The first time I got into trouble with the cops, I was wearing nothing but a damp towel and some sand. The sheriff’s jeep had come bumbling down the hill toward the lake, brights on, stupidly indignant. “You kids know it’s illegal to skinny dip in public? I could arrest you right now. Is that what you want?” He shone a flashlight in our eyes, looking for answers.
My dripping friends and I were speechless. There was something about my complete vulnerability at that moment, however, that also enraged me. I grasped that towel and glared. I . . . probably had rights, right? This guy couldn’t just push us around.
“And what makes you think we were skinny-dipping?”
He sighed, tired. It was late at night, probably long after curfew for kids our age. He could have easily gotten us on that. “Miss, please . . . are you trying to tell me you weren’t?”
Out of nowhere, a poker shark began to show its pointed fin in that lake. Do it, a voice said. He won’t call your bluff.
“Yes . . . yes, I am. We’ve done nothing wrong here. We were all wearing swimsuits.”
He looked me up and down.
“You’re wearing a swimsuit right now?”
If you’re going to go, go all out. I maintained eye contact and confirmed that yes, I was in fact wearing a swimsuit.
“So you’re trying to tell me,” he began, voice wary and weary, “that you are completely clothed under that towel?”