The boys were identical. Identically fifteen-and-a-half, identically tall for their age, identically shaggy auburn-haired and hazel-eyed, identically sinewy yet slender in that basketball player way (they were on the Varsity team, of course), and identically interested in the predictable things boys their age were interested in. Ivan (named for Lilia's father) and Oliver (named for Arthur's father) had at first been thrilled about a summer at the beach, thinking it'd be some sexy, youthful place like the Florida beaches they'd spotted swiping through TikToks. But when they'd woken up the morning after their arrival and understood the smallness, the isolation of their destination, they'd complained up and down for at least seventeen minutes before spying beyond the window a trio of long-legged figures silhouetted against the sunlight while jogging across the sand.

They'd fallen silent for a moment or two. Processed. "Could be all right," Oliver had at length muttered beneath his breath; the power of God couldn't have pulled him from the window.

Ivan hadn't even heard his brother. He'd only watched until the young women jogged beyond his line of vision, even beyond the extended vision he'd created by craning his neck and climbing over his brother (who'd understood and hadn't complained), and when the objects of their daydream had vanished and they'd been forced unwillingly back into reality, the boys had blinked like small children at one another before darting upstairs to fight for the bathroom.

They'd spent the morning hauling stuff down to the sand. The house was up on pilings (as were all the properties along the hurricane-prone coast) and so the deck that wrapped around the sides and back of the building had a wooden plank walkway extending from the back door all the way down to the dunes. The distance wasn't great, but the walkway's sharp incline offered a bit of a workout for one carting stuff back and forth over several trips. By the time Ivan and Oliver had managed to get everything they wanted down to the sand, they'd been worn out enough to start with a dip in the crisp waters. They'd come back to shore, dripping and exuding all the beautiful bloom of beauty coupled with ignorance, and arranged quite a nice area for themselves—a volleyball net, an umbrella, towels and lounge chairs. They'd brought down some things to toss about, and then all it had taken was a bit of throwing around a football, a bit of spiking over the net, before young people had begun to emerge as if out of the very sand.

To be fair, other people had arrived for various activities at the beach, as well—a few families toting children, an older man walking a dog, that sort of thing—and some of them had to have come from the beach houses, but none of them had stationed themselves nearby, and they hadn't been copious. The main action on the relatively quiet beach had been focused on the twins, on the ten-plus youth who'd joined them over the last few hours. They hadn't originally come for Ivan and Oliver, not at first, but as easy as it was to spread news, knowledge of new vacationers had apparently excited everyone. The few boys who'd come across the twins first while sea kayaking had pulled their boats right up onto the sand and, once the four of them had got to chatting, had sent some messages. Within a couple of hours, a lively group had assembled. Neither of the twins had complained. The sun'd been shining hot and golden on their freckling skin; not a cloud had threatened to dampen the sands or their spirits. Their mother had at one point furtively wheeled down a cooler of nonalcoholic beverages (and yet somehow vodka had worked its way into the drinks, the only advantage being there wasn't enough for any particular person to get particularly intoxicated), and some late arrivals had become everyone's favorites when they'd opened up bags of burgers and fries and other fast food they'd picked up at a well-known local joint in town.

When things got a little too toasty, the young people had cooled off in the ocean, and when things got a little too salty, they'd come back to dry land. Back and forth, in pairs and trios and groups, they'd splashed one another, played some version of chicken and several intense games of volleyball, thrown frisbees and footballs, paddleboarded and dug holes, buried each other and built sand castles and attempted to surf when the wind picked up a little, flirted and joked, and though they'd spent hours with one another, neither Oliver nor Ivan could have recounted a single conversation they'd had over the course of the day.

