and he holds up his bottle like he has won a great victory. Then he gets dragged off by the armpits to retch into the poison ivy.

Heavy metal music comes buzzing and thumping out of the open windows of a truck. I while away some time thinking of the torture that awaits me at home as I watch the youth of the Minnechaug Valley fall one by one into the coals, which get and dustier as they cool. The plank is kind of soft and spongy, and sags when they get to the middle of it. Nobody makes it to the other side. After a while, I notice a certain chill in the air and the sky getting a little darker. A yellow rind of moon climbs out of the trees. This night is ending, and I need to get home.