Chapter 6
DREW
The shoreline of Berkeley Shore has morphed into what looks like the set of a raunchy college movie. Half-naked men from every corner of campus crowd the beach, their bodies shivering in anticipation.
The rugby team lines up, resembling a pack of highlighters.
One guy’s bright red Speedo clings to him, the fabric straining against an ass as round as the moon.
Another dude in electric blue keeps trying to pick out a wedgie.
The guy in neon yellow turns sideways, and I swear I could tell you his religion from here.
Lime green bends over to stretch, and several people behind me audibly gasp.
And, naturally, there’s Gerard in the middle of them, gesturing wildly with his massive hands. The rugby guys hang on his every word.
“—and that’s why you should always do a pregame handstand!” Gerard’s voice carries across the beach. “It gets the blood flowing to all the important places.”
The soccer team is here, too, appearing appropriately preppy in their matching board shorts.
The baseball team is goofing around with a beach ball, wearing nothing but jockstraps.
Frat boys roam in packs, their Greek letters stamped across swim trunks and contraband coolers, pretending the No Alcohol signs don’t apply to college royalty.
“I’m starting to think this was a terrible idea,” Jackson says, sidling up next to me. “That water looks angry.”
I follow his gaze and realize he’s right.
Gray-green waves crash against the shore with a violence that suggests Neptune himself doesn’t want us here.
Foam flies through the air, and the wind whips it at our faces in tiny frozen bullets.
The sun is out, but it’s that weak January sun—the kind that provides light without warmth.
Jackson steers me over to where the football players have gathered, his calloused hand resting on my lower back. A shiver runs down my spine to my tailbone. I act as if it’s the effects of the wind.
I’ve been to enough of Jackson’s games to recognize most of the faces. But up close, his teammates are more of a buffet of beef than I had ever realized.
“Guys, this is my friend, Drew Larney.” Jackson claps me on the shoulder and squeezes gently, soothing the wild thumping of my heart. “He plays center for the hockey team.”
“Hockey, huh?” A guy with biceps the size of cantaloupes extends his hand. “I’m Arthur, tight end. Heard you guys are pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” I scoff, shaking his hand and trying not to wince at his grip. “We’re fucking legendary. Ask anyone.”
The group laughs, and another teammate introduces himself as Tyrell. “Are we crazy for doing this? The water has to be, what, thirty degrees?”
“Thirty-seven.” I researched everything about the ocean last night when I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about hypothermia, not about Jackson in swim trunks. “Perfect temperature for separating the men from the boys.”
“Or the sane from the insane,” Arthur adds.
“Attention, everyone!” a voice screeches through a megaphone, making us all turn.
A group of sorority girls in matching pink parkas stands on a makeshift platform.
They remind me of an army of Elle Woods preparing for battle.
The one with the megaphone, a blonde whose ponytail defies both gravity and the wind, continues speaking.
“Welcome to the Berkeley Shore Polar Bear Plunge!”
The crowd cheers.
“The rules are simple,” Megaphone Girl shouts. “When you hear the air horn, you run into the ocean. You must go completely under. No chickening out—we’re watching.”
“Supportive,” Kyle mutters from somewhere behind me.
“Remember, this is for charity. Every splash counts!”
Oliver appears at my side and bumps me with his hip. “You ready for this, Larney?”
“Fuck yeah,” I lie. My nipples could cut glass right now.
“Ryan’s already instructed me on the signs of hypothermia,” Oliver continues. “Shivering is normal. Blue lips are concerning. If anyone winds up speaking in tongues or seeing their dead relatives, call 911.”
The sorority girls count down from sixty, and the energy on the beach shifts. Guys are bouncing, stretching, psyching themselves up. Gerard joins in, his ass swaying with each movement.
“Thirty seconds!” Megaphone Girl announces.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” someone chants nearby. It might be me.
Jackson arches his back in a stretch, and my mouth goes dry at the obscene display of muscle. The winter sun hits his chest, highlighting every ridge and valley of muscle. A dusting of hair trails down from his navel, disappearing into his swim trunks.
“You okay?” he asks, catching me staring. “You look ready to pass out.”
“Just preparing myself mentally,” I grit out.
“Ten seconds!” Megaphone Girl declares.
The crowd surges forward in a tidal wave of testosterone and questionable decisions. Bodies press against me from every direction. I’m relieved to find Jackson on my right and Oliver on my left. If I’m going to die, I want them by my side.
The air horn blasts.
