i look down at my bare toes in the sand. my socks and sneakers sit a football field away. looking back, it's impossible to tell if they had been stolen. the lack of little sea creatures and an abundance of surf foam makes this place seem fake. i have adapted to the algae smell. year after year, the mayor tells us how tirelessly he has knocked on coastal zone management's door to fix the problem. it's not just algae but sewer overflow. shit overflow. i always had trouble differentiating the smells. in the morning, i would open my bedroom window and the odor would surround me.

"the beach smell is strong today," i told my papi as i hopped into his open-roof jeep.

"nombre, that’s the sewage," he said slipping the keys into the ignition.

"it’s the algae, i think — this is beach smell!" i insisted.

"niña, we live down the street from a sewer outfall," he starts to reverse out the driveway, "you think this is cape cod or something?"

***

im staring right back at the atlantic ocean. a cleaner part of it this time. there aren't any signs prohibiting entry due to "increased bacteria levels" here. its a hot summer day yet the water is still freezing cold. that will never change. and this beach makes no noise. i know this because i have met far away beaches with a voice so loud they scream through the night and won't let you sleep. mine is not rough, my confidante. those beaches have waves that make choices for you. my beach, though it tugs at my ankles, lets me make my next decision. diving into the next wave, the water lifts my feet and stings my eyes with salt.

"SHIT!" i shout, getting up and turning to my two friends on the sand. "i can't see." they look at me standing there, eyes shut tight, wearing my one-piece bathing suit.

"this girl.. oh m—" she’s shaking her head, "get outta there and tan with us!"

the two girls lie on their stomachs, bikini sets on their dark, golden skin. the salt water has perfected their curly hair as it rests on oiled backs. behind them, a group of half-inebriated dominican men sit on beach chairs, listening to our conversation. but their eyes stay fixed on my 12-year-old friends.