Ivan could, on the other hand, have easily detailed how late into the afternoon, when the reddish warmth of the sun sat in equanimity with the reddish warmth of his buzzing young body and brain, a certain attractive girl in a black-and-white-striped bikini had pulled him deep enough into the water that it was shoulder-high, under the pretense of jumping waves. Her true motive had been made clear quite quickly when, once far enough from the others, she'd pulled Ivan's hands toward herself and pressed his fingers into the cool, firm flesh of her breasts. How she'd so deftly untied her top, when she'd done it, was something he hadn't dwelled upon, as he'd been distracted by the rather predictable course of his blood flow. The two of them had languidly moved with the undulating water, made just enough show of it to keep up the act, while the whole while the girl had held the boy's gaze and guided his fingers where she'd wanted them, brushing, pinching, squeezing, no hint of timidity whatsoever in her bright, gleaming green eyes. He'd had a difficult time not trying for more, but a hazy stupidity had overtaken him, and he'd been embarrassed by the sound of his own heavy breathing, audible even over the ambient movement of water.

He'd had to wait quite a while before the signs of his arousal had worn off enough for him to leave the water.

God, she was the hottest girl I've ever seen! Ivan thought, lying on his bed that night, hours after the collection of new friends had gone home with promises of returning the next day and he'd eaten and showered and vegged out in front of the television for some time. And yet, even as he strove to recall the moments he'd spent with her, he struggled to get a clear visual of her face. Her eyes—those he remembered. The incredible apple green. And he thought her hair was . . . dark. Yes, dark brown. Or black, even. And she herself was white, but not super pale white. Like, healthy suntanned white. He was pretty sure of that. But as to the specific line of her chin, the curves of her lips, the shape of her eyebrows or whether her hair was short or long, she had bangs or curls—those sort of details, he couldn't recall. It was disconcerting, surely, and yet . . .

He did remember what mattered, he thought, smiling to himself as he laid back and stared at the ceiling in his dark room. The rippling mirage of the tops of her barely-visible breasts shimmering below the surface of the water, the way that swimsuit had looked on her butt. She'd definitely had an amazing figure, surprisingly thick in the right places for a white girl. And the feel of her . . . damn!

Ivan realized he was holding up his hands, clenching his fingers in the air as if the girl were hovering over him. He laughed at himself. What an idiot he was. He couldn't even remember that girl's name, and yet, who cared? It'd just been a little fun, hadn't it? Maybe, if they hung out all summer, she'd offer up a little more. Maybe a lot more. A girl who gives up that much after just meeting someone is probably pretty easy, he thought. Maybe this would be the summer he'd lose it. The big IT. The fact that he hadn't was one of the only unidentical things about him and his twin (according to Oliver).

Imagining future possibilities made him agitated beneath his blanket. Ivan sat up on his elbows, looked around the dark room, picked up a sock off the floor near his bed, licked his lips, and got comfortable against his pillows.

In the room next door, separated from his brother only by a wall on either side of which sat their beds, Oliver scrolled through stupid videos. He figured he should probably go to sleep. It'd been an awesome day. Pretty much all around unexpectedly great.

A yawn overtook him. It was definitely time for sleep. He placed his phone on the bedside table, closed his eyes and rolled over, when all of a sudden, the device chimed.

Surely a friend from back home, Oliver figured. Probably leave it for tomorrow. He didn't want to get dragged into some conversation when he was tired. And yet . . .

Curiosity got the best of him, and he grabbed hold of the phone.

hey

The boy shoved his shiny auburn hair out of his eyes, propped himself up on his left elbow. He didn't recognize the number.

hey? he responded, waited. How many times had he heard not to respond to unknown numbers? Still, it wasn't as if he were giving out private info.

it's Clio, i was there today, the beach

Ah! So not a scammer. And yet . . . Clio? Clio . . . he racked his brain. The day had definitely been awesome. It'd solidified his faith in his parents' decision to haul their entire family down to this beach he'd thought was in the middle of nowhere. When he'd woken up that morning, he and Ivan had thought they'd been duped. The entire place looked dead, deserted, like nobody was within miles. It certainly hadn't presented any semblance of entertaining, not in the vein of fifteen-year-old entertainment. But then all those people had shown up! Crazy! It'd been an all-day party, beyond expectation. Perfect. There'd been no lack of cute girls. In fact, they'd all be cute. Every one of them. Who'd have thought a nothing, nowhere town like Crap-ass Beach (or whatever it was called) would've been filled with anything above a couple of sixes, let alone all tens? And none of them shy!

