Chapter 5 Make a Wish （Nate, age 10）
The ferry horn cuts through the salt air. Summer officially begins the moment we set foot on the island, two months of pure freedom ahead.
My family has been coming to Fire Island for as long as I can remember.
My dad inherited a weathered four-bedroom house tucked between the dunes, and every summer it fills with sand, salt, and kids running wild.
For years, Leo’s family has shared it with us.
The dads head back to the city for work during the week, and Leo’s mom goes with them while my mom, a middle school teacher with summers off, stays behind to wrangle the four of us.
The adults linger at the dock’s edge, stretching out their goodbyes with promises of weekend visits and Fourth of July fireworks. When the ferry bell clangs again, sharp and final, they wave from the deck as the boat pulls away, their voices swallowed by the distance.
My mom claps her hands, a wide white smile flashing as she plants one hand on her hip. “All right, y’all. You know the deal. I run this house, and I’ve decided we’re gonna make it a good week.”
She gives us that side-eye, chin tilted and eyebrow raised, daring us to test her. “And if you act like you ain’t having fun? I’ll find you some extra math homework real quick.” She snaps her fingers once, sharp and teasing. “Don’t play with me.”
We groan in unison, because when Mom lays down the rules, that’s it. Nobody’s dumb enough to argue. The ferry shrinks to a speck on the horizon. Summer—our summer—has finally begun.
As evening settles in, the sky streaks orange and pink.
Leo’s older brother Ryan takes off to meet his friends, calling a half-hearted goodbye over his shoulder.
My mom leans against the porch rail, eyes on us.
“Alright now, y’all stick together. And don’t forget to bring Eden in, too. I don’t want nobody left out.”
“We will,” Leo says automatically, and he means it. When I wave Eden over, her whole face transforms. You’d think I invited her to Disney World, and the way she lights up makes me want to invite her everywhere.
The three of us, two ten-year-olds and an eight-year-old, head toward the ocean, bare feet kicking up the cool shore.
The beach at dusk is nearly empty, just a few couples enjoying the last light. The lifeguard stand rises ahead, empty now, a small mound of soft ground piled beneath it from all the kids who’ve jumped before us.
We climb the stand, the wood still warm from the sun, salt clinging to our skin. Leo jumps first, arms spread, landing with a shout that echoes across the water. I follow, hitting the mound with a thud that rattles my knees and makes me laugh.
Eden hesitates at the edge, toes curled over the board.
“I’ll go with you,” Leo says, scrambling back up to stand beside her. “It’s fun.”
She grips his hand, and together, they leap, their laughter rising over the waves when they hit the ground.
The next time, Eden jumps alone, braver now, her small frame cutting through the air. We cheer, and she beams, scrambling back up the ladder to do it again.
We take turns: climb, jump, climb, jump; until we’re breathless, our legs coated in grit, the kind of tired where you don’t want the night to end.
By the time we flop onto the beach, the sky has turned deep purple, the moon hanging low over the dunes. Eden shivers, so I yank off my hoodie and drop it on her shoulders. She looks up at me, and my chest does a weird thump. I stare at the water so she won’t see.
The sky is full indigo when we’re back at the house, the porch light glowing warm against the dark. Ryan sprawls on the couch with a book, barely looking up.
Leo, always the ringleader, bursts through the door. “Flashlight tag on the beach! Who’s in?”
Ryan lowers his book just enough to smirk. “You’re going to get yelled at if you go too far.”
“We won’t if you’re with us,” Leo shoots back.
Ryan sighs dramatically to show us he’s doing us a huge favor but tosses the book aside. “Fine. Let’s go.”
We grab the lights from the basket. Mom’s outside on the porch, barefoot with a cocktail in hand, laughing with the next-door neighbor. She glances over, lifting her glass. “Stay with Ryan, and don’t let me catch y’all past those dunes, you hear?”
“Deal!” we yell back, already sprinting into the dark.
The beams slice through the night, the air smelling of salt and smoke from far-off bonfires, the shore cool beneath our toes.
Ryan bolts ahead, whooping, his beam swinging wildly.
Leo follows at an easy jog, calling for us to keep up.
Eden stays close to me, her smaller steps kicking up puffs of dust.
We play tag, chasing each other while our lights skitter across the sand.
Leo dives onto the ground, laughing, while Ryan charges ahead, shouting challenges into the dark.
Eden tries to keep up, but when her brothers race toward the shadows near the dunes, she slows, the glow of her light trembling.
“Hey,” I say, stopping beside her. “You okay?”
She bites her lip—this habit she has when she’s thinking that makes her look older than eight. Her eyes lock on the place where the moonlight fades and the dunes rise. “It’s…really dark out there.”
“It’s just the beach.” I crouch, shining my beam into the shadows. “See? Nothing there but shore.”
She nods but doesn’t move. The thought of her being scared tightens my chest. I don’t know why. I just want her to feel safe—with me. I hand her my light. “Here. Take mine. It’s brighter.”
Carefully, she takes it, and I fall into step beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch. “Stick with me, Trouble,” I say lightly.
She looks up at me, curious. “Trouble?”
“Mom says you’re always getting into scrapes,” I tell her, grinning. “Our little troublemaker.”
