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June heat intermingled with the cold wind of the sea. Despite the sun, the fog whispered and danced around the beach. Grains of sand would always get stuck in Renault’s hair; last summer, it had been a pain to get all the tiny specks out after a casual trip to the ocean. Since his mother’s cancer diagnosis, his hair grew out. Unlike most of his cousins, his mother, previously the one in charge of his hair. He sported hair similar to his mother’s, curly, incredibly curly, and his father hadn’t had a clue on how to maintain his only son’s hair or even how to cut it.
Last week, it didn't matter that Renault’s father didn’t know how to properly cut his hair; especially after his father, forced to see his son kiss another boy, a boy he allowed into his home after his son was beaten and returned home from Canada. He sat the boy down after work, placed a towel around his shoulders, and buzzed chunk after chunk. Renault’s hair wasn’t even, parts longer and shorter than others, his hair mimicking the valleys and mountains of the country. The shortness made his curls tighter. He knew he was lucky; the only punishment was the loss of his hair, but at least it wouldn’t take too long to remove the sand this time around.
It seemed that only Renault chose the beach. The fog scared off parents despite how hot Monument got in the summer. The fear passed down to rebelling teenagers, yet many dreamt of the breathy allure of it. Renault hadn’t brought a second pair of clothing nor even the proper shoes, so he stuck to the sand. He looked to the sea as his hand slipped to his pocket. Gold rings that were once his mother’s clanked and chatted with the wooden beads of his rosary. Not having done a novena since early October, he never dedicated one to himself. Always to his mother and los almas en purgatocio. While in Canada, at the talking Church, he wanted to feel closer to his late mother, even with the jewelry that his aunt returned to the secondary owner. With the carved out beads, he pulled out a small booklet, “Neuviane á Saint Michel Archange”. The edges of neuviane, not worn but dull from being stuffed in a pocket. He felt at the edges, contemplating whether he should start a novena for himself. It felt selfish. Imagery of scales came to him, as he accustomed to the scent of salt water.
The parking was up on a cliff, allowing for a leisurely walk down to the beach. A space where one could ready oneself for the millions of grains of sand that will be in their car. Archie sat behind the wheel while he decided whether he’d enjoy the view from his car or up close. Craving the shy sunlight, he pulled his keys from the ignition.
Beads that clicked against one another, as well as rings, filled Renault’s ears. The crunch of sand, caused by shoes stepping into it, joined as well. The crunch became louder, Renault stuffed his rosary and booklet back into his pocket, the worry of others seeing his empty faith overcame him. He attempted to soothe himself that with the increase in people would mean food vendors, with the beauty of the waves. Noting the increase in harshness against the rocks.
A towel laid out beside him, and someone sat next to him. Nervously, his tongue grazed over the newly acquired gold sets, over his teeth. Open frames, with some sort of red gem on his right front tooth. Longing that the stranger was the classmate that cost him the length of his hair, he glanced to his right. His eyes shimmered with hope. Blonde hair with a recessed maxilla soured Renault's face. Turning his head away as he rolled his eyes. Brows knitted together, Costello leaned closer. He chose to play the same dance from mid-September.
Waves pulled back, crashing, hitting, and tearing everything that dared close in at the wetted sand. The same touch that Renault would never settle for. Nails pulled away the strap of his ribbed tank top; baring more skin to the conflicting glare of the sun and the ocean’s attempt to cool. He did not understand why Costello would play this trick on him when the only response given over time had been Renault's system acting dead. Stilled his movements, even making the rise and fall of his chest almost invisible; his skin cooling. His senses heightened to his own dismay, he heard every word and the groves and valleys of Costello’s fingerprints. Joined with all the gold he wore. Three necklaces, the chains delicate, but each held pennants of saints. They rested just below the dip of the collarbone. Eight rings, one on each finger, except both of his fingers that were dedicated to hold rings and vows. His eyes would go from the ocean to his rings, focused on only a couple of things made the mix of crude words and touch easier to ignore. A breeze of the wind hit the small of Renault's back. Costello had tugged at the belt loop.
Thousands of scales, sharp and slimy, natural for a store-bought fish. Laid out in the sink, cold and dead, he reassured himself. The fillet, dug beneath the skin of the fish. It would only go so far, placing the knife in the sink, cleaned twice before the butchering. He would gently tear the layers of skin from the orange flesh. The process, tedious and numbing, both to his mind and body. His fingers cold, freezing; underneath his nails were pieces of fish.
Similarly, now, Renault’s hands were cold, freezing; underneath his nails were specks of sand. Every word, movement Costello gave, were the pulling of membrane; it wanted to seem delicate, yet nothing could compete with the ugliness of the action. Reaction was unnecessary, no matter what. All Renault could guess with each encounter was that people fed off one’s response. If you wait Long Enough, they’ll give up. “I’m headed off to Boston University, why don’t we…”
B.U, at least four years of peace, besides holidays and breaks. Thank God. He pressed at the frames against his top teeth, shifted them into place, following the same movement for his bottom jaw. Not wanting to fit in for some odd reason; the gold, instead of simply framing his teeth, followed the grooves of his teeth with a swish motion. A mix of gold waves and thick leaves that curled in on itself as they reached its maximum. The sets clicked into place, made specifically for Renault, the sound altered Costello.
“Do you have retainers?” Renault shook his head; he bared his teeth, showcasing all of the gold on him. The sun gleamed on the gold and brought the warmth of the color on Renault’s skin. A scowl formed as he inspected the lack of PSL. “When you see me, what comes to mind?” Costello questioned, Renault suspected that it was bait to break him down, but he wouldn’t take.
“LTN. Your recessed maxilla and jawline really brings you down. If you want to ascend you’ll need to look into hard maxxing, I wouldn’t recommend soft maxxing because…” Costello’s jaw agape. Utter nonsense spilled from this fourteen year old’s mouth. Realization set in, everything the first semester revolved around some fourteen year old. The constant planning around a freshman who wouldn’t budge. The fall leaves, and the nearing of snow made the working of a mob, the work he’d put in Trinity’s bathroom and backseat of his car, despite Renault’s distaste, seem reasonable in his mind. All in the name of the Vigils. Why did he attempt the same song and dance? Trinity was behind him.
He seized the moment. Awkwardly, Renault got up. His demeanor mimicked that of a young buck, dashing away. His sneakers pulled the sand up, it created even more of a cloud alongside the fog. Running for what felt like forty yards, he reached the second trail upwards. He slowed, the sun’s rays present, he soaked them up. He glanced back over to the sea, the waves softened. They shimmered just the same as his gold shimmered in the sun. Longing for more beauty, the thought of walking to Moccasin Pond came. He heard rumors of the Klan returning to recite their rituals, awful, disgusting rituals. Still, he longed for beauty, somewhere he could grasp and fall into, similarly to football.