We stood in a circle, no one willing to look anyone else in the eye.

It wasn’t our fault, or at least, that was what we would tell the authorities later. It’s not like we knew the earth was going to give way. It’s not like anyone expects a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls to understand how dangerous it can be to dig below the dunes, to hollow them out precariously, innocently, like little children pretending to be sea turtles burrowing in the sand.

“Should we call someone?” Nicola asked, and all of our hands brushed against each other like a shiver running through us.

“How long has it been?” Akelah said, not lifting her wrist to check her watch.

“It feels like forever,” Sam’s voice sounded so very far away, like she was lost in a dream. Maybe we all were.

It didn’t have to happen. That’s what we were all in agreement about. It was a tragedy, and that’s what makes them tragedies. They didn’t have to happen, but they did.

No one made a move. We watched the dune like an hourglass, waiting for the grains of sand to shift and tumble through the slender throat, revealing the passage of time and the body buried beneath it. The sand didn’t shift, but the color of the sky did, and the sound of waves rushing and receding on the shore pulsed in our veins like a shared heartbeat.

“They’re going to start missing us soon,” Raquel said. 

Still, we didn’t move.

“I keep thinking I'll see his fingers poke out of the sand at any second,” Nicola whispered. “Like a horror movie.”

We all crowded closer, shoulders bumping like boats rocking in the waves along the wharf. We were tethered together in a way, as if what had happened would prevent anyone from drifting off alone in the dark.

“We didn’t know,” Sam said again. “We’re just kids.”

“No one will miss him at any rate,” I added.

“For the first time, I’m glad I live so far from the beach,” Raquel said.

“We should walk you all the way home,” I said, and the other girls nodded. Instead, we stared at the sand some more.

We were just kids. They told us we were on the cusp of womanhood, but we weren’t. Not really. Women’s hips shifted and swayed like the rolling waves. They carried secrets in their eyes. We still had children’s bodies. Our secrets still involved pinky promises.

“He shouldn’t have come after us,” Sam muttered finally.

“It’s a good thing you got that shovel from your dad’s jeep,” I told her. All the other girls murmured in agreement, and the sound resonated like the buzz of bees swarming in anger.

“It’s really his fault,” Akelah declared, as if this would break the spell, “We were just making a dugout. It’s not like we made it to trap him or anything.”

 “He’s the one who decided to follow us,” I said. “It’s not like we lured him after us.”

“Right. It was an accident. It’s not like a bunch of thirteen-year-olds could plan this,” Nicola agreed.

“Exactly. He’s the one who wanted to make us women, whatever that means,” Sam said, but we did know what it meant. There is no hiding the truth about what womanhood means for girls. Our mothers, our aunts, our sisters, even strangers, they all told us. Some with words. Some with their eyes. Some with their scars.

“It didn’t have to happen,” Raquel said, and it sounded exactly like the eulogy it was.