The Pit Summers Interracial Pool Party Oil It Up 🔔
The “oil it up” part came from Marcus. “You can’t have a pool party without the grease,” he said, pulling out ten bottles of baby oil. “Old-school. Like the mixtape covers.”
“Let ’em,” Benny said. “My old man’s been dead ten years. I’m tired of being a ghost in my own town.” the pit summers interracial pool party oil it up
“You got any of that rosé left?” he asked. The “oil it up” part came from Marcus
Around four, old man Hargrove appeared at the top of the quarry path. He was eighty-two, white as chalk, and had a shotgun broken over his arm. He stared down at the scene: fifty people, every shade from coffee to cream, oiled up and splashing, sharing beers, passing a joint, slow-dancing to a bootleg R&B mix on Marcus’s speakers. Like the mixtape covers
For three generations, The Pit had been exactly that—a sunken, concrete scar in the earth, an abandoned quarry at the edge of the county line. The old-timer white folks remembered it as the place their fathers drowned bootleg whiskey runners. The Black families who’d moved out from the city in the ‘80s knew it as the forbidden swimming hole their children were warned away from. No one swam together. That was the law, unwritten but absolute.
“They’ll talk,” she said one night, dangling her feet over the quarry’s edge. The water below was black as coffee, deep and cold.
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