Sing by Vivi Greene

in and out of shallow pools.
    I take out my journal and close my eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of the water, the wind rustling the trees. The melody is still there, but every time I try to put words to the notes, it feels wrong. Eventually, the whole thing slips away.
    My eyes snap open. There’s a frustrated whirring in my chest. This used to be so easy. Ever since I was young,I’ve been able to write full songs in the shower. It would start with a silly rhyme, a catchy jingle, and before I’d even realized what was happening, the verses, the bridge, the whole thing would practically write itself. But even then, when I hadn’t even had my first relationship, the songs were about boys: wanting them, feeling ignored by them, dreaming of the one I would never let go.
    Now when I try to write new words, I’m lost. Literally lost, like there was a road I used to take and now I can’t seem to find it. Like it’s overgrown or paved over, or I’m in the wrong part of town. I look up at the trees, a low, groan stuck in the back of my throat. How did I end up here? And how do I get back?
    Without thinking, I take out my phone and my journal. I open to the page with Noel’s number and I punch it into the keypad. My thumbs fly across the screen.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Hey.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  It’s Lily.
    I hit Send and hold my breath, before letting the air out in one giant, calming whoosh. I feel surprisingly tired for somebody who has been on vacation for three weeks. I bury my head in my hands, my phone pressed against my forehead. Why do I always do this? Why, when I need inspiration, when I’m feeling stalled orblocked, do I assume that attention from a boy will help? Is my songwriting ability inexorably tied to my inability to stop thinking about boys? The idea makes me feel cringey and weak.
    The phone buzzes between my temples and I jump.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Lily who?
    My stomach does a flip-flop as I stare at the screen. Lily who?
    The phone buzzes again.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Just kidding.
    I laugh and scramble to type back.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me : You’re funny.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel : I try. What’s up?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: Tess dragged me on a hike.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Which one?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: I’m not sure. There’s a creek. And blueberries.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: You’ll need to be more specific.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: There are these cute little islands.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Pease’s Point?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: Yes!
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Cool. Look for the floating cabin.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: The what?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Where are you now?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: On a bench. I’m supposed to be writing.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Walk up and around the next bend. There’s a trail marker and a tree that looks like a monkey.
    I look over my shoulder, as if he might be watching me somehow, and stand. His directions lead me up a hill and around the corner, until I spot a white signpost near the ground. Beside it is a small, knotty tree, its limbs contorted into unmistakably monkey-esque shapes.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: It really does look like a monkey!
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: I know.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Me: Okay. Now what?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Noel: Now turn around.
    I turn and look down. There’s a small inlet tucked between two clusters of giant evergreens. In the middle of the water, floating all alone, is a tiny cottage with a red shingled roof and a bright yellow door. It sits on a square dock and bobs gently up and down in the current, like it might drift off down the creek