Sing by Vivi Greene Page B

onto a clearing at the edge of a cliff.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Noel asks, holding an arm out over an enormous, bean-shaped pond. It’s ringed by tidy formations of tall, feathery trees, and the moon shimmers on the smooth black water. It’s breathtaking,in a surreal sort of way, like we’ve stumbled into the pages of a picture book.
    â€œNot bad, huh?” Noel asks, leading me down another steep path to a jutting lower ledge.
    â€œWhat is this place?”
    â€œIt’s the quarry,” Noel says. “My favorite swimming hole on the island.” I look quickly down at my high-waisted shirtdress: wardrobe strike two. “We don’t have to go in,” he assures me. “I just wanted you to see it.”
    He wipes dirt and pine needles from the surface of a square ledge of granite and gestures for me to sit. “I come out here sometimes to look at the stars,” he says, gesturing to the sky, which is totally clear, the constellations lit up like billboards.
    â€œIt’s beautiful.”
    Noel disappears behind a cluster of trees, pine needles rustling as he tromps through the underbrush. Eventually he reappears with an armful of knotted sticks. He drops them with a clatter into a sunken spot at the edge of the woods. It’s a fire pit, dug into the ground and charred from years of use.
    â€œNeed some help?” I ask. I quickly untie the laces of my boots and leave them on the ledge behind me.
    â€œCareful,” he says, glancing with concern at my bare feet. “I can do it.”
    â€œI know you can,” I say, following him with deliberatesteps into the thick brush. I let Noel do the heavy lifting but find some smaller twigs and branches and toss them into the pile. Once we’ve gathered enough kindling, Noel pulls a book of matches from his pocket and lights one.
    Soon, the fire is roaring. We sit together on a fallen log, staring at the flames in silence, lost in the rhythm of popping sparks and crackles. “I could probably do this for hours and be happy,” I say, the skin on my legs and my cheeks slowly warming. “It’s hypnotic.”
    â€œBetter than TV,” Noel agrees. “We used to go camping every summer. My mom built the best fires. They were more like installation pieces. You almost felt bad watching them fall apart.”
    â€œMy mom can’t even light my birthday candles,” I say. “She’s not exactly outdoorsy.” I feel a sharp pang of homesickness—not for New York but for Madison, where my parents are. I’d give anything to be driving around with Dad, singing along to his favorites: the Beatles, the Rolling Stones. Or wrapped up in one of Mom’s killer hugs, smelling her gardenia perfume.
    â€œThis place is sort of like a bubble,” I say, looking out over the still water. “The island, I mean. It’s so easy to forget that the outside world exists.”
    â€œI think that’s what people like about it,” Noel says. “In the seventies it was this haven for famous artists. Iguess they liked that nobody knew or cared who they were.”
    It feels so true, even if I’m not entirely incognito here. I remember the way Noel looked at me the first time we met, standing between our mangled cars: like I could have been anyone. “You knew who I was when I hit you,” I tease him. “Even if you did a good job faking it.”
    Noel fans away a cloud of gray smoke. “I think I was in shock,” he says. “And I guess it’s in my DNA. It’s a real live-and-let-live approach here, especially when it comes to celebrities .”
    I cringe. “I hate that word.”
    â€œWhy?” Noel asks with a smile. “You’re the best of the best. That’s worth celebrating.”
    â€œI guess so.” My eyes blur as I stare into the flames. “Though it doesn’t feel like I’m the best at anything,