Lost in the River of Grass

by Ginny Rorby

  On top of the tower there is a nice breeze. I lean with my elbows spread apart on the railing so my underarms get maximum exposure to the wind. We all smell of sweat and Deep Woods Off, which keeps the mosquitoes from biting but not from whining nearby, searching for an unprotected square inch of skin.

  The boys are daring each other to go down and pet a gator. Two of them pretend to drag Courtney, who screams in mock terror, to the edge as a sacrifice. I stand off to one side, watching, kind of smiling. I wouldn’t want Mr. Vickers to think I’m as silly as they are, but I don’t want the others to think I’m a stick-in-the-mud, either.

  The girls take turns taking pictures of themselves with their cell phones held high, so that the alligators are in the picture too. I have a Tracfone for emergencies. It doesn’t take pictures, but I can’t imagine a phone could take a picture as good as Dad’s Leica.

  “I have my dad’s camera,” I say. “Would you like me to take your picture all together?”

  Brittany gives me a look like I’ve just asked them for a blood donation, but the lead Amanda says yes. They line up against the wall, their arms around each other’s waists, and flash their brilliant, bleached white teeth at me.

  “How old is that thing?” Courtney says.

  “It’s a 1952 Leica,” I say with pride as I turn the focus wheel, bringing the eight of them down to four.

  Courtney puts her hand behind Brittany’s head to give her horns. “Does it take color pictures?”

  “Sure.” I take the picture. “I’ll have a copy made for each of you.”

  “Whatever,” the other Amanda says.

  The boy who wanted to see the moccasin eat the warbler takes a quarter from his pocket and throws it at a gator. It misses. He digs for another. Philip and two of the other boys root in their pockets for coins, wind up, and pitch them in unison so they rain down on one of the gators.

  Mr. Vickers sees them and explodes. “If I see one more thing like that, I’ll call your parents to come get you, and you will receive a failing grade for the semester. Is that clear? If you’re going to act like children, you should be home with your mommies and daddies.”

  Another tram arrives, this one full of tourists. Mr. Vickers, still plenty mad, herds us down the ramp. I lag behind, hoping he’ll notice that I’m not part of the group he’s mad at.

  I take a last look at the scene below in time to see the great blue heron strike and skewer a fish. I raise the camera as the bird turns and takes a step up onto the grass. I turn the focus wheel at the same instant the surface of the water erupts. An alligator, mouth open, launches itself out of the water, catches the heron by a leg, and drags it

  flapping, but unable to squawk because of the fish impaled on its beak, back into the water. Mud boils as the gator drags it under and spins beneath the surface.

  I guess I screamed, because the entire class charges back up the ramp, but by the time they reach the railing, it’s over. Muddy water rolls into the cattails, wave after wave, but there’s nothing else to see. Nature has taken its course.

  “What happened?” Philip asks.

  “A gator killed that beautiful heron.”

  “Cool. Did you get a picture of it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, look.”

  “This is a film camera. I won’t know until I get it developed.”

  “Boy, that’s a bummer.”

  3

  Our destination is the Loop Road Environmental Center. We pull in a little after one. I’m waiting for the others to gather their stuff when through the front windshield I see a guy. He’s in a shed beyond the screened-in building marked Dining Hall, working on the engine of a small airboat: one with two seats, not benches like the one at the Miccosukee place. He turns to watch the bus unload, and I guess he’s about fifteen. He’s tall—taller than the boys on this trip, and a lot cuter. His hair is straight, dark brown with long bangs that fall over one eye. He pushes them aside and shields his eyes against the sun.

  I watch him until everyone else gets off, then I step down and look around, smiling as if I’m happy to be here. I wait a moment before I let myself glance in his direction. He’s moved into the sunlight and is staring at me. I’m getting used to that, but his is a nice kind of stare, and I feel the blood rush to my face. I turn away, hoist my duffel bag, and walk straight toward our assigned cabin. Just before I start up the steps, I sneak a final peek. He’s working on the airboat again, so his back is to me.

