Write a story that takes place in a bathroom.

That summer, we were immortals.

We spent most of it around the pool. The sun baked our bodies until our bathing suits became second skins.  Parody Park was our Olympus, a microcosm of bleach-blond teenagers. At night, when they shut the pool down, we lounged around the picnic tables under the dingy light of a single streetlamp, talking and laughing, and lying in piles as if we were half-grown puppies.

When it rained, we’d take shelter inside the bathrooms, under the canopies with their flickering, buzzing fluorescents.

That summer, we were heroes.

Belinda sat on the counter, washing her bare feet in the sink. She was laughing at me in the mirror. “I don’t know why you’re worried about it,” she teased with that bright, freshly made smile of hers.

“I can’t believe that bitch bit me,” I said, leaning to tilt my left shoulder and peer at the wound in the mirror. There was a lovely half moon mark on the front, and one on the back, marbled with bruising. A hematoma welted slowly under the skin.

Belinda flicked cold water at me as she shook off her feet. “Just ice it when you get home.”

That soured my mood a little, and I swatted at her calf. “Assuming I’m going home.”

She frowned back, asking in what she thought was a compassionate tone, “Dad still fascinated with the Jacks?”

“Forget about it,” I said, glowering at our reflection. I grabbed my arm and rotated a few degrees, trying to see how bad the bruising was behind my shoulder. That’s when the screaming started.

The tables outside were the epicenter, blood curdling cries that erupted into chaos and slowly spread like seismic activity throughout Parody Park. Belinda swept her gaze around to the bathroom entrance; she was a fearless goddess, that girl. Her pony tail bobbed as I snaked an arm out to pen her in where she sat.

Outside someone was shouting, “Oh my fucking god, it’s a bear!”

Belinda’s face lit up and she nearly burst out of her own skin. “Beli … no. Noooo.” I shook my head at her, but already, she was slithering over the top of my arm.

“Elijah, don’t! I want to see it.”

I caught her at the door. One hand mashed it closed while the other roped her in, picking her up and twisting her away amid cursing and protests. “Shhh!” I hissed to silence her. My palm sweat as I cracked the door.

We were disappointed. I mean, yeah, there was a bear, but it was barely a yearling. Half perched on the farthest picnic table and eating someone’s Reese’s cups, it didn’t give two fucks about us. That was, until Beli went screaming out after it, arms flailing in the air. Then it cried like a baby and bolted into the night.

Belinda bounced and cheered, her eyes bright as she turned back and flexed at me. “Wooo! I’m fuckin’ Steve Irwin!”

That summer, we were lovers.