That gets a tiny laugh out of her. We catch up to the others, and for the rest of the night, I make sure she’s never more than an arm’s length away.
When Leo bolts off to chase Ryan, I stay with her, letting her trace shapes in the wet ground with her beam.
She laughs when crabs scuttle out of the glow, and I laugh too.
We rinse our feet at the outdoor shower before trudging inside. Eden barely makes it to her bed, curling up on top of the sheets.
I pull a blanket over her shoulders. She stirs, her voice soft with sleep. “Thanks, Nate.”
The way she says my name makes me light up. “Anytime,” I whisper.
Mom pokes her head in, smiling at Eden curled up on the bed. “Don’t forget your sunscreen tomorrow,” she says, voice gentle but leaving no room for argument. Her eyes cut to me. “Yes, you too, Nathaniel. Don’t think that dark skin of yours won’t burn.”
I groan automatically, even though I know she’s right. She just laughs, brushing my hair back with her fingers, a gesture she’s been doing since I was little. “Go on now. Let the baby rest. We got a whole summer waiting on us.”
I sit on the edge of Eden’s bed for a moment after Mom leaves, watching her breathe, then head across the hall to the bunks, falling asleep with salt still stuck between my toes.
The sun spills through the gauzy curtains when I wake, the smell of toasted waffles drifting through the house. I head to the kitchen where Ryan stands in board shorts, pulling waffles from the toaster.
“Morning, runt,” he says without looking up.
“Not a runt,” I grumble.
The table is set with plates, a bowl of grapes—half green, half red—sitting in the center, Nutella and jelly on the side.
Eden sits with Leo, carefully picking out the green ones, the only ones she’ll have.
She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, pops another grape into her mouth, and brightens when she sees me.
After breakfast, Ryan leans on the counter. “Clean up, gremlins.”
Leo groans but clears the plates. Eden hums while stacking cups in the dishwasher.
The screen door creaks, and Mom steps in from the porch, a copy of The Color Purple tucked under her arm. She glances around, clocking the clean counters and empty plates. Her smile is easy, her voice relaxed.
“Appreciate y’all handling breakfast,” she says, nodding approvingly because she expected nothing less.
Ryan’s already sliding his feet into flip-flops. “I’m out. Meeting the guys.” He slaps Leo’s back on his way to the door. “Don’t burn the place down.”
Leo watches him go, then looks at me. “Going to Max’s. He’s got a new skimboard. You coming?”
Eden sits outside, twisting a piece of string, quiet. She doesn’t ask to come. She keeps her eyes down, and I feel a tug I can’t explain.
“Nah,” I say, grabbing the two fishing rods. “I’m going fishing.”
Leo smirks. “Suit yourself.” He heads off.
I turn to Eden. “You coming with me?”
Her head pops up. “Really?”
“Yeah. Got two rods.”
She beams. “Okay!”
Mom glances up from her book, sliding a finger between the pages to hold her place. “Fishing, huh? Y’all stay on the bay side. And make sure you look out for each other, you hear?”
“We will,” I promise.
Eden skips ahead as we walk the boardwalk, the morning warm but not yet hot. The grocery store opens, bells jingling. The deli puts out its signs, the scent of bacon and bagels filling the air.
The bay is still, the water glittering under the sun. We sit at the ferry dock, legs dangling. I hand her a rod.
“You know how?”
She shakes her head. “Not really.”
“It’s easy.” I bait both hooks and show her how to cast. The lines plop into the water.
We sit side by side, the smell of the bay mixing with fried dough from the boardwalk. She kicks her feet, humming. After a while she asks, “Do you think we’ll catch anything?”
“Maybe. It’s not really about catching stuff.”
“Then what’s it about?”
I watch her sticky fingers grip the rod, the way she chews her lip while she waits. “Just…being here.”
She gives me that smile again—the one I always want to pull out of her. We sit in silence, the only sounds the creak of the dock and the water lapping below. She tells me about the bracelets she’ll make this summer, one for every day we’re here.
Then my line jerks. “Got one!” I reel in fast. A small silver fish bursts from the water.
Eden gasps, hand flying to her mouth, her eyes lighting up.
I hold it carefully, scales flashing in the sun. “You gotta kiss it and make a wish before we let it go.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Eww.”
“It’s the rule.”
She hesitates, then leans in and kisses it quick. She whispers her wish so quietly I almost miss it, but I catch one word: “always.” The way she says it, and the way she looks at me, sends my heart thumping.
I toss the fish back, watching it disappear into the dark water.
“What’d you wish for?” I ask.
She grins. “Can’t tell. Or it won’t come true.”
I want to know what she wished for, but more than that, I want to make sure it comes true.
We pack up when the sun climbs higher. On the way back, I buy us gummy worms and sour straws from the grocery store with the ice cream money my grandpa gave me for my birthday. We sit on the bench in the shade, sharing candy and cold sodas.
“Thanks for the candy,” she says softly.
I shrug, pretending it’s nothing. “Anytime.”
But inside, I know I mean it. I watch her tear at the gummy worms, hear her laugh at something stupid I said, and think this might be the best day I’ve ever had. I want every summer to be exactly like this.