10th September. Three years and eight months before the party.

Eleanor fidgeted uneasily outside the lecture hall, one finger playing with the straps of her bag. She felt copiously alone in a sea of people: everyone else was already buddied up, happily chatting to some person they met at dinner or at coffee or in their last lecture. It all seemed mysteriously simple, like they all had the key to a sect of knowledge forbidden to Eleanor. How exceptionally unfair.

She should talk to someone. Walk over, chat them up, work the crowd. But she’d been at that all week, and her mind was numb with the swirl of names and faces she’d attempted to memorise and then promptly forgotten. Today, just for an hour or two, she could use a rest. And so, when she slipped down the aisle to the front row, she was prepared for an hour of solitude.

And then someone sat next to her.

Technically there were two people, but it was forgivable that Eleanor’s attention was drawn to the first. She was tall, blonde, tanned: the sort of girl you expected to step from the pages of a magazine. Her teeth were white, her eyes were blue, and when she opened her mouth to introduce herself, her accent was American.

‘Cheyenne,’ she said. Even her smile was perfect. ‘From Los Angeles.’ She tilted her head quizzically. ‘I haven’t seen you around.’

‘I haven’t been out all that much.’ Not quite true: Eleanor had forced herself out every night this week, tottering to the nearest nightclub with whoever she’d met at dinner that day. But the bars spooked her: she disliked the crush, the smell of sweat, didn’t trust the people around her enough to drink the alcohol that would numb her mind to all of that. Meanwhile this girl, she was sure, was out all night, partying at the trendiest underground clubs before being whisked into some drug-fuelled orgy. She wondered what Cheyenne looked like with her clothes off, then instantly banished the thought.

Cheyenne tossed her head, sending her ruler-straight hair into a fashionable cascade of volume and layers. ‘You have to get away from the main streets,’ she said, confirming Eleanor’s suspicions. ‘You should come with us sometime. This is George,’ she added, pointing at the mousy-looking boy next to her. He looked very proper in his green turtleneck, rendered forgettable by Cheyenne in her blouse and trench coat. ‘Lives a few doors down from me. We’re both doing history and economics. Got all the same classes together.’

‘I’m doing history too,’ Eleanor said. ‘And thinking about adding economics.’

She had never considered taking economics in her life. But Cheyenne was so suave, and cool, and pretty, and she had talked to Eleanor first. No one had done that in the entire week since she got to uni.

‘Excellent!’ Cheyenne’s eyes shone. ‘Definitely do it! George, our gang’s got a third member!’

And because she was Cheyenne, what she said went. As soon as the lecture ended—some dull driven about the global significance of social anthropology— Cheyenne linked her arms with Eleanor and George and dragged the pair outside. ‘You’re from England, yes?’ she asked Eleanor—though it was less of a question and more of a command for Eleanor to fulfil.

‘Of course. I’m not far from London.’

‘Oh, that’s gorgeous. Perfect. I love England. Love Scotland too. Have you seen much of the country?’

‘Barely,’ Eleanor admitted. ‘We always go to Europe for holidays. Too rainy up here.’

‘But it’s sunny now!’ Cheyenne gestured around them with a broad grin.

‘And the perfect temperature—it’s always too hot back in LA. I’m sure the beach is perfect!’

‘I swim there often,’ Eleanor admitted. She had returned to the ocean almost mechanically, whenever the chattering crowds in the dining hall or the shifting faces in the club became too much. The ocean was gentle, all-encompassing, relentless. It would protect her—or if it didn’t, she could master it with her own strength, cutting through the water and relishing the sensation of it parting before her. Above all, she was completely invisible, completely untethered, completely and utterly free.

To say all of this to a strange girl—no matter how beautiful she was, or how the glow of her smile warmed Eleanor from the inside out—was impossible. ‘It’s beautiful,’ was all Eleanor could say. ‘And exhilarating. And liberating.’ Now she just sounded like a dictionary. Idiot.

But Cheyenne couldn’t hear Eleanor’s deprecating thoughts. She only smiled more broadly and wrapped an arm around Eleanor’s shoulder. ‘Poetic,’ she said. ‘And so brave—surely it must be freezing?’

‘That’s half the point.’ Eleanor tried a casual smile, like she was used to speaking to strange girls about swimming.

‘Amazing. Perfect. Awesome. And it must be so good for you!’ Cheyenne was already moving in the direction of the sea, chatting all the while: how the closest she’d come to the beach here was the top of the local cliffs, how fresh the sea air seemed, how even the seagulls snatching snacks were endearing— ‘like out of a movie!’ Every so often, she turned to ask a question of Eleanor or George—sometimes about the country, sometimes about their personal lives. Where had Eleanor gone to school? What were George’s thoughts on beach holidays? Was the latest scandal about the Prime Minister true—she spoke as if Eleanor or George knew him personally. Had either of them ever been to California—two no’s were the answer to that one. Would they be interested in visiting—Eleanor paused here, unsure what was the right answer. She settled on ‘only if you show me around’. Cheyenne beamed, and Eleanor heaved an inward sigh of relief.

George sidled up next to Eleanor and bent down to whisper in her ear; Cheyenne was too lost in her own world to notice. ‘Don’t mind her. She’s just enthusiastic. But she’s lovely. Really.’

Eleanor didn’t need to be told: she had eyes to see. But she thanked him anyway, and gave him a genuine smile: the poor man was so perpetually on- edge he needed something to soothe him. Even the sudden squawk of a seagull threatened to send him jumping into the sea.

Cheyenne squealed with excitement the moment they stepped foot on sand. ‘Take off your shoes, George,’ she commanded as she stepped out of her shiny leather boots; Eleanor’s own trainers felt suddenly inadequate.

‘Do you have to wear a wetsuit when you go in?’ Cheyenne asked as they approached the water and the fine sand began to harden and congeal beneath their feet.’ ‘That’s what surfers have to do at home, unless it’s the hottest day of the year.’

‘If I go at night, I swim naked,’ Eleanor admitted.
Cheyenne’s eyes lit up. ‘Fantastic. Isn’t that amazing, George?’
‘I’m trying not to ogle naked women, Cheyenne,’ he retorted. George was hanging back, reluctant to get his feet wet. Cheyenne just rolled her eyes at him.

‘He’s trying to be proper,’ she stage-whispered to Eleanor: there was no doubt George was able to hear. ‘But you should see him after three glasses of wine. He’s actually a huge lightweight.’

‘Be nice, or I’ll push you in,’ George retorted.

Cheyenne only tossed her hair and raised an eyebrow at Eleanor. ‘See? He does have some spirit when he wants to.’

Eleanor was spared from thinking of a witty retort as a wave came in, submerging her and Cheyenne’s ankles in the chill. Cheyenne gasped and clutched Eleanor’s arm for balance. ‘You swim in this?’

Callisto Lodwick was born in New Jersey, then lived for many years in Switzerland and San Francisco, finally settling in England. She is currently studying English Literature and Classics at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. She has been a finalist in Building U’s $1000 for 1000 Words, Peninsula Library Systems’ YANovCon and the Layla Beben Writing Contest.

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