The View from the Top

by Hillary Frank

  “Some of these people I don’t want to be looking at anyway.”

  “Yeah, I know. I think I just passed my mailman.”

  “Eew,” Mary-Tyler said. “See any hotties yet?”

  “No,” Anabelle said. “Okay, maybe one. But I’m starting to think guys are hotter without all their junk hanging out.”

  “Yeah, like that guy over there,” Mary-Tyler said, trying to inconspicuously point at the guy in the shades leaning against the rocks, chatting up the tall, thin woman wearing only a visor. The guy’s chest was so smooth, it looked like it had been waxed. And his pubic hair had definitely been waxed. “Nasty!” Mary-Tyler whispered, hunching over to Anabelle’s ear. “Why would you shave your pubes?”

  “Oh jeez,” Anabelle said, tugging at Mary-Tyler’s arm and picking up her pace. “That guy used to date my ex’s mom! How come I know everyone here?”

  Mary-Tyler snuck another look at the guy. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t place what. And then, he caught her looking. He stopped talking to the visor woman and looked straight at Mary-Tyler. He lifted his sunglasses, and the way his eyes scanned her body, it was as if he could see right through her towel, her bathing suit. It was flattering and gross all at once. Wait a minute, she thought. That’s the pool guy! Suddenly all of the flattery was gone and it was nothing but gross.

  “Stop staring!” Anabelle whispered emphatically. “You have to be more subtle!”

  “Sorry,” Mary-Tyler said. “I thought I knew that guy from somewhere.” Remember, she told herself, don’t let on that you have a pool.

  “Him?” Anabelle said. “I don’t want to know how you know him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s, like, the town sleazeball. He struts around the beach—the regular beach—in this little black Speedo. And he hits on pretty much everyone.”

  “Oh,” Mary-Tyler said. “I guess that’s why I recognized him. From the beach or something.”

  She turned around to see if the guy was still giving her that creepy look. Thankfully, he was back to Visor Woman. But a bunch of other people were watching her. “Hey,” she said, tapping Anabelle’s shoulder. “I’m getting this weird feeling. Like we don’t belong here.”

  “Sorry. Was this a bad idea?”

  “No, I’m just feeling like we’re calling attention to ourselves because we’re the only ones with clothes on.”

  “I know. I’m feeling the same thing,” Anabelle said.

  “Like we’re the ones revealing something about ourselves.” She stopped in her tracks and turned on her heels. “Maybe we should change that?”

  “What, take off our clothes? Really?”

  “I don’t know.” Anabelle shifted her feet in the wet sand. “I mean, we must look like a couple of wusses. And maybe that’s what I am. But I’m sick of being a wuss! You know what I mean?”

  “Okay,” Mary-Tyler said tentatively. Her skin tingled and tightened. “I’m in if you’re in.”

  “Okay.”

  They stood there, staring at each other.

  Then Anabelle turned her back to Mary-Tyler. She removed her shirt and shorts and, in a flash, her bra and underwear were off, too.

  Mary-Tyler, realizing she was the only person left on the beach with clothes, turned her back to Anabelle and quickly threw her towel down and stripped off her bathing suit. She paused for a second, then turned back around and found that Anabelle was facing her already.

  They both made awkward eye contact, clearly trying not to look below each other’s chins.

  “Okay, so, um, I guess we keep walking?” Mary-Tyler said, picking up her towel and suit. She kept telling herself to stop sneaking looks at Anabelle’s body, which she now saw was much more elegant-looking, much more perfect and compact than it had appeared in her baggy clothes. Her back was pale and gleaming, with a couple wide strap marks framing her freckled shoulders where a tank top must’ve masked her skin from the sun.

  Mary-Tyler bundled up her towel and suit in front of her chest. She felt as if her breasts were screaming out to the world, Look at us! We’re globes! She had expected this to be easier; the models at the Sculpture Studio in New York sure made it look like it was nothing.

  “You know,” Anabelle said, not looking up at Mary-Tyler.

  “If we go in the water, we’ll be covered up but still naked.”

  Mary-Tyler looked out at the ocean. It was vast, bottomless. The thought of going in there made her knees lock up. “Go ahead if you want,” she told Anabelle.

