Sharks & Boys

by Kristen Tracy

  “Wick, I think the universe has a plan for us.”

  “Wick, come over and I’ll let you eat marzipan off my body.”

  “Wick, one day I hope to have your babies. And you’re tall and I’m short and that’s going to hurt.”

  It’s such a good thing that Pam told me about the rubber-band principle. This breakup is hitting me like a wave. Two minutes ago I was reasonably okay. But now I’m not. Do not call Wick. Take a deep breath. Seek out some male perspective.

  “Enid, get out of my room.”

  Landon can be so annoying. As my brother, as my twin, he should want to talk to me. Even if it is six o’clock in the morning.

  “I didn’t sleep well,” I say.

  “I was doing fine until a few minutes ago.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  Landon pulls his comforter over his head and rolls onto his stomach. He leaves a shoulder uncovered, and I can see underarm hair sprouting out of his pit.

  “Have you talked to Wick? Did he tell you what happened?”

  He doesn’t answer. I always assume that silence means yes.

  “I don’t think it’s a permanent break. He said we’d talk next week. But I’m a little worried about this party.”

  I sit at the foot of his bed.

  “Don’t you have any advice?” I ask. “By the way, I’m crying.”

  Landon rolls onto his back and pushes his comforter down so he can see my face.

  “Don’t cry,” he says.

  I wasn’t crying, but I frown dramatically so he thinks I’m more despondent than desperate. I want him to tell me everything he knows.

  “So you think it’s not permanent either?” I ask.

  He props himself up on his elbows. His hair is lying on top of his head in a flat brown mess. Somehow sleep has unwound his curls.

  “I have no idea what’s going on with Wick.”

  “So he hasn’t mentioned any other girls?”

  Landon doesn’t say anything.

  “Has he been talking about Simone? Because that would be so stupid. She lives hundreds of miles away. Maybe she’d be good for a fling or something. But with the price of gas these days, there’s no way that she’s girlfriend material, right?”

  Landon falls back onto his bed.

  “It’s too early for this,” he says.

  “So you think he’ll have a fling?” I ask.

  “You sound like Mom,” he says.

  I bite my lip and suck on it. I’m pretty much a normal teenager, and I don’t want to sound like my mother. Especially since mine is in the throes of a deeply dysfunctional relationship that even counseling doesn’t seem capable of setting right.

  “Who uses the word ‘fling’ anymore? You’re asking me if Wick would hook up with a hot girl who has long-standing interest in him? I guess it’s possible.”

  To my surprise, now I really am crying.

  “Don’t say that.” I let the tears run down my face.

  “I’m just being honest,” he says.

  “But if he did do that, if he hooks up with Simone, maybe he and I could still work things out, right?”

  “Is that what you’d want?”

  “I love him,” I say. “I really do.”

  Landon sits up. He blinks at me. “Enid, you’re too young to love a guy.” He grabs a tissue from a box beside his bed and hands it to me. “It hurts now, but you’ll move through it. It’s part of life.”

  “Or we could get back together,” I say.

  “You’re thinking like a girl, Enid.”

  “I am a girl.”

  “Try to think like a guy.”

  I shake my head. “But I’m not attracted to Simone.”

  Landon scratches his head and yawns.

  “Listen, the thing about guys is, well, we’re animals. You want us to be all kind and cuddly, like baby ducks or something. But we’re not. We’re visual beasts.”

  “So you’re saying Simone looks better than I do?”

  “You’re thinking like a girl again. I can safely speak for all straight guys when I say that when it comes to the female population, we really like to look, and we’re always tempted to pursue.”

  “You’re not helping me at all,” I say.

  Landon unleashes another yawn. I feel like I’m boring him. And that hurts too.

  “Enid, you need to give him space. Dudes love space.”

  “But if I give him too much space, he’ll leave my orbit.”

  “Your orbit? You can’t control what happens. If Wick moves on, Wick moves on. And you’ll meet somebody else. You’re a great catch, Enid. You’re nice. You bake cakes. You’re smart. You swim.”

