The Loneliest Island

I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life. “I wasn’t there.”

The “there” I was talking about was a lake. Ferring Lake, to be exact. Ferring Lake is a 200 square-mile dynamic body of water, with strong central currents, pockets of picturesque clear-water beaches, and areas so full of thick mud that even the most durable wading boots don’t stand a chance. The beautiful clearings were once home to secret hammocks hung between shady trees and a plethora of old furniture dropped off by high school students. In one area, there was even an entire kitchen table and matching chairs. Just a few feet away, an actual twin-sized bed sat in the shallow, 1-foot deep water with a supposed water-resistant mattress. This was where the cheerleaders were said to “play house” with the football players.

Me? I wouldn’t know. I was captain of the debate team and wore hand-me-downs from a then-31-year-old. That meant I was always at least 15 years behind in fashion. It goes without saying, then, that I never secured an invite to this secret world of moldy, mildewy furniture partially submerged in water. That is, until I met Sanderson Riley, the mayor’s kid, on a secret dating app for closeted gay kids like us. Alabama wasn’t exactly the most gay-friendly state in the US, and our small town of Rockville was no exception.

Our whole relationship, if you can call it that, was slow to warm up. In fact, it reminded me of the raw eggs I used to drop on the pavement as a kid, waiting for them to fry like they did on TV. A slow burn, you might call it. For the first couple of weeks, our messages had been isolated to the app. So one Friday, when I received an SMS from an unknown number, my stomach jumped like it does when you hit a sudden bump in the road.

Yooooo Ant. You have an Android?

There was no name. And whoever it was had nicknamed me “Ant,” short for “Antwan.” Could it be Sanderson?

Who is this?

S. Duh.

And so Sanderson became “S” on SMS. And in my contacts. Similarly, I became “A.” As soon as we converted to actual texting, things finally started to happen. Sanderson, well-versed in Ferring Lake’s many top-secret spots, only wanted to meet up at night between the muddy trenches and one of the lesser-frequented beaches, which he nicknamed “Lonely Island,” though it wasn’t an island at all.

“Where are we going?” I whispered the first time we hung out. Each time I dodged a deep mud pile and narrowly escaped a spider’s web, my heart beat a little faster.

“Somewhere we don’t have to worry about anyone bothering us. Far from The Kitchen,” mumbled Sanderson, referring to the area where the popular crowd hung out. He fumbled in his pockets for a flashlight. “People love to be fucking stupid and worry about everyone but their fucking selves.”

I didn’t say anything, but I continued to follow him into the clearing. We had to wade through about half a mile of shallow water before I saw it. There, a sandy beach waited for us, actual waves crashing gently into the shore, which was about the length of our high school’s gymnasium. Trees surrounded every aspect of the space, forming a small semicircle. It was nearly impossible to see what was behind those trees, with the exception of another very small clearing a little further down.

Sanderson sat down near the middle of the cool white sand and looked over at me with raised eyebrows, as if to say, “well?” I cautiously made my way over to him and sat down, our thighs just a few inches apart. He had that “All-American-Boy” look to him, with piercing blue eyes and shaggy, wavy blonde hair that stopped right after his ears. He was tall and muscular, much more so than I was. My buzz-cut made my ears look too big, and my dark skin contrasted sharply against his.

He inched closer to me, and I felt myself pull back subconsciously.

“First time?” He asked, smiling.

“First time what?” I stammered, my eyes flitting back and forth between his and the soft ground beneath me. But he didn’t say anything else. He just started leaning in. And before I knew it, the cool grains beneath us formed a mattress no five-star hotel could compete with, at least not in my book.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you, I swear to God,” Sanderson said to me that night.

And the next week in school, sure enough, Sanderson was back to being the Sanderson I always knew of. He made eyes at Millie McGruder all throughout geometry class, flirted obnoxiously with our English teacher, Mrs. Chandini, and talked loudly about Anna Redding’s leaked nudes at lunch.

“Her tits are massive,” he swooned, high-fiving his friend and shoving tortillas covered in bright orange cheese sauce down his throat.

All of this was more painful to watch because he looked right through me like I was a glass door, invisible but easily breakable. Easy to smudge. Even simpler to crack.

I wouldn’t hear from him for days, sometimes even weeks. And then the message would light up my phone when I least expected it:

Busy tonight? Lonely Island. At 8.

Wyd? LI @ 8

LI8

I got used to our routine, although I won’t say I loved it. The sneaking around was fun in theory, but more than terrifying if we ever got caught. As we got to know each other more, he started opening up to me, telling me about how his parents believed in conversion therapy and how his dad’s late brother had been sent to boarding school when they were growing up when their parents found some “Polaroids.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

But just because Sanderson was complicated didn’t mean that it was any less difficult for me to be shunned by him at school. Still, I kept meeting him at Lonely Island at 8pm. I dreamed of that cool sand and those navy blue waters that moved ever-so-slightly, as if they were rocking the world around them to sleep.

One Thursday night, Sanderson texted me a little later than usual, right after he was released from rehearsal for Grease, a musical that his father approved of after much begging and pleading from his mother and the reassurance that he would be playing the role of a cheerleader-obsessed jock.

“There’s a couch here that nobody knows about,” Sanderson said slyly. “We have to go a little bit farther than usual, though. That okay with you?”

