Between

Wet. It's the first word that comes to wind before I scream. Soaked. Waterlogged. Facedown. Oh, shit. It isn't a fish; it's a person. A girl. Her hair is long and so blond that it's almost white, the pretty natural color shimmering beneath the water. The wavy strands, moving back and forth like algae, reach almost to her waist. She's wearing jeans and a pink sweater. But that's not what's making the noise. It's her feet; her boots, actually. She's wearing a pair of white cowgirl boots, encrusted with gemstones, steel-toed couture straight from the runways in London. The boots were a birthday gift from her parents. She's been wearing them proudly all night, and now the steel toe of her left boot is lodged awkwardly between the boat and the dock, and with each passing wave it's kicking against the side, almost like she's trying to wake people up. How do I know all this? Because the boots are mine. So are the clothes. The girl in the water is me. I scream again, loud enough to wake everyone for a mile around. But I get the feeling nobody can hear me.