  “Can you swim?”

  “Yeah, it’s not that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I don’t... I don’t know.” She really didn’t. All she knew was that the more she watched the water, the more the world around her was blending into a milk shake.

  “Okay.” Anabelle shrugged. “Well, feel free to join me if you want.” She tossed her suit behind her and plowed into the water.

  Mary-Tyler suddenly felt very alone and very naked. She really wanted to go in. So what was her problem?

  As she watched Anabelle riding waves, the water rolled in over Mary-Tyler’s feet, pulling them deeper and deeper into the sand. Seaweed swirled around her ankles and the undertow tugged at the backs of her legs, stinging the shaving cuts on her heels.

  That was it: the undertow.

  A memory flashed into Mary-Tyler’s mind. A memory of being five years old at the beach. She’d separated from her parents, gone off to hang out at the shoreline by herself. There was a boy who looked like a young Luke Skywalker wading in up to his waist. She’d wanted to get a better look at him, so she’d walked into the water. She’d gotten out to where he was, and then—bam!—a wave smashed her over the head, toppling her over into an unplanned somersault. Her nose had filled with water. Her ears, her mouth. She was sure this was what it felt like to die.

  And she hadn’t gone in the ocean since. Not past her knees, anyway.

  Imagining herself dying from her razor, from a kitchen tool, from the pool, felt totally different from potentially dying in the ocean. Out here, she’d have no control over how far the fantasy would go; she couldn’t stop it like she had this morning in the pool. But she was going to die someday and maybe this was exactly the right way to go. On an adventure with her new friend.

  She dropped her bathing suit and towel. And before she knew it, she was running. In slow motion. As if she were pedaling a bike uphill.

  “Hey, you’re in!” Anabelle shouted when Mary-Tyler made it up to her neck.

  Water dripped over Mary-Tyler’s lips and she licked it. It was salty. Saltier than sweat. Just the taste made her stomach tumble. “This is as far as I want to go, though,” she said. “My feet can still touch the ground.”

  “Not for long,” Anabelle said. A wave gently lifted Mary-Tyler’s toes off the sand. The water was freezing cold and she could hear herself breathing inside her head.

  “Relax,” Anabelle said. “Let the waves carry you.”

  “It is sort of nice,” Mary-Tyler admitted, her body buoyant from the thrill of doing something she thought might kill her. “Having the water touch you directly, you know? Feeling the waves pass over you.”

  “Yeah, they kinda tickle as they go,” Anabelle said.

  “Totally different from being in here with a suit on.”

  Off past the buoys, Mary-Tyler saw a wave building. But it wasn’t smooth like the other waves they’d been riding. This one was high with a frothing peak. And it was heading right toward them.

  “I have to get out,” Mary-Tyler said, feeling as if her body was made of bricks. “I can’t go over that one. It’s too much.”

  “You don’t go over those,” Anabelle said. “You go through them.”

  “Through them? That’s even worse!”

  “No, those are the best. They give you a huge rush.”

  “I can’t,” Mary-Tyler said. Her legs went stiff and she started sinking. She held her breath as her nose went under
water. This was it. It was over.

  Then there was Anabelle’s arm around her back, lifting her to the surface.

  And the wave gathering speed.

  And Anabelle saying, “Okay, on the count of three. Take a deep breath and dive through.”

  One ... two ...

  And the gasping for a last breath of air.

  ...three.

  Mary-Tyler ducked into the curling wall of water. Anabelle’s hand was at the small of her back, guiding her through. The water yanked her backward, but she pushed on ahead, kicking her legs.

  After a few seconds, the force subsided and her head popped out into the warm air. “We made it!” she shouted. Her heart was knocking on the inside of her chest, as if it were the police at a suspect’s door.

  “Of course we made it! I told you we would,” Anabelle said, her cheeks rosy and glistening with salt water. “See? I can be your sides of the pool to grab onto.”

  Mary-Tyler’s throat felt raw, but in a good, alive sort of way. She couldn’t stop laughing. It had been so long since she’d laughed, her laughter sounded like a foreign language.

  “It seems like you liked it,” Anabelle said.

