The cliffs around the old rock quarry
are fifty feet high, and every summer
the boys came to be men
by racing to the highest point,
jostling each other in their haste
to be the first, bravest one.

On the precipice, they posed and strutted
for girlfriends who pretended
not to notice, then jumped,
sluicing into the water like penknives.

The girls squawked like newborn chickens
(stick-figure legs, anorectic fuzz)
on the rocks below. They wore
what might as well be nothing:
tanning oil, string bikinis,
practiced disdain.

Jody was a boy, but I couldn't
pretend not to notice. I sat
a safe distance from the other girls,
their sleek, polished bodies.
I wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt,
my face hot from sunburn and shame.

When he threw himself off the cliffs,
I counted the seconds he hung, suspended,
and made as many wishes as I could
before he tore the inky skin of the water.