The Duration by Dave Fromm

Magic Meadow, through the woods. Bunch of bankers and entertainment types, can’t ski worth a shit. But they pay well.”
    He clucked his tongue.
    “Longest ninety minutes of your life, though.”
    “That’s probably not true,” I said. “So, so far we know you and Ava Winston.”
    I thought for a second.
    “You ever get in there?”
    Unsie looked at me.
    “Ava?”
    “Head-Connect. You ever hang out inside?”
    He shook his head.
    “Not if I can help it.”
    Unsie didn’t like the idea of fitness retreats, preferring the idea of fitness lifestyles. He was disdainful of anything that smacked of a shortcut.
    “What’s Ava Winston do?”
    Unsie returned to the console.
    “Don’t know. I never see her. But she was in the paper a few years ago when they promoted her. Local interest story, something like that.”
    “Her dad still around?”
    “Yeah, in the existential sense. He retired a few years ago. Moved west.”
    “Shoot,” I said.
    I looked around the showroom. A rack of skis. A fleet of kayaks.
    “You ever see a rhino horn down there?”
    Unsie looked up at me.
    “Are you on drugs too?”

When we were sixteen, Unsie broke his leg playing spring soccer after sneaking out with us on a day that he was supposed to be grounded. His punishment was six weeks in a foot-to-hip cast and a cat that bit his exposed toes. One hot June day we sprung him from his house and drove him out to the quarry in West Normanton, where Shaunda Schoenstein and the other rising seniors on St. Eustace’s girls’ field hockey team had installed themselves as sirens. Shaunda had a plastic baggie full of pot and a two-piece bikini whose top she would untie when she was sunning on her stomach, and as we swung Unsie and his leg across the narrow creek that separated the access road from the winding path to the quarry, we discussed various ruses that we might use to get her to sit up suddenly. Jimmer said that if she, or frankly if any of the other girls there, put themselves in a compromising position, we should feign a drowning. They would probably feel compelled to dive in, breasts unfettered, to save us.
    The quarry was a mile back in the woods off of Route 183, a rectangle of limestone, shades of green and bottomless. One long edge was crowded with trees, but the other sloped gently down into the water. On the eastern short side was a sort of altar of rock, 12 feet up at its highest point, with sloping sides and a perfect flat top for lounging. On the western edge was the sacrificial cliff, a promontory 65 feet high, with leap spots at 30, 40, and 60 feet. I’d done the 60-foot jump once, in my sneakers, after a half-hour of mind games. Chickie did it every time we went, even though he couldn’t swim very well.
    We pushed through the undergrowth, a determined expedition, Unsie on his crutches and the rest of us in swimsuits. Eventually we emerged at the base of the quarry. Shaunda and a bunch of the other St. Eustace girls were crowding the altar. A couple of disgruntled junior males scuffed along the edges. Girls like that always had body men. Someone had to buy the Slush Puppies.
    Shaunda waved at me. Alas, she was wearing a T-shirt.
    The four of us waved back.
    “Hello, ladies,” Jimmer said, but it came out sounding skeevy and he frowned.
    We crossed the vestibule and emerged at the water’s edge. Nods were exchanged and we began unfurling our towels, marking off our plot of quarry. We weren’t there just for the girls. Of course, Unsie couldn’t go in on account of the cast, and Chick didn’t swim on his own. But the girls didn’t know that.
    “Shirts off?” asked Jimmer.
    I nodded.
    “Let’s do it.”
    I grabbed the hem of my T-shirt and began to lift. Jimmer pulled his over his head.
    I stopped lifting mine. Chick and Unsie didn’t move. Jimmer’s chest was a pale concavity, too much time in front of the PlayStation. It blanched in the sunlight, made him look like Casper.
    “Fuckers,” Jimmer said.
    Messing