  “It was totally rad! My head’s all spinny and like it’s made of cotton candy!” Mary-Tyler’s heart started to return to its normal pace, and for the first time since she got to this beach, she felt free to look all around her. Down at their bodies, distorting under the rippling water like a cubist painting. Back at the specks of people on even tinier specks of sand. Up at the darkening sky, sprayed with a smattering of just-starting-to-sparkle stars.

  Anabelle pinched Mary-Tyler’s arm hard. “Get ready, here comes another.”

  “Oh shit, you’re right.”

  This time Mary-Tyler joined in with the counting. By the time they got to three, the wave was just about to crash over their heads.

  Together they inhaled, closed their eyes, and dove through, headfirst.

  { The VIEW from the TOP}

  anabelle seulliere

  Anabelle’s last night in Normal was an evening of why nots.

  Why not have funnel cake, a soft pretzel, and a Sno-Kone for dinner; why not finally take on her dad’s challenge with the strongman mallet, even though she knew she was going to lose; and why not go for one final ride with him on the Ferris wheel?

  Well, this “final” ride would actually just be her second. The only other time she’d gone on the Ferris wheel was also with her dad. She was seven, and it had been a disaster. She’d actually really liked it until they’d hit the top, when she’d looked down and realized how far up they were. And after that, she’d turned into an ice sculpture, holding her breath for practically the entire rest of the ride. Ever since then, she hadn’t had the guts to go on it—or any other rides that took you up high. Which basically left the Scrambler and Scat. Unless you counted kiddie rides like the carousel and the Tipsy Teacups.

  But tomorrow she was going to college. Tomorrow she’d be a new person. So why not be a person who didn’t freak out over stupid little things like going on the Ferris wheel. Right? Why not?

  “I’m so proud of you for taking this risk, Annie,” her dad said as the ride operator locked them into their basket. “But I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised.” He nudged her with one of his big bony elbows. “You’ve always been bold under that shy exterior. Anyone can see it, from how you tickle those ivories!” He ran his long spidery fingers up and down the front of their basket as if playing the piano.

  The operator went back to the controls and their basket got pushed back one position, just above the heads of the people walking by.

  “Da-ad,” Anabelle moaned. It always embarrassed her when he went on about her shyness. She hoped the operator hadn’t been listening. “Just don’t make a big deal out of this, okay? Otherwise maybe I’ll flip out this time, too.”

  But before she could even think about what it would be like to rise any higher, there was a loud clanking sound beneath them. Anabelle looked down and saw a guy shoving another guy up against the fence that surrounded the Ferris wheel. And then the guy doing the shoving—the one with the shiny black shirt unbuttoned halfway down his exposed chest—punched the other guy.

  It sounded like a rock hitting a beanbag, only with something crunchy inside.

  The guy who’d gotten punched cried out in pain and looked up, holding his nose. There was something familiar about his face, but Anabelle wasn’t sure if she knew him. Then he let go of his nose, and even with the blood gushing over his mouth and a freshly shaven head, Anabelle could tell: it was Jonah. He looked so weird without any hair.

  The exposed-chest guy—Anabelle now realized it was creepy Steve, who used to date Matt’s mom—grabbed Jonah by his collar and yelled something Anabelle couldn’t quite make out. Something about Jonah fucking around with his woman?

  Huh? What woman? Had Steve been doing it with a high school girl?

  “Hey, cool it, Mack!” her father shouted down at Steve. He called all men whose names he didn’t know Mack.

  Anabelle shushed her dad. She just wanted the ride to continue and be over with, but the operator was frozen at the switch, watching the fight unfold.

  The line for the Ferris wheel dispersed and a ring formed around Jonah and Steve. Behind the crowd, people were shooting darts at balloons, balls into baskets, and water guns at tiny round targets. Anabelle always found it strange to see grown men compete so vigorously at games, just to win hard stuffed animals for their dates.

  Steve kept screaming obscenities, his wiry slicked-back hair shaking into his crimson face, while Jonah pinched his bloody nose and tilted his head toward the sky. “She came on to me, okay!” he yelled. “Did she ever tell you that part?” Who were they talking about? Anabelle ran through her head all of the girls she knew Jonah had dated. She couldn’t imagine any of them sleeping with Steve. Not even that slutty college girl he’d had a one-night stand with last summer.