He cocked his head to the side and looked at me. I was hesitant to go any further since it already took me a good 30 minutes to climb back to my car every day, and, considering my 11pm curfew, tonight I was cutting it short. But then I saw the way the moonlight hit his face, accentuating his already-strong jawline. It was the week of the show, and hair was still slicked back. He even had some eyeliner on, which I found quite attractive. I caved.

We climbed through the thick trees in water about one-foot deep and headed toward another much smaller clearing, where a small, leather loveseat sat on the right-most edge. This was the secret “beach” I had always wondered about, the sliver of sand I’d spotted from Lonely Island. The water was quieter over here, and piles of mud got closer to the soft, nearing our dangling feet. We were in the middle of hooking up when we heard a loud POW and a shrill scream. And then again, another POW.

“We have to get the fuck out of here,” I whispered, looking up at Sanderson. He was typically the brave one, but he just froze, his biceps tensing up as he squeezed my shoulders tighter.

“What do you see?” He whispered.

“A guy,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Tall. Long hair. Someone laying on the ground with long hair and a skirt.”

So it was a gunshot. So someone had been … murdered. And Sanderson and I were the witnesses.

We waded back to where Sanderson always parked that night, swimming out deeper into the water than usual. We were in somewhat of a trance, one-track-minded and fearing for our lives and Sanderson's reputation. I got in his car for the first time, slouching down as instructed when we passed by The Kitchen. I remember feeling like he risked a lot for me, swelling with love for him, in the only way I’d ever felt it. That night, I cried myself to sleep, wailing as I realized this was most certainly the end of Sanderson and me.

“The city of Rockville is devastated and shocked to announce that one of our very own has been found dead at Ferring Lake last night: Lola Tarkington.” Mayor Riley closed his eyes mid-speech, took a moment to take a deep breath, and continued: “We will not rest until we find out who has committed this heinous crime. We ask that any and all persons with information please step forward. We know that high schoolers frequently pass time at this lake and will be interviewing individuals who were present anywhere on the premises this past weekend. Thank you.”

Lola Tarkington. A name I’d heard only in passing. Someone who flew under the radar and most certainly did not receive an invite to Ferring Lake.

Sanderson’s parents knew he was at the lake. As did mine. Our parents always knew that we were at the lake when we were at the lake. They just never knew we were together. My parents, having been outcasts themselves in high school, were thrilled that I was accepted into the popular crowd. Sanderson’s parents, who were Chester High School alumni themselves, fully expected Sanderson to take part in all activities nights at Ferring Lake entailed. Hooking up with girls and drinking beer, that is.

And so, we were doomed to be interviewed. The police officers showed up at 8am sharp and began pulling students from classrooms. Journalists lingered outside the school doors until a clueless substitute teacher let them in. The crowd listening to student testimonies was growing. In our small town of an underwhelming 15,000 people, this was quite possibly the talk of the century.

So far, 10 students who claimed to be present at the lake had been interviewed, and none reported hearing any kind of sound. And so, they began interviewing every member of the student body, suspicious that we were holding back.

“That lake is huge,” said one cheerleader, rolling her eyes. “They’re saying they found her in a part that none of us ever go to. Not even for… dates.”

Sanderson and his groupies were as nonchalant as ever, even joking around about the scenario.

“Sand Man! You were there last night? I didn’t see you in The Kitchen,” commented one of Sanderson’s groupies.

“Ma-an, don’t blow my cover like that,” Sanderson scolded, nodding over at a group of girls to the classroom’s left and raising his eyebrows.

“Ah, I gotchu, bro. My boy.” They fist-bumped.

The police officer, clearly an alumnus of Chester High, smirked in response to their banter. “Alright, buddy, I know how it goes at the lake. Just tell me if you heard or saw anything.”

Sanderson looked the police officer dead in the eye and denied it.

But me? No one had ever seen me at the lake. I was too frazzled to come up with a falsified explanation. So I lied, too. In front of the crowd of cafeteria workers, press, students, teachers, and God him-or-herself.

“I wasn’t there.”

I half-expected lightning to strike me. And I paced my room at night, knowing that if the investigators went into the clearing, they’d see my and Sanderson’s DNA on that loveseat. The crazy thing is, I was more worried about outing Sanderson than I was about being a witness to a murder and lying about it.

But, something happened that was nothing short of a miracle. The next day, someone fessed up: the criminal himself. Apparently, it was Lola Tarkington’s college boyfriend, who knew good-and-well that his handprints were all over the gun. The anti-climactic ending to the whole thing caught me off guard, so I took a few days off of school to just breathe for a little bit. I was relieved but shaken up.

Several weeks later, I ventured out to the lake in my car. Yellow caution tape closed off the few beaches easily accessible from the road, including The Kitchen. I wondered what they would do with the kitchen table. And the old loveseat, if they could even find it. That lake was something of a maze.

I sat in silence, staring at the calm waters behind the tape. In 5 years, would the lake open back up again? It had been witness to so much: first kisses, first love, and now murder. Maybe it ought to just be drained and poured into the vast ocean, where its tumultuous secrets could disperse far and wide, becoming a giant alphabet soup that only a higher power could decipher.

As for me and Sanderson, we went our separate ways without the refuge of the lake. Maybe we’ll meet again in a future life, where the cruelty of the world doesn’t stop love.

All I’m left with now is one question: if mine and Sanderson’s love story couldn’t even exist - can’t ever exist - then were we really present that night at all?