Every sports team, every frat boy, every idiot, stampedes toward the ocean. Sand kicks up in clouds. Elbows fly. Someone steps on my foot, and I don’t even care because we’re running, running, running toward our frozen doom.
The first step into the water is like stepping on thousands of tiny knives. Sharp, stabbing pain shoots up through my soles and into my calves. My brain screams abort mission, but my legs keep moving because the wall of bodies behind me won’t let me stop.
The second step is worse. So much worse. The cold isn’t just cold—it’s malicious. It’s personal. It has beef with me specifically and wants me to suffer.
By the third step, my feet have gone completely numb. They might as well belong to someone else. I glance down and see them moving through the water, pale and disconnected, operating on autopilot while my brain has checked out entirely.
Around me, chaos erupts. A chorus of manly shrieks pierces the air—grown men hitting notes that would make Mariah Carey jealous.
The rugby player in the red Speedo lets out a squeal that could shatter glass.
Arthur, the football tight end, is singing soprano like he’s auditioning for a church choir.
Tyrell has abandoned words entirely and is just making sounds.
As for me, “FUCK ME GENTLY WITH A CHAINSAW!” rips out of my throat without warning. Apparently, when faced with liquid death, I turn into a Heather.
“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?” Jackson shouts from beside me, his voice cracking on the last word.
“IT MEANS I’M DYING, JACKSON!”
We push deeper. The water climbs up my shins, my knees, my thighs.
Each inch is a new level of hell. I can feel my dick retreating into my body seeking warmth, seeking safety, seeking anywhere that isn’t this frozen hellscape.
I’m pretty sure that when I go to the hospital later, the doctor will find it hiding behind my liver.
“MY PENIS!” Gerard’s anguished cry rises above the din. He’s about ten feet to my left, water up to his waist, both hands cupped protectively over his crotch. “IT’S DISAPPEARING! ELLIOT, MY PENIS IS GONE!”
From somewhere on the beach, I hear Elliot’s distant response: “I WARNED YOU!”
“But I love my penis!” Gerard wails, and honestly, the grief in his voice is palpable. “Drew! Drew, can you feel your penis?”
“WHAT’S LEFT OF IT!” I shout back.
Nathan stumbles his way over to Gerard, gasping and sputtering. His pink hair is plastered to his forehead, and his lips are already turning blue. “Is shrinkage permanent? Please tell me it’s not permanent!”
“IT BETTER NOT BE!” one of the rugby players bellows. “I HAVE A DATE TONIGHT!”
The water hits my stomach, and I make a sound that can only be described as a dying walrus. Every muscle in my body clenches, trying to preserve whatever heat is left.
“We have to go under!” Oliver reminds us through chattering teeth. “Completely under!”
“Fuck that!” Kyle’s voice carries across the water.
“RULES ARE RULES!” Megaphone Girl’s voice echoes from the shore.
Jackson’s hand clamps around my bicep, five distinct points of heat cutting through the icy numbness. His thumb presses into the soft inner flesh where my pulse is hammering wildly. “On three?”
“On three,” I agree.
“One—”
We don’t make it to three. A wall of water slams into my chest, knocking the air from my lungs before I can even gasp.
My feet leave the ocean floor as the current drags me under.
Salt burns my nostrils and stings my eyes.
The universe shrinks to a muffled, bubbling silence punctuated only by my heartbeat in my ears as I tumble ass over elbows.
As I spin and spin, every thought flees my mind except one. This was a terrible fucking idea.
Finally, I surface with a gasp. Jackson emerges a couple of feet away, his hair plastered to his head. We make eye contact for one perfect second, time standing still as the sun’s rays make the water droplets on his face shimmer. My breath leaves me for an entirely different reason.
My best friend is beautiful.
And then another wave hits us, breaking the spell and sending me hurtling deeper into the bowels of the Atlantic. I return to the surface, coughing up a lung.
“HOLY SHIT!” he screams, and then he’s laughing. It’s a wild, unhinged kind of laughter that’s equal parts terror and exhilaration.
I’m laughing too. We’re all laughing.
The entire beach has descended into hysteria.
Grown men are shrieking, splashing, clinging to each other like we’re survivors of a shipwreck.
The baseball team has abandoned all dignity and is literally piggybacking each other toward shore.
Two frat boys are hugging and crying. The soccer team appears to be praying.
As I paddle my way back to shore, a six-foot-five pillar of goosebumped muscle rises out of the sea foam. A guy screams, “It’s the Loch Ness Monster!”
Close, I think. It’s just Gerard.
“I did it!” he shouts with glee. “Elliot, did you see? I went under!”