  Maybe there was someone new. Someone Jonah had hooked up with in the last couple weeks since Anabelle had stopped hanging out with him. Even though it had been her decision not to pursue things, it made her sad to think he’d found someone else so quickly.

  “What were you thinking?” Steve shouted. “Aren’t there enough girls your own age?”

  Jonah’s own age? So this person was older? Anabelle remembered him saying something about needing advice from Jeanie about some mysterious older woman. Who could it be, though? Some girlfriend of Steve’s? That didn’t really narrow it down. He seemed to have a different one every time Anabelle saw him.

  Steve stuck his face up in Jonah’s and said something that was hard to make out. Something about finally finding love. Jonah fucking it all up.

  “Wait, wait, wait, let go, okay?” Jonah pleaded. “Let me just explain.”

  Steve backed off a little but kept holding Jonah’s collar.

  “It was her idea, that’s the truth. I told her we had to cool it, it wasn’t going to work. And then she kept after me. Like, every time I was over there. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Say no. Walk away. That’s what.” Steve reared his fist back as if getting ready to punch Jonah again.

  Jonah winced. “I swear, I’m not gonna let it happen any—”

  Just then, another guy came charging through the crowd and grabbed Steve by the shoulders. Anabelle couldn’t hear what this new guy was saying, but from his tone she could tell it was vicious. This guy had curly hair—a boy version of hers—and it shook as he spoke to Steve. Hang on, she knew those shaking curls. They had to be Tobin Wood’s.

  She remembered suddenly that Tobin was Steve’s son. It was hard for her to imagine that the two of them shared DNA; Tobin was so sweet and awkward. Plus, she never saw them in the same place at the same time because Steve never showed up for Tobin’s concerts.

  Steve yelled something unintelligible at Tobin and he backed off, surrendering with his hands in the air. Then he looked around as if he were lost at
a fork in the road and couldn’t figure out which direction to go. There was no line for the Ferris wheel, and he made his getaway through the entrance, dashing into the empty basket. The one right in front of Anabelle.

  The ride operator ran up to the basket and Tobin handed him something—probably a ticket. Tobin’s basket was the last one to be filled, and once he was set, the ride started inching backward.

  “Wild Wild Life” was blasting on the WhirrrlyWorld speakers. They’d been playing the Talking Heads for three songs in a row, and Anabelle was glad: the Talking Heads always made her feel like dancing no matter what mood she was in. Even so, it was hard to trick herself into feeling happy. She was still stuck on trying to figure out who this older woman was.

  Her mind was an ice-skater, racing ‘round and ’round, just like Anabelle did out on Saco Pond every winter. She whizzed by different women’s names—no, too young . . . too old . . . not pretty enough—until she stumbled upon one that seemed to fit all the criteria. This name was like that inevitable bump in the ice that would always trip Anabelle up; once she knew it was there, she’d avoid skating over it at all costs. But the quicker her head worked, the more frequently that name came up and she couldn’t help slamming into it and careening out across the pond’s black, slippery surface.

  There was no getting around it: this was a person who had dated Steve. A person whose house Jonah went to all the time.

  And this was a person who had discouraged Anabelle from pursuing Jonah. Maybe for more reasons than she had let on?

  The basket rose and Anabelle focused on the top of

  Tobin’s head, forcing all Jonah-related thoughts from her mind. It was sort of thrilling to be able to see Tobin from this perspective—to watch him without him seeing her.

  “That poor kid,” her dad said loudly, because that was the only volume he spoke at. “To have a father like that. Such a shame.”

  “Dad,” Anabelle scolded. “He’ll hear you!” She wondered if Tobin had heard, but he didn’t look up. Part of her wished he’d notice she was there, that he’d see she was wearing his red hoodie. The one he’d thrown at her that night of the Cabaret cast party. That night out on the trampoline, when he’d played her the slow movement of Schubert’s Piano Trio in B-flat. She’d taken the recording out of the library and taught herself the piano part imagining that someday, if Tobin ever talked to her again, they could play the piece together.