The Rip
She kept seeing the letters scrawled in the sand, perfect and wrong, with no footprints around them.
She capped the paint and forced a smile at Rachel’s thumbs-up from the stage. The banner over the dais read GOODBYE YEAR TWELVE, sagging at one corner where Travis had decided gravity didn’t apply to him.
“Jazz, where are you going?” Rachel called, catching her peel off the disposable drop sheet.
“It’s a fucking furnace,” Jasmine said, already sliding the brush into the supply box. “Swim. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Rachel glanced at her blouse and skirt, sandals dusted with glitter. “You don’t have swimmers.”
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