Something about this comment caused Mark to bristle. "Actually, that doesn't really comfort me a whole lot," he said. "And I do think it's your fault, frankly."

"Mark," Jill said.

"You guys must have underage kids all the time on these trips," Mark said. "Haven't you figured out a way of monitoring things?"

"He was dealing with Ruth's leg," Jill said.

"Abo wasn't," said Mark. "Dixie wasn't."

"I think I'll get the coffee going," JT said.

"I'm just accepting his apology," said Mark when JT was gone.

"You're being a jerk, Mark."

"The boys are twelve and thirteen!"

"I know how old our children are."

"There's research now that says if you drink when you're that young, you're more likely to have problems later."

"It was one time, Mark."

"Which can change your whole brain chemistry."

Briefly Jill had the sickening feeling that because of this, the boys would in fact turn into alcoholics.

Before she could figure out what to say, Peter and Amy approached them. Amy had on a large blue T-shirt with a high school swim team logo. Jill herself didn't mind them coming over, but she knew that Mark would think it snoopy and rude. He would a.s.sume that they came to judge. And she would hear about it from him later.

Glances flickered: grim, helpless, empathetic.

"Everyone does something like this at least once," Peter finally offered.

This did not console Mark. "Are you Mormon?" he asked Peter.

"No, sir," said Peter.

"Then it doesn't matter what you did," said Mark. "Mormons aren't everyone."

"Mark, please," said Jill.

"Come on, Sam," said Mark, pulling the boy to his feet. Sam's arm was long and skinny, and his ribs showed. "A dunk in the water will help. You too, Matthew."

When Mark and the boys were out of earshot, Jill apologized to Peter and Amy. "He tends to overreact."

"So did my father," said Peter.

This was a first for Jill, one of her children getting drunk, and she was eager for advice. "Did he ever lighten up?"

"Well," said Peter, digging in his ear, pausing, "actually, he died when I was sixteen, so no."

Jill felt the color rise in her neck, for making such a faux pas. "I'm sorry." Not knowing what else to say, she asked if his mother was still alive.

"Yup."

"Is she well?"

Peter shrugged. "She has stomach ulcers and diabetes and high blood pressure, and she doesn't wear her compression stockings and won't even talk about selling the house, which has three floors and a huge garden out back full of peonies, which have to be watered daily, and guess whose job that is? Other than that, she's well."

Jill looked down to the water's edge, where Mark had hold of both boys' hands and was standing between them, ankle deep. A strong, solid man, flanked by two Gumbys.

"The thing is, my sisters kids go to a public school back east," she said. "They're sixteen and seventeen. My sister tells me stories. I worry that we've got some rough years ahead of us."

Peter nodded knowingly. "s.e.x, drugs, and rock 'n' roll."

This did not comfort Jill.

"Is it like that at your school, Amy?" she asked.

Amy colored.

"She can't say because her mother's on the trip," said Peter in a dramatic whisper.

Without a word, Amy turned and lumbered away.

"Hey! I was kidding!" Peter called after her. "Oops," he said to Jill.

"Maybe it's a sore point," Jill offered. "I don't imagine she goes out very much." There was an odd way in which Amy was walking, Jill noticed, stiff and dragging, with one hand pressed against her lower back. How awful to be that heavy, she thought.

"I didn't think she'd take it that way," said Peter. "And actually, she's kind of hinted she has a social life. But maybe you're right; maybe it's a sore point."

Jill and Peter might have speculated a little more about Amy's social life, but the discussion ended because Mark was calling her. Both boys were sitting in the wet sand, refusing to budge. Jill steeled herself and headed to the sh.o.r.eline. Amy was Susan's responsibility, not hers; she had her own kids to worry about at the moment. And she had to fix things with Mark too, so they wouldn't be blaming each other for this. You went off to shave. Well You went off to shave. Well you you went off and got drunk went off and got drunk. Things like that: they didn't help in the short run or the long run.

But he really was being a total s.h.i.t.

I hate this trip. I hate these people. I hate my mother. I hate Peter, for thinking he knows me. s.e.x, drugs, and rock and roll? He has no clue.

Everyone's eating dinner now. I hate food. I hate being fat. I hate my mother for always telling me I look fine the way I am. I never look fine.

c.r.a.p-here he comes-

27.

Day Six Mile 93 Peter didn't know what he had said to offend her. "I'm writing," she told him.

"I brought you another margarita."

"No thank you."

Peter shrugged, and took a sip himself. "You eat yet?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not hungry. I'm trying to write," she reminded him. She waved her notebook, but Peter sat down anyway.

"Oh my G.o.d, are you blind?"

Peter handed the mug to Amy. Amy set it on the sand and hugged her notebook to her chest, as though trying to prevent him from peeking. He kept forgetting she was only seventeen, and then she'd do something like this, like someone in fifth grade.

"So when are you going to put the moves on Dixie?" Amy said.

"Excuse me?"

"It's so so obvious." obvious."

Peter snorted. "Dixie's got a boyfriend."

"So what?"

"Well, maybe I will, and maybe I won't."

"Are you scared? What, are you a virgin or something?"

"What do you think? Are you?" you?" As soon as he said it, he kicked himself. Can of worms! Change the subject! Sure enough, Amy tucked her pen between the pages of her journal. She squinted at JT, who was working in his boat. As soon as he said it, he kicked himself. Can of worms! Change the subject! Sure enough, Amy tucked her pen between the pages of her journal. She squinted at JT, who was working in his boat.

"Tell me about your first time," she said. "How old were you?"

"Are you serious? I am definitely not having this discussion," he said. "There are laws against this."

"Did you like her?"

"Like I said. Not having this discussion."

"I'll ask Mitch.e.l.l then," said Amy, and she waved to Mitch.e.l.l, who hesitated, unsure of the invitation.

"Oh, for Christ's sake. Fine," Peter said in a low voice. "It sucked."

"Why?"

"She cried."

"I was too drunk to cry," she said. "Would you f.u.c.k a girl who was drunk?"

"Jesus!"

"Would you?"

"What do you think?" think?"

Amy was silent.

"You going to elaborate?" he demanded.

"No."

"Good. Because I don't want you to."

"Good."

"Then we're in agreement."

"We are."

"Good." Peter carried his plate over to the wash table, sc.r.a.ped it clean, dunked it through the series of buckets. Then, against his better judgment but motivated by some vague sense of brotherly concern that p.i.s.sed him off yet couldn't be ignored, he returned to the spot where Amy was sitting. He kept his voice low.

"You shouldn't let yourself get drunk like that. Guys can be a.s.sholes, you know."

"Thanks for the tip."

He was definitely angry now-at himself, at Amy. He didn't want to be hearing any of this, yet he couldn't walk away.

"What got you in such a p.i.s.sy mood back there with Jill?"

For the first time in all of this conversation, she turned and faced him. "Because you shouldn't go telling people you know what high school is like for me! You have no idea what high school is like for me!"

"And this has something to do with your getting drunk?"

"No clue at all," she continued.

"Sorry."

"Absolutely no clue."