Space Rivers

I wish I could get off this stupid yacht. I worked hard to get to Harvard. Who knew that these old moneyed folks would invite those no moneyed folks to events just for some cheap entertainment? Certainly not my naive buttocks. I thought these kids might actually like me. We’re one the same floor, we have similar and some same classes together, and I’m a nice guy. But hey, because I’m here on scholarship I’m obviously a lesser mortal.

Why? Because I didn’t receive a letter of acceptance, because I earned a perfect SAT and ACT along with near perfect scores on my three subject tests? Because I’m genuinely better than these self-entitled fuckfaces who only got here because of their legacies and bank accounts?

I shouldn’t have come. I feel lost in space. Emotionally, anyway. Physically, it’s like the pressure from a deep-sea dive. Who wouldn’t feel like this if they were in my shoes? I’m on a yacht. In the bay. At night. With a bunch of college kids and booze. Not the best mix. Not even a good mix. The sea is harsh tonight, anyway. And everything’s black. The city lights are dim, the stars aren’t twinkling, and the sea is black. Nothing has a lot of color, except for the yacht. Lights are hanged up everywhere, and people are dressed in outfits that are as attention getting as possible. The sky is black. The ocean is black. And most of these hearts have some black.

Most of the people on this stupid yacht are asshats and douchemouthes. Except for Candice. She’s old money, but she has a new soul. Long, strawberry blonde hair almost down to her waist; straight, shinny. She’s skinny, but it’s not gross. Maybe those who are insecure of their own size would comment on her size, but I see her as beautiful. She’s naturally skinny, but she’s still healthy. No bones sticking out, no joints making a scene. Just those grassy eyes; deep green and constantly moving.

I’d love to say that since I’m pale and skinny, too, so we’d be a great match. Or that she only digs athletes or even something about her type. But no one knows whom she dates except for whom she’s dating. No one talks about her love life. No compliments, no smack talking. Nothing. She’s always with one or two people when she’s walking around. Men and women, so I can’t even guess her sexual orientation.

But I’m still going to try.

Her high waist, black shorts with little nautical buttons and cream colored crop top make her pale skin glow by the lights from the yacht. Her yellow cup might hold juice, might hold beer, maybe something as simple as water. I don’t know though. I just know that everyone else has red cups, so where’d the yellow come from? I guess from her magic.

I drew in a deep breath, ran my hands down the front of my shirt to smooth it out, and then took one step closer to her. She’s still a good hundred steps away, but one step is better than none.

Of course someone had to let Nate start steering the yacht. Fuckin’ doucher is spinning the wheel around. Because a boat full of drunken land-lovers won’t react at all.

No. No negative thoughts. Just focus on Candice.
I took another step toward Candice.

The harsh waves the bay offered started to thrash against the yacht.

Another step.

Some water splashed over a side.

Left foot.

The waves added to Nate’s rocking.

Right foot.

Nate steered straight ahead for just a minute.

Left, right, left, right.

He swerved to the left.

I almost toppled over and into the decorative side rail.

He swerved to the right.

I jumped a few feet forward.

He went steady again.

I ignored my churning stomach and made a B-line for Candice.

Nate threw us into a tight circle.

She was steady, my body stiffened for balance.

She smiled sweetly, showing her white teeth beneath her light pink lips. “Hey Scott.”

I smiled goofily, making her giggle. I blushed and then replied, “He-hey Candice.”

She continued smiling.

She’s as bright as a firework, just as pretty, too. Her hair is bright, her attitude is brilliant, and she in general is an explosion of perfection and beauty.

I… Me… I’m smart, but I’m physically average. I’m still a tool when it comes to grasping new tasks instead of admitting that I just get nervous. I can’t seem to get over my fear of messing up, which always sends me down in flames when I try to hit it off with a girl. Especially a girl as pretty and brilliant and sweet and honest and intelligent as Candice.

She makes me feel queasy, but in a good way. Queasy, sort of like butterflies, but, you know, an actual feeling.

She raised a brow and leaned back a little, “Are you okay Scott?”

I gulped and nodded. Then I rushed out that I’ve been gathering enough courage to talk to her all night, but how I’m always intimidated by her beauty and intelligence and genuinely great personality and how I wish I could take that statement back, but it’s a true statement, it just makes me look like and idiot and raving lunatic and how I should stop talking or at least ask her a question, but I can’t think because I’m too nervous, and how I wish my nervousness wouldn’t cause word vomit.

And then I felt it. Nate’s ridiculous and out of control drunken steering was the nausea in my stomach, not Candice’s magic.

Nate slammed us all right, except for my puke. He got that to come right up. I projectile vomited against the right, curved, stripped white and blue wall. It was white and blue, anyway. Now it’s orange and pink and a little yellow. I wish I could be a jokester and use this accident as a symbolic nervousness inspired by beautiful girls, or that it’s some weird, modernism art. But no. It’s just my puke. It came out of me like a firework and splattered against the wall like a bucket of pain.

I was too afraid to turn to see Candice. Everyone else was laughing, mocking me, or busy being disgusted.

Not Candice, though. She handed me her yellow cup of water and a napkin to wipe my mouth.

And she giggled.

She made the point that my mess smelled, but she offered to help me find a bucket and something to clean with.

I wiped my face, drank the water, and did my best to smile.

She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t disgusted.

But hey, what can I say? My puke is gross, but she’s a firework, not colorful like my puke, though. She’s a firework.

She’s an explosion of wonderful.

She’s always different from all the other stars.