  The cabin is pitch black compared to outside, which means I have to stand in the doorway and wait for my eyes to adjust. The other girls were shrieking and laughing when I came up the steps, but now they stop and stare.

  “What?” I throw my duffel and sleeping bag onto an upper bunk by the door, since they’ve taken all the bottom bunks.

  “Nothing,” one of the Amandas says. She’s giving Brittany a French braid.

  This Amanda is the bell-cow. Mom says in every herd there’s a lead cow, and they put a bell on her so when she moves and her bell rings the others follow. Mom says I should try to make friends with the bell-cows at school. I’m not having much luck with that.

  They’re in their bras and panties, changing into designer swamp-tromping outfits for this afternoon’s field trip. I don’t feel like getting undressed in front of them, so I go back outside to sit on the top step to wait. They start to whisper as soon as I’m out the door. I can’t make out what they’re saying except that’s it about me.

  I’m plucking leaves off the vine that’s growing up the banister when they come out in an all-blonde triangle— the bell-cow in the lead, followed by the other Amanda, Brittany and Courtney. Courtney bumps me as they troop down the stairs but doesn’t say sorry, kiss my butt or anything. The idea of an entire weekend trapped here with them makes me want to scream or cry or both. They glance back and giggle. I tell myself I don’t care enough about them to get my feelings hurt. I only wish it worked that way.

  Mr. Vickers told us to meet in front of the dining hall at two for the field trip to a sanctuary across the road to see the endangered banded tree snail. It makes me feel sorrier for myself to know that even snails have a safe haven.

  I come out of the hot cabin in a pair of my mother’s shorts, one of my brother’s T-shirts, and the long-sleeved denim shirt of my dad’s tied around my waist. The AABCs watch me cross the yard with their heads bunched together like they have magnets for brains.

  I must be the last one, because Mr. Vickers smiles and starts walking toward the gate. The others form a clump behind him as we cross the Loop Road and enter the sanctuary.

  The trail is narrow and mostly crushed shell like the levees are made of. The low spots are muddy from the recent rains but easy to step over or around. We form a single file behind Mr. Vickers, the boys in the front, the AABCs, then me. Mr. Vickers is using binoculars to try to find a snail.

  “This is a hardwood hammock,” he says. “And these snails are arboreal except when depositing their eggs in leaf mulch. Who can tell me what arboreal means?”

  I know the answer is up trees, but my hands are busy trying to wave off our welcoming committee. I didn’t soak myself with bug spray again after changing clothes, so the mosquitoes are biting through my T-shirt. I untie Dad’s shirt and put it on, which doesn’t protect my bare legs. The whining around my face makes me feel panicky. They’re even biting my eyelids.

  The bell-cow holds a low branch aside for the other Amanda and Brittany. Brittany takes it and holds it for Courtney, who holds it for me. Fool that I am, I move faster to catch up and say thanks at the instant she smiles and lets it go. It hits me in the forehead and across my left eye, which stings and begins to tear.

  “Oops. Sorry,” Courtney says. The AABs laugh and pat her back when she catches up with them.

  I’m not sure which is worse, the mosquitoes or the AABCs. I cover my stinging, watering eye with my hand, turn, and retrace the path until I’m out on the road again but still engulfed in a s
wirling cloud of insects. I start to run, but the mosquitoes follow me across the yard and up the cabin steps. I’m nearly in tears by the time I burst through the screen door and start to rip through my duffel bag, looking for my can of Deep Woods Off. I spray my face, hair, arms and legs. It’s bitter on my lips and stings where the branch hit me across the face—just the excuse I need to sit down heavily on a lower bunk and cry so hard I start to hiccup.

  I lie down and try to sleep, but it’s too hot inside the cabin and the thought that the AABCs could be back at any minute drives me outside again. There was a red squirrel in the yard when we drove in, much prettier than the scrawny gray ones we have in Miami, so I take the Leica with me.