  Landon has no clue what a brokenhearted girl wants to hear. I ignore much of what he just said and roll down onto my side. “But it hasn’t even been a whole day yet. Has he told you he’s moving on?”

  He shakes his head no. “I’m just thinking like a guy.”

  “He can’t.”

  “He’s a guy. He’s going to move on.”

  “God, Landon, you make it sound like you’re all apex predators. You’re wrong about a lot of things. First, I don’t bake cakes; I decorate them. Second, Wick is not moving on. Third, I saved a llama yesterday and that makes me more than a good catch; it makes me brave and totally interesting.”

  He lies back down.

  “Enid, I don’t want to argue with you. I accept point one. And I caution you against deluding yourself by believing point two. And I saw point three on the news last night. That’s too bad.”

  “What do you mean that’s too bad? What do you have against llamas?”

  “It died.”

  “No, that’s not the story. It almost died and then I helped save it.”

  “After that, it died. I saw it late last night on the news.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” he says. He buries his head under his pillow. “Go online and see for yourself.”

  I hurry to his computer desk and open up his laptop.

  “Can’t you check it out in your room?” he asks.

  I ignore him. I Google: llama rescue in Burlington, Vermont. The stories pop up. I click onto the first link. He wasn’t lying. The llama did die.

  “Its name was Pilsner Urquell,” I say. “His owner said he was twenty-two and died of natural causes. Or possibly exhaustion.”

  “Twenty-two is a lot of years for a llama.”

  I didn’t save anything. I’m not a hero. Nothing about me is special. I’m a nice high school junior who decorates cakes and swims. This makes me freaking dull.

  I close his laptop and get ready to leave. I’ve got an entire lame day ahead of me. I have marzipan to arrange and a wedding cake to assemble. I pat Landon’s computer. It didn’t mean to deliver soul-crushing news.

  “Are you hitting my laptop?” Landon asks.

  “No.”

  And it’s at this moment that I see the symbol of my relationship with Wick lying on Landon’s desk like a sign. It’s a rubber band. I pick it up. I place my index fingers inside it and stretch it out. I make it taut. I hold it that way and stare into it like I’m looking at my own heart. I mimic Wick’s flight and pull one of my fingers away from the other. And then it happens. The band snaps. It sails away. My hand stings so badly that I rub it against my pajama bottoms. I reach to pick the elastic up. But I can’t find it. Oh my God. There’s a message in this. Too much tension can break the band, thus resulting in a broken piece of rubber that can totally zoom out of your life and disappear.

  I’m about to get on my knees and try to recover my tragic symbol, when I notice something else. It’s a second sign, nestled in a wire basket sitting on top of Landon’s desk. It’s directions to the party. I touch the paper and trace my finger south along I-87. All of a sudden, this amazing energy crawls up my hand and arm. This must be how people who get struck by lightning feel. (Minus the singed hair, scorched clothing, and burned flesh.)

  I fee
l as though I’ve been led to these papers by a higher source. It’s like the story of Moses being found in the bulrushes, or swamp, or wherever. Just like the woman who was guided to find the baby in the basket and save his life, I’ve been led to find these pieces of paper in this basket and save my relationship with Wick. I feel a deep gratitude for both MapQuest and the Bible classes my grandmother took me to as a child.

  As I lift the pages out of the basket, I look back at Landon. His comforter rises and falls. He’s sleeping. He won’t know that I’ve taken them. Careful to avoid making any noise, I slowly fold the papers into a square and stick them inside my back pocket. With my breath held, I back out of Landon’s doorway, and cautiously close the door as I go.

  Walking past the kitchen, I unfortunately see my father. He’s at the table by himself, drinking coffee. I quicken my pace. Currently, I’m avoiding him. This is due to reasons that I have yet to disclose to anyone, because they reflect poorly on me as a human being. I guess it’s safe to say that my father is not the only one living down a mistake.

  “Enid?” he says.

  I basically run to the bathroom and lock the door. I hear him walking down the hallway. I turn the shower on full blast. He knocks. His thuds sound urgent.

  “We’re going to have to talk about this sooner or later,” he says.

  Um, if that’s a choice, I select later. He knocks again. Even his knocking sounds disappointed with me. And that’s not fair. Because what right does he have to be disappointed with me? He’s the one who set everything in motion. He made the storm. All I’m trying to do now is weather the sea. Given all the drama he’s introduced to my life, I’m bound to make a few mistakes. I close the toilet and sit on the lid.

  “There’s better ways to handle this,” he says. “Calling her and saying those things doesn’t solve anything. This isn’t her fault.”

  He didn’t need to tell me that. I know the phone call wasn’t a solution. There is no solution to this problem. Plus, I’m one of those people who’s always in touch with her failings. I pick up a shampoo bottle and try to read the ingredients. It’s not much of a distraction, but I need something. First I lose Wick. Then the llama dies. And now my father is trying to force a confrontation with me about a situation that I have no desire to discuss. I toss the shampoo bottle into the tub. Then I press down on the handle and flush the toilet.

  “I’m late for work. Honey, we’ll talk tonight,” he says.

  I don’t say anything. I mean, whatever. Who works on a Saturday? And why is he calling me honey? He hasn’t earned that. Don’t you have to forgive somebody before they can start referring to you by pet names? Isn’t this a rule that’s well documented in etiquette columns across nearly all civilizations? I hear the front door slam shut. Rather than turn off the shower, I decide to take one.

  Naked and lonely, I step into the warm flood of water. As much as I want to, I don’t think I can abandon my mother and run off to Maryland to stop this stupid party. The reasons are infinite. I don’t have a car. I’m somewhat of a coward. The wedding is big. I’m responsible. I love my mother, and the event isn’t something she can handle alone. And how does one go about stopping a party anyway?

  “Lift with your knees,” my mother says.

  “Don’t you mean your legs? How do you lift with your knees?” I ask.

  Gary, one of the groomsmen, has offered to help us haul in all five tiers of the cake. My mother is instructing him on the proper way to carry it. I feel itchy. Eager to improve my mood, my mother suggested that I wear a skirt while we were getting ready this morning. Normally I wear black pants to help her set up for receptions. The skirt is like nothing I would ever wear; it’s white. And embossed with a countless number of fleurs-de-lis. I look like a fancy handkerchief. I miss my pants, which I surrendered way too easily on the heels of the following conversation:

  Her: “Why not dress up? Weddings are great places to meet people.”

  Me: “By people do you mean men?”

  Her: “I’ve got a skirt that will fit you perfectly and really show off your slim waist.”

  Me: “For work, I find skirts limiting. We’re going to be setting up. There’ll be a ton of lifting and bending.”

  Her: “It’s not like factory labor. And a new man is a great way to get over the last man.”

  Me: “Give me the skirt.”

  Her: “I’ve got classy heels to go with it.”

  Me: “Are they white?”

  Her: “What else would you wear with a white skirt?”

  Me: “I’m going to feel like a nurse.”

  Her: “But with the right blouse, you sure won’t look like one.”

  Which is how I ended up in this itchy, man-catching getup. That’s one of the strange things about my mother. Because she’s saddled to a bad one, she resents men, yet she deeply believes that every woman needs one to be complete. I think my mother might actually be a misogynist.

  I watch Gary steady the lowest and biggest tier of the cake on the bumper of my mother’s new Subaru. The frosting is so close to the ridge of the trunk that it will almost inevitably get smeared and need a touch-up. I look at my mother. She isn’t breathing. I look back to Gary. He has a goatee and is an awkward guy, not the kind of person you can totally trust with a wedding cake. Had we been characters in a situation comedy, Gary would have already stumbled over his patent leather shoes and planted his face in the cake’s perfect center.

  “Have you got it?” my mother asks.

  “All set,” he says.

  He hefts it up over his head like a waiter lifts a tray, and walks into the reception hall.

  “Gary is going to give me a stroke,” my mother says.

  “I’ll take the fourth tier. You take the third. We’ll beat him back here and take the second and first ourselves,” I say. “That way we take Gary out of the picture.”

  My mother smiles. “Good.”

  Usually I like carrying cake. It smells good and requires your full attention. The cake is at your mercy. You’ve got to stay balanced and focused and aware of its delicately iced boundaries. But carrying cake today makes me feel like a drag. I’m boring. Even Gary doesn’t seem interested in me. And I look incredible today; he should totally be interested in me. But he’s not. Also, it’s no fun carrying cake while wearing uncomfortable heels.

  After dropping off our tiers, my mother and I manage to beat Gary back to the car.

  “I bet there are guys more suited for you inside,” my mom says.

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t need a guy.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Isn’t the ratio in Canada better? If I ever get desperate, shouldn’t I hightail it north?” I ask.

  We hear a shuffling sound, and both jump, fearing Gary’s return. But it’s a gray squirrel.

  “When Gary touches the cake, I can sense its demise,” my mother says. “Here’s an idea. You take the top. And bring in the marzipan.”

  We’ve already unloaded everything else: the lace doilies, the water fountain, the napkins, etcetera. Landon and the guys left for the party two hours ago. The directions are in my purse. I know I can’t go, but my urge to follow them to Ocean City hasn’t subsided. The idea of Wick hooking up with Simone makes my vision blur.

  I can’t believe Landon was honest with me about that possibility. Doesn’t he know that’s the sort of thing I’m prone to obsess over? Does he have no twin connection with my sensibilities whatsoever? Why couldn’t he have been a decent brother and lied?

  Gary comes and stands beside me. I can feel his warmth, and smell his musky cologne. Why make a product designed to mimic the scent of an herbivorous furry land mammal that seldom bathes?

  “You need help?” he asks. “I’ve got arms.”

  “I’m good,” I say.

  He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over his shoulder, revealing his round belly.

  “My brother is the groom,” he says.

  “Neat,” I say, sounding
way more enthusiastic than a normal person. I don’t want to say anything offensive to the relative of a customer. When we get any sort of complaint on the comment cards, my mother freaks.

  “At first they were going to go to the Bahamas for their honeymoon, but now they’re headed to Virginia Beach. Financial limitations.”

  I stop unloading the cake and force myself to have a conversation with Gary-the-groomsman.

  “I’ve heard good things about Virginia Beach,” I say. I have never heard anything about Virginia Beach.

  “Because of the storm they might delay it,” Gary says. “They’ve got fluid arrangements with their hotel.”

  “That’s the way to go,” I say. If my future husband suggested taking me to Virginia Beach for our honeymoon with “fluid arrangements” for our hotel, I would ditch him at the altar. My parents honeymooned in Hawaii. Their photo album is packed with snapshots of them in swimsuits, standing next to palm trees, sipping on tall drinks decorated with colorful paper umbrellas and pineapple chunks. My mother said it was one of the best times of their marriage.

  Gary winks at me. I guess he is interested in hitting on me after all. I bet it’s the skirt. “You must love cake,” he says. “Or are you around it so much that you hate it?”

  “I like it.”

  “I could never be a baker. I’m a security guard. I guess we’re all built with different engines.” He points to his chest and makes a grinding noise. “I like risk.”

  I smile, and surrender the top tier of cake to him. “Cool.”

  “Everything okay?” my mother calls. I glance up the cement walkway to see her standing in the door.

  “We’re good,” I say.

  She’s only a few car lengths away, but she looks so small. And worried.

  “We should hurry,” I say. “I’ll get the marzipan.”

  Gary carefully slides his hand underneath the stiff cardboard rounder and balances the cake in the palm of his hand.

  “Marzipan. So what’s that stuff made out of? Paper pulp?”

  I ignore him.

  “Plaster of Paris? Eggs?”

  “Nuts, Gary.”