Sharks & Boys

by Kristen Tracy

  “Nuts?”

  “Nuts,” I repeat.

  “Nice.”

  I offer no facial reaction.

  “So, do you like to bowl?”

  “Bowl?”

  “Yeah, you do it with a ball. And your hand.” Gary holds up his hand and stretches out his fingers.

  “No,” I say. “I have delicate hands.” Two days ago getting asked out by Gary would have been an impossibility. I had a boyfriend. Now I’m an available person, and it’s like he can smell it.

  “They seem to get the job done,” he says, pointing to the cake.

  I swallow hard and look up into the sky. I have such little patience for polite chat. Everyone else in my family is great at it. My mother can converse about anything with anyone. Landon likes to pepper people with questions about their interests. And my father—well, he seems good at creating friends and lovers everywhere he goes. My father. I don’t want to think about my father. I dread our upcoming conversation. There’s got to be a way I can avoid it.

  “How expensive would it be to rent a week in a youth hostel and just disappear for a while?”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing. I was thinking out loud.”

  “If you want to talk hostels, I’ve crashed in a lot of them. Find me inside. I’ll give you the scoop,” he says, winking at me again.

  Gary walks off, and I study his vanishing figure. What are the chances that I’ll end up with somebody like him? At first I think I’m asking myself a casual question. But the idea sticks. I watch the front door smack Gary on his butt as he kicks the rock we’d been using to prop open the main entrance. As he maneuvers himself inside, his jacket slides off his shoulder and gets caught in the door. Gary keeps going, leaving his suit jacket partway inside and partway outside. It’s like his own clothing is trying to escape the fate of being worn by him.

  I wonder how many types of men there are in the world. What happens if I let Wick go? What happens if I end up with a type Gary, a man who clocks in to his rent-a-cop job with soulful satisfaction?

  I’m overreacting. I know that. There are more than two types of guys in the world. For instance, my father is nothing like Gary or Wick. He’s gregarious and smart and athletic. If I could excise his impulse to carouse, he’d be almost perfect. I think back to when I was young and my father was actually perfect in my mind, before I knew the things I didn’t want to know. Now he is a basement dweller. I think of his face. His voice. “Honey, we’ll talk tonight.”

  I grab the box of marzipan from the back of the Subaru. I set it on the curb with such force that the cardboard flaps fly open. The wedding couple are wrapped in plastic and situated on the top. They have faces now, bright smiling, happy faces. Before I can think it through, I’m unwrapping them. What am I doing? Then it happens. Not because I want it to and not because I planned for it, but because sometimes things in life just happen.

  I bite the shoes off the groom. It only takes one snap of my jaw, and I’ve got a wad of almond paste in my mouth. I chew it like I’ve been poisoned, and marzipan tuxedo shoes are the only antidote. At his pant cuffs I can see my smooth teeth marks.

  Then I lift the bride to my mouth. I’m careful to take just her shoes and leave her delicate ankles intact. As I chew the marzipan, I try to swallow it fast. I want to digest it. I want it to become a part of me. I look at the de-footed bride. If you focus on her head, she doesn’t really seem that different. But if you zero in on her ankles, she looks like she’s been in some sort of unfortunate accident with a butter knife. I run my tongue along my teeth and smile. Take that, I think to the unnamed hordes of people out there who think I’m boring. I just did something crazy. I just did something stupid for no good reason at all. And I’m not finished either.

  I don’t try to mask my bite marks. I wrap the couple back up in the plastic and stick them in the box. Then I slam the trunk. The entranceway is empty. Everybody, including my mother, is tucked neatly inside the Sheraton. Now is my chance.

  I pull the directions out of the purse. Ocean City is over 500 miles away. It would be insane to do this. I put the directions back inside my purse. But my life already feels insane. I pull the directions back out. I’m ready to do something outside of what’s expected of me. And I want to do this. Because I have a great reason. I love Wick Jarboe, and I can stop him from making the worst mistake of his life. I throw open the car door and get inside. The keys are still in the ignition. If I wasn’t supposed to do this, the keys wouldn’t be here. That’s the rationale I use. All of the pieces have fallen into place. It’s destiny.

  It’s after midnight when I pull onto the party block. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I think I’ll look bad, and by that I mean emotionally unbalanced, if I immediately storm the house and start making demands on Wick. I should probably case things out and try to catch him doing something wrong first. I drum my hands on the steering wheel and think this over.

  I pick up my phone, which I muted outside Vergennes, and see that I’ve got fifteen missed calls from my mother, four from my father, and zero from Wick. Not even Landon has called me. I feel ridiculous. I toss the phone in the backseat.

