Page 14 of Mashed Hearts
I’m eighteen,invincible, and currently sneaking a flask of peach schnapps under the bleachers of the Pump House indoor waterpark like I’m James Bond with a side of chlorine. It’s grad night, the air’s thick with humidity, screaming peers, and the faint smell of desperation from chaperones trying to enforce a “no alcohol” policy that everyone’s ignoring. My bikini’s damp from the lazy river, my hair’s a frizzy halo from the wave pool, and I’m pretty sure my mascara’s staging a coup down my cheeks. But none of that matters because Josh Daniels is next to me, his knee pressed against mine, grinning like he’s got a secret and I’m it.
The Pump House is a adventurers haven: twisting slides that spit you out like toothpaste, a wave pool that’s basically a petri dish, and a snack bar serving nachos that are 90% plastic cheese. Our senior class has taken over for the night, chaperones be damned. The DJ’s blasting “Sweet Escape” by Gwen Stefani, and Beth’s already trying to start a conga line in the shallow end. Jack’s attempting to cannonball off the diving board with a pool noodle tucked under each arm. Ainsley and Pete are making out in the lazy river as if they rely on oneanother for air, Hope’s taking artsy photos of the waterfall, probably for her portfolio titled Existential Dread in Chlorine.
And me? I’m passing the flask to Josh, our fingers brushing, his eyes doing that crinkly thing that makes my stomach flip like I’m on the drop slide. “To never growing up,” I say, clinking my plastic cup against his.
“To never growing up,” he echoes, taking a swig and wincing. “God, this tastes like cough syrup had a baby with a Jolly Rancher.”
“Classy,” I laugh, stealing the flask back. The schnapps burns, but it’s the good kind of burn, the kind that says we did it, we’re free. Graduation was this morning—caps, gowns, speeches about “reaching for the stars” that made me want to nap. Now it’s 1 a.m., the waterpark’s ours, and the future’s a blank page I’m ready to doodle all over with Josh’s name in bubble letters.
We’re sprawled on a pile of towels under the bleachers, hidden from the chaperones’ flashlight sweeps. The rest of the crew’s nearby, a chaotic pile of limbs and laughter. Ryan—my brother, all elbows and ego—is trying to arm-wrestle Pete on a picnic table. Beth’s painting “Class of 2019” on Jack’s chest with sunscreen, cackling when he screams about it being cold. Micah’s got a waterproof phone case and is filming everything for “posterity.” Hope’s passing around a bag of gummy worms like she’s a drug dealer. Ainsley’s braiding my hair, her fingers sticky with cotton candy.
“This is it,” Ainsley says, tying off my braid with a neon scrunchie. “We’re adults now. No more curfews, no more pop quizzes, no more?—”
“Detention with Mr. Kravitz,” Beth finishes, shuddering. “That man’s mustache had its own zip code.”
Josh laughs, his arm slipping around my waist, pulling me closer. “We’re pledging it now. Right here. No matter what—college, jobs, weird adult stuff like taxes—we stay friends. Nothing comes between us.”
“Pinky swear,” I say, holding up my pinky. He hooks his with mine, his grip warm and sure, and my heart does a stupid somersault.
The group piles in, a mess of wet hair and chlorine. Jack’s first, his pinky linking with mine and Josh’s. “I’m in. But if anyone moves to, like, Nebraska, I’m out.”
“Nebraska’s lovely,” Hope says, linking her pinky. “Corn’s underrated.”
“Corn’s a vegetable,” Micah deadpans, joining the chain. “I’m thankful for Wi-Fi and the fact that none of you have killed me yet.”
Beth links next, her pinky covered in sunscreen. “I’m in, but I’m not sharing my art supplies. Or my flask.”
Pete and Ainsley join, their pinkies tangled like their tongues were five minutes ago. “We’re in,” Pete says. “But Ainsley’s driving if we road-trip.”
“Rude,” Ainsley says, but she’s grinning.
Ryan’s last, his pinky comically large. “I’m in, but Josh, you’re buying the first round when we’re twenty-one.”
“Deal,” Josh says, and we all tug our pinkies at once, laughing so hard I nearly choke on schnapps.
The pact’s sealed, the flask’s passed around again, and the night’s ours. We spill out from under the bleachers, a chaotic swarm of bikini tops and board shorts, ready to conquer the waterpark like it’s our kingdom. The DJ’s switched to “Graduation” by Vitamin C, and Beth’s screaming the lyrics at the top of her lungs, dragging Hope into a splash fight. Jack’s trying to surf on a kickboard, face-planting spectacularly. Micah’s filming it all, narrating like he’s David Attenborough. Pete and Ainsley are back in the lazy river, probably fogging up the water with their PDA.
Josh and I head for the big slide—the Tornado, a monster that drops you into a funnel and spits you out dizzy and screaming. We climb the stairs, his hand in mine, the schnapps buzzing in my veins. The line’s long, but we don’t care, leaning against the railing, his arm around my shoulders.
“You scared, Jamison?” he teases, nodding at the drop.
“Please,” I scoff, bumping his hip. “I’m Kaitlyn freaking Jamison. I laugh in the face of gravity.”
He laughs, kissing my temple. “That’s my girl.”
My girl. My stomach flips harder than the slide ever could. We’re at the top now, the attendant—a guy with a mullet and a whistle—motioning us to the double tube. Josh climbs in first, pulling me down in front of him, his legs bracketing mine, arms around my waist. His chin rests on my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Born ready,” I say, and we push off.
The drop’s insane—wind in my hair, my scream mixing with his laugh, the funnel spinning us like a washing machine. Water sloshes, my stomach’s in my throat, and Josh’s arms are the only thing keeping me grounded. We shoot out the bottom, splashing into the pool, gasping and laughing, his hands still on my hips as we float to the surface.
“That was epic,” he says, pushing wet hair from my face.
“You’re epic,” I say, and kiss him right there in the pool, water lapping at our chins, the world a blur of lights and noise.
We spend the rest of the night like that—slide after slide, splashing, stealing kisses in dark corners. Beth drags us into a chicken fight in the wave pool, me on Josh’s shoulders, her on Jack’s, screaming like banshees as we try to knock each other off. I win, obviously, because Josh’s shoulders are a fortress. Micah’s filming, Hope’s cheering, Ainsley and Pete are makingout again. Ryan’s trying to dunk Micah, who’s screaming about his phone.