But he honestly didn't remember anyone named Clio (though admittedly, his memory was nothing worth praising), and he definitely didn't remember giving any girls his number. Just that one guy, the one who said he'd come back tomorrow—

clint gave me ur #

Oh. Well that explained that.

Chewing on his lip, Oliver considered how to respond. He couldn't remember what this girl looked like, but of course he hadn't thought any of them were unattractive.

i don't remember u

"Shit!" he hissed the moment he sent the impromptu message. He was an impulsive idiot. Oh well. If she were wondering whether he was worth talking to, she'd found her answer.

He tossed his phone toward the end of his bed, then rolled back over to face the wall and close his eyes. Though he'd showered, he could still sense the crunch of salt in his hair, and a bit of sand brushed against his toes at the bottom of his mattress. He'd sleep like a log tonight.

Hardly a moment passed, Oliver listening to the waves, his breathing, before his phone chimed again.

He considered ignoring it for only a millisecond before realizing there was no way he'd do so. He sat up and grabbed the device, swiping through the code and tapping into the message.

A photo. Of a girl's body. Not her face, but a selfie, looking down from probably somewhere around her mouth and angled to take in the entire figure, all the way down to her green-painted toes. The body wore a black-and-white striped bra and underwear trimmed in lace, though the bra cups barely came up over the tops of her perfect round breasts. The photo's illusory quality made her chest appear enormous, and Oliver salivated over the deep crevice between the mounds of flesh, the darker shadings at the edge of the lace that he assured himself were her nipples peeking out. Her smooth stomach with its belly-button ring made his breath catch, but most gripping of all was the triangle of fabric playing at covering that private, sensitive area where her legs met. Surely that was the tiniest pair of panties in existence, and the way she'd slipped the first two fingers of her free hand beneath the lining, right at the top, and allowed them to pull down just enough to almost reveal a bit of . . . Oh God! He ached.

this remind u?

The boy had forgotten there were words attached to the photo until he read them. His breath came out disjointedly, and he nearly choked on the moisture that'd accumulated in his mouth. No! he wanted to scream in reply, and yet he'd never. He wasn't that much of an impulsive idiot. He had to think. Think about what to say. But it was difficult to do so when the brain wasn't currently what was being stimulated.

ur fine AF was what he managed, feeling slightly stupid about the simplicity of it but sure she'd appreciate the compliment all the same.

Oliver awaited a reply, his entire body tingling as he kept staring at the pic she'd sent him. She was bold, wasn't she? No girl had sent him pics like that before. Cute duck-lipped faces and images of them in their homecoming dresses, but nothing quite so sexual.

u can have anything u want came her unbelievable response.

By that point, Oliver was beginning to wonder whether he was dreaming. He knew he was an attractive youth, but he wasn't anything particularly special. He was a little awkward in conversation, and he wasn't the most intelligent person. He struggled in most of his school subjects and instead hoped to get scholarships based on his basketball skills. And he'd had no lack of short-term girlfriends since about the sixth grade. But his experience with the opposite sex was minimal at best. A hand up a shirt, kissing, maybe an opportunity to grab from behind or grind a little at a dance, but that was about it, in spite of what his gullible brother and assuming parents believed of him. So to have someone be so forward—

anything? rly?

She didn't answer him quickly. In fact, at least two or three minutes passed, and Oliver watched those little vacillating ellipses indicative of a forthcoming message in breathless anticipation. After a while, too tired to keep thinking, he focused on the image, zoomed in on the parts he liked best, fumbled with his free hand below his sheets while he stared at it, and thought of what she might actually have meant by "anything."

At long last, her response did arrive, but by then, he'd finished and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

She'd sent merely an emoji: a little red octopus, its elliptic black eyes staring soullessly through its cephalic digitization.