  From the direction of the shed I hear a whirring, then the sputter of the airboat engine. I hang the camera around my neck and drift that direction, looking up into the branches of the oaks for the squirrel. Just past the last cabin, I spot it jamming acorns into its cheeks. I bring the camera to my eye and start to focus the lens.

  “They’re tame enough to take peanuts from your hand.”

  I whirl around.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The boy’s wiping his hands on a dirty towel.

  “You didn’t.” I’m tempted to say he’d have to get in line if he wants to be one of the things I’m scared of out here, but I don’t want him to think I’m a wimp. “You just startled me, that’s all.”

  “Good. You’re one in a million then. Most people get real jumpy when they’re in the Everglades, thinking there’s something deadly behind every blade of grass.”

  “Isn’t there?” I wait a second for his reaction, then smile.

  He laughs.

  It’s a great laugh.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of if you just watch where you’re walking and don’t turn nothing over with your bare hands.”

  I’m so used to Mom correcting my grammar I almost say, “anything over.” Instead I look at his filthy feet. “You’re not even wearing shoes.”

  “’Cause I watch where I’m walking.” He comes forward and sticks out his hand. “Name’s Andy.”

  In spite of how black with oil his hand is, I take it. “I’m Sarah. Sarah Emerson.”

  It’s silly, but for a moment, I have to fight the urge to say thank you. For the first time since I got on the bus this morning, someone besides Mr. Vickers is being nice to me.

  “Pretty name.”

  “I guess. It was my grandmother’s.”

  “Mine’s really Andrew Johnson Malone. Dad’s a Civil War nut.” He nods toward the Confederate flag hanging on the back wall of the shed.

  I’d noticed it earlier from the bus, but I didn’t want to assume anything. “That’s not a bad name,” I say. “Maybe you’re lucky he favored the South. You could be named Tecumseh Sherman Malone.”

  He laughs, and I feel myself blush. I’m not used to having people think I’m funny. “Do you live here?”

  “Yeah.” He points to the small house in the southeast corner of the property. “My parents kind of manage the place. What happened to your face?”

  I touch the welt on my forehead. “I ran into a tree limb.”

  He looks genuinely concerned. “Want me to get you some Bactine?”

  “It’s fine.” I move my head, and he drops his hand. “What are you doing to that airboat?”

  “Trying to fix it before Dad gets back from Miami. I was running it the other day and blew a gasket. He’s going to be pissed ’cause the last time I had it out, I did that.” He smiles sheepishly and points to the big patch on the bow. “Hit a tree stump.”

  Since I’ve never seen an airboat up close, I walk into the shed for a better look. The boat part is aluminum, about fourteen feet long, five feet wide, and flat on the bottom. Mounted on a scaffolding-like framework of metal bars, a few feet in from the stern, is a car engine, which turns a two-blade wooden propeller. A wire cage covers the engine, the propeller, and two vertical rudders. Also mounted on the metal framework is a small square platform with a seat bolted to it, and below it is another seat for a passenger. I know the top one is the driver’s since that’s where the key is to turn on the engine, but there’s nothing that looks like a steering wheel.

  “How do you steer it?”

  Andy steps up on the trailer tire, then onto the platform and sits in the driver’s seat. “These are the controls. This stick . . . ” he touches the right one, “is the throttle, and this one is how you steer.” He moves the left stick back and forth, which swings the rudders from side to side.

  “I’ve never been in an airboat, but it looks like fun.”

  “If I get it running, I’ll take you for a ride.”

  “Where do you take it?”

  “I usually put in just west of the Forty-Mile Bend. That’s where you turned off the trail to come here.”

  “How do you get it there?”

  “Hook the trailer to that truck.” He nods toward the old Dodge parked beside the shed. “And drive it over.”

  “You drive? How old are you?”

  “Fifteen. You?”

  “Almost fourteen. So you don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Nobody pays attention to stuff like that out here. Besides, it’s only out the Loop and another mile on the highway. I’ve been driving since I could reach the pedals.”

  There are a couple small branches caught in the wire cage near his head. Andy pulls them out, then climbs down and starts cleaning out the leaves and twigs that litter the floor of the airboat.

  “It sounds like fun, but there are field trips all day tomorrow, then back to Miami on Sunday.” I lean in and pick up the floor on my side.

  “I could show you more of the Everglades in an hour than you’ll see on a dozen field trips, and without getting your feet wet.” He glances at my sandals. “Hope you’ve got something else to wear.”

  “I do, but why?”

  “To slog in.”

  “What does that mean?” I don’t like the sound of the word.

  “The first field trip tomorrow is a wet one. They take you for a little walk in water about up to your chest.”

  “What about alligators and snakes?”

  “They post watchers. My parents, when they’re home, do that sometimes.”

  The last thing I want to do is actually get into the water. “Well, I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “If I should go with you or not.”

  “I just offered ’cause you said you’d never been. What’s the harm? I know my track record don’t look too good, but I’m really careful.” He glances at the shiny patch on the airboat. “Besides, you may never get another chance, except with a bunch of tourists.”

  “Well . . . ” I think of Amanda bragging about having her mother’s Visa card. It would be worth it just to see her face.

  “Mom’s a midwife, but if she don’t run off to deliver a baby, I could get her to make us a picnic, and I’ll take you to this really cool camp.”

  “You may not even get it fixed before we have to go back to Miami.”

  “If you say yes, I’ll have more incentive.” He smiles. He has straight teeth and very green eyes.

  I pretend to think about it for a minute. I can say no, and spend the whole weekend with the AABCs looking down their pug noses at me, or go and maybe have some fun.

  I glance at the moth-eaten Confederate flag. “What would your dad say?”

  “I don’t really care what he’d say. Are you good with that?” His eyes spark like my asking opens up other stuff with his father.

  “I guess I am if you are.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  I nod. “But don’t tell anybody. I’m not sure what excuse I’ll give my teacher.”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “Okay, then.” I look around. “I’ll need to wait until after they leave on their field trip.”

  “I’ll get it all set up, and we’ll rol
l out of here right behind them.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Nah.” He grins. “I about had it done anyway.”

  I walk back to my cabin, smiling to myself. This weekend may not be a total loss after all.

  4

  Early the next morning, the noise of the other girls getting ready for the field trip to the Fakahatchee Strand finally wakes me, but it takes someone poking me before I roll over and rub my eyes.

  “You coming?” the bell-cow asks.

  The others are waiting for her on the porch. They look like swamp Barbies, all dressed in khakis. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when they find out they’re going to get those cute little outfits all wet and muddy.

  I shake my head. “I have cramps.” I’ve always liked the sound of that as an excuse for getting out of things you don’t want to do, even though I’ve never had my period. I rub my stomach and squint as if I’m in pain.

  “Whatever.”

  I roll on my back and stare up at the cobwebby ceiling. “Have fun.” I turn my face to the wall so she won’t see me grin.

  “Is she going?” One of them asks.

  “No. She’s sick.” Amanda’s voice is sneery.

  “Big loss,” Brittany says.

  “What about our stuff?” Courtney says.

  “She wouldn’t dare,” the bell-cow says.

  I close my eyes. Maybe—with some luck—they’ll get eaten by alligators.

  I make myself breathe deeply and think about the day ahead instead of those twits. I listen to the shouts and racket of the kids boarding the bus and try to imagine the fun I’m going to have with the added bonus of not having them treat me like a leper.

  “Sarah?”

  Mr. Vickers is at the screen door.

  I try to look sick as I turn to face him. “Yes sir?”

  “Amanda says you’re not feeling well.”

  “No sir.”