Have you ever felt that you’re the wrong person in the wrong body—that somehow you ended up here and you shouldn’t be here at all? And the crazy part is there’s no way out.
– Tommy
Gasping, Tommy chased Bobby along the shadowy beach. The pounding surf jostled his balance. Moss-covered rocks made the pursuit more treacherous. Finally, he slipped, collected himself, and hunted down his best friend, now his adversary. Tommy tackled Bobby. The boys fell to the ground.
“Get the fuck off me,” Bobby cried.
“No, I’m going to kill you right here.”
Tommy grew angry as he saw Bobby laughing. Exhausted but momentarily energized, he wiggled free and crouched on his knees. Tommy punched him in the side of the neck. Tommy’s tan skin, downcast eyes, and stringy black hair made him look fierce as an animal.
“You fucked me over, asshole,” Bobby said.
“I don’t give a shit,” Tommy yelled back. “About you or your stupid fucking girlfriend.”
“You can’t do this. I didn’t do anything to you.”
Tommy slammed him in the chest. Pinned him down.
It was late September. A blood moon rose over the hundred-foot bluff above the Monterey cypress trees. It was barely visible, a dark L2 on the lunar eclipse Danjon scale.
Bobby pushed Tommy off and climbed to his knees. He flew from the dunes through the tide pools toward the ocean. If he could get into the water, he might escape.
Tommy gave chase. An effluent creek flowed past driftwood through the rough sand. The twisted logs created an obstacle course. Tommy grabbed a sharp stick. Bobby tripped and staggered. They just looked like two teenage boys playing on the beach.
The surf pushed them, drenching their feet and legs, and knocked Tommy over. He collapsed into the water. He was exhausted. So was Bobby.
The distant lights of a cargo ship floated on the horizon. Tommy heard the haunting sound of the foghorn. He smelled the seaweed and felt the grimy strands between his fingers as he caught his breath.
The wet beach was like a pitch-black, tactile dome except for a stream of dim light from the harvest moon piercing through the thick cloud cover.
In his years growing up in Full Moon Cay, Tommy Jurczyk had yearned in every muscle of his slender body for a change that had not come until now. In less than an hour, there would be a total lunar eclipse. The last one, a penumbral, had been three months earlier. Tommy had heard stories of mysterious nights and strange figures floating out of the fog along the Pacific Ocean on nights like this. But he believed none of it.
Creek runoff from a wastewater pipe traced an erratic path from the cliffs to the shoreline. The flume spewed toxic waste into the ocean, turning the water into a deadly vat with a cellular stench of brimstone. A broken chain-link fence was rotted next to the chute.
Just seventeen, Bobby Portilla, African American, rose to his feet and staggered away. Tommy clenched a rusty post. The post was old and worn smooth. He swung the stick, clipping Bobby’s calf. Bobby’s legs were knocked out from under him. He went down hard and slammed his head on a rock. Tommy picked a mangled spike from the sand and drove it into Bobby’s back. He twisted it hard. Bobby screamed. Blood oozed from a pencil-wide gash.
Bobby lifted his bleeding head from the wet sand. Then he picked up a small rock and hurled it toward Tommy’s head, catching him in the temple. Tommy pretended not to feel it.
“Come on, fight back. You called me a girl. I’m not a girl,” Tommy panted.
“Okay, you’re not a girl. You’re worse. You’re a fucking jerk sissy tranny who wears girl’s clothes.”
Tommy raised the spike again. Bobby rolled, evading the blow.
Bobby’s arm bled. His legs were bruised. He tried to grab the post from Tommy, but Tommy was too quick. Bobby threw a handful of wet sand in Tommy’s eyes. That distracted him for a moment and gave Bobby a chance to retreat.
Bobby took off over the seaweed and through a muddy part of the beach where the channel runoff escaped to the ocean. Breathless, he scrambled through the surf. Through the fog, patches of inky black gaped along the misty shore.
The saltwater stung his open wounds. He slogged ahead, racing through the murky sea, an endless black nothingness. There was no horizon. No end. The ocean was like a dark creature that had traveled across the solar system and returned home after a long journey to claim its treasure. Bobby turned to look back to make sure he had gotten away. He caught his breath. It was quiet. The saltwater sprayed his face, and for a moment, he felt protected in the fog. Tommy was nowhere in sight. Just the sound of the surf. Whoosh, whoosh. Vibrating. And the beating of his heart. Pounding. Whoosh, whoosh.
Wham!
Something struck him from behind. He crumpled. The moonlight shone in his eyes.
A hooded figure, its face hidden by a dark cloth, reached down and gripped Bobby’s ankle. Two identical brown canvas and leather backpacks lay on the beach, one barely visible, covered in sand. The caped figure reached down with black leather fingerless gloves to pick up one pack. The intruder dragged the unconscious Bobby through the surf.
Tommy shouted through the thick blue mist. “Bobby, where are you?” But his voice was drowned out by the ocean.
He glanced and thought he saw a mysterious shape retrieve the bloody post. A nearby snarl alerted the intruder. The figure slowly backed up through the swirling fog and disappeared into the mist—Another growl. Two piercing yellow eyes appeared through the spray. A gray wolf inched forward, sighted its prey, and attacked.
A gunshot.
The surf.
A JetSki motor started up.
Silence.
