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[Edit: I don't think this is The Island, perse. Maybe it's, uh...just a Fill-In Island until Andy and Devon actually get there. Yup. 8D]

The beach was, perhaps, a spot of mixed feelings for Andrea Doyle. On one hand, back when she would visit the beaches of Jersey, she loved the water and chasing the waves to the very head of the tide, only to be fought back to the edge of the damp sand. She could--would--repeat this process several times in one day, or at least one beach trip, and then retire to her towel for a glorious hour of sunbathing (or sunburning).

But then...the negative points would arise, as well. Andy hated the sand. She hated the way it crawled into her bathing suit, hated the way it creeped bewtween her fingers and toes, despised the way it nestled beneath her fingernails. She hated sand and sand hated her; it was a fact of life she was willing to cope with.

And yet. There Andy sat, on the beach, watching the tide ebb and flow. The occasional gull would caw, sometimes swoop overhead and cast their shadows over the light tan body of the beach, but never dare a closer inspection of the dark-haired figure below them.

Her tee-shirt was pulled up in the back, exposing pale skin speckled with dark marks--freckles. Her glasses were, as always, perched on the edge of her nose, the lenses dirty and smeared with fingerprints. The ankles of her patched and frayed jeans were still damp from the earlier activities: chasing the tide. Her sneakers and socks lay in a messy pile just to her right, as did an opened carton of Newports and a plastic Bic lighter.

Andy would sit there and stare at the crystal clear water, every once in a while turning to her bounty of shoes and cigarettes, perhaps contemplating over taking a smoke or pulling her shoes on. But then she would turn back to the ocean and just...stare.

Someone was coming. Andy should've seen it, but she was too spaced out, too busy watching waves crash into each other, spitting foam and bubbles and sometimes even a seashell, and he was right there in front of her, a vision of white to rival her own....But still, when a greeting had been uttered, Andy jumped, frightened. She lept to her feet, already jumping to the defensive, digging her toes in the b*****d sand, but lost her balance--you would, too, if you moved quick on uneven ground--and fell back to her imprinted spot in the sand.

"Oh!" she squeaked, embarassed at her awkward movements; her cheeks were tinted pink, and not from the rays of sunlight. She swiped a scrawny hand through her messy hair, then pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She passed the young man before her a look of minute judgement: three quick glances up and down, one across his face, then a final peek at the crotch of his pants, although that one was unnoticeable.

This time, Andy picked herself up, spreading her fingers and grabbing a handful of sand for extra balance. She made it to her feet and dropped the sand to wipe at her face, hoping against hope to relieve her cheeks of the wretched pink. No such luck.

Andy coughed into her fist and smiled. "Hey," she echoed, waving, although they two were already face to face. A moment of silence passes for Andy, and then she speaks again:

"Who're you?"

Andy stooped her head, just a little bit, to smile and offer her own hand in a friendly handshake. His words, nervous, made Andy giggle, although it's not cruel...only honestly amused. "Howdy there, Mister Devon," she chirruped, smiling and waving again, "I'm Andy. It's nice t'meetcha, too. You don't gotta worry about startlin me or anythin--I'm just naturally jumpy."

Andy suddenly crouched low, hooking her fingers into claws and baring her teeth, hissing and spitting like a cat. What a weirdo. "I could be not-so-twitchy and more catlike, yanno? Like um...what's her name? That black lady from that really bad movie?" Oh, God. Already geeking out, aren't we, Doyle? She straightened her spine and put on another smile, waved her hand, as if to dismiss the subject of black women and cats, and promptly sat back down, patting a clump of sand next to her.

"Wanna sit with me? I like lookin at the ocean. S'all...blue'n junk. Yanno?"

The desire to relax overcame the desire to be polite, and while Devon spoke and asked genuine questions, Andy stretched and flopped to the sand. She linked her fingers beind her head for some makeshift cushion, then dug her bare toes into the powdery sand, relishing how soft it was, yet still getting increasingly annoyed at how grainy it was, and how it wormed its way beneath her nails and between her toes. Gross.

Andrea offered Devon a brief moment of eye-to-eye contact, then swept her gaze to the sea. It really was beautiful...made her want to get naked--or at least to her undergarments--and go swimming. Hey! Maybe Devon would want to go? Another glance at the boy's skin told her otherwise: the water would probably make him transparent, he was so pale. Maybe a milky-white figure treading in the water wasn't such a good idea, either. Could attract sharks. Or, um. ...crabs.

Andy shrugged her shoulders, a process made awkward due to both arms being positioned on the ground. "I dunno," she mumbled vaguely, turning from side to side, trying to find a comfortable spot. Impossible. She sat back up to swipe the box of Newports and her plastic Bic lighter from the ground, shaking a cigarette out of the carton and popping it into her mouth. She lit it, then held the lighter out for Devon. "Need it?"