  My head throbs. The only thing I’ve eaten today is the marzipan shoes and a bag of pretzels that I bought at a gas station along the way. I’d intended to buy a sandwich, but their refrigeration system was down, and the only lunch-type food available was nachos. I couldn’t bring myself to introduce a molten cheddar product into my mother’s new car. Her bucket seats are so immaculate, they’re virginal. Sadly, as much as I want to explore my risk-taking side, responsibility dominates my personality. Even while stealing a car.

  I park down the street. What next? I’ve seen people stalk other people on television dramas. I replay those scenes. The next step now seems obvious. Hunched over, I run down the sidewalk through puddles of light made by the streetlamps overhead. For the first time in my life, I wish I was shorter than five feet four. After passing several well-groomed hedges, I finally arrive at 2510 Hobart. A dog barks at me from across the street.

  I’ve already passed three signs alerting me that this street is protected by a Neighborhood Watch. I wonder if I look suspicious? A car passes by and I hurry into the back.

  Before I round the corner, I hear all their voices. They’re sitting in the backyard. I stay on the side of the house and crouch down in the grass.

  Burr: “She wants you.”

  Dale: “Dude, I know. She gave me two phone numbers. Her cell and her home.”

  Burr: “It’s almost desperate.”

  Landon: “She didn’t look desperate. She looked limber.” [Burr unleashes a howl that sounds like an excited dog.]

  Dale: “I know! How many Olympic gymnasts can a guy expect to meet in his life? Zero. I’m totally going to call her.”

  Wick: “When?”

  Dale: “I’ll wait three days. You always wait three days.”

  Munny: “You’ll be back in Vermont in three days. Maybe you should truncate your wait period.”

  Dale: “I’ll truncate you.”

  Landon: “Munny makes a good point. Why not just call her tomorrow?”

  Dale: “Maybe.”

  Burr: “Live a little. She’s a gymnast. She’s peaking right now. You’ll never get another shot like this.”

  Dale: “Dude, Skate, you haven’t washed your hand yet, right?”

  Skate: “Trust your wingman. Seven digits on this hand. Seven digits on this one. So even if I lose one of my hands, you’ll still have her number.”

  Dale: “Cool.”

  Sov: “Seven? Don’t you need her area code too?”

  Dale: “Shit. Do you have her area code?”

  Skate: “I’ve got that memorized. Four, four, three.”

  Dale: “Don’t forget that. This could turn into something.”

  Sov: “What’s her name?”

  Dale: “Um.”

  Wick: “You forgot her name already?”

  Dale: “
Shit.”

  Burr: “Concentrate on what she was wearing, and maybe it will come back to you.”

  Dale: “Skirt. Nice legs. Funky belt. She could actually lose the belt. A little too bohemian for me. Rack was decent. Natalie! Her name is Natalie.”

  Burr: “Good recall.”

  Dale: “Yeah. That was a boner-sustaining moment for me.”

  I hear the sound of a can cracking open. I’m disgusted. If somebody says all of the digits in Natalie-the-gymnast’s phone number, I am going to call her and warn her about Dale.

  Burr: “If I weren’t Mormon, I think I’d own a bar.”

  Landon: “Yeah, I’ve noticed that your faith totally seems to be stifling your lifestyle.”

  Burr: “And my future.”

  Dale: “It would be awesome if you owned a bar. What would you name it?”

  Burr: “The Thirsty Manatee.”

  Dale: “I’d drink there.”

  Munny: “If you don’t want to be Mormon, why don’t you quit? Take your life into your own hands while you’re still young.”

  [Long pause.]

  Skate: “It’s our heritage. It’s who we are.”

  Landon: “Let’s not get too serious.”

  Wick: “I came for a party.”

  Dale: “Dude, the Thirsty Manatee? Have you ever seen a manatee?”

  Skate: “Yeah, I’ve ridden Jet Skis off the coast of Florida. They’re everywhere. Like aquatic deer.”

  Dale: “What the hell are aquatic deer?”

  sov: “He’s saying that they’re plentiful.”

  Munny: “Jet Skis maim lots of sea life, manatees in particular.”

  Dale: “You’ve confused me for somebody who cares about the ass of a manatee.”

  Munny: “You’re right.”

  Wick: “This doesn’t really feel like a party.”

  Landon: “Yeah, it’s like I’m watching National Geographic.”

  Skate: “Let’s drink.”

  Burr: “Bring it.”

  Landon: “Hold the fort. I’m going to grab a jacket.”

  Dale: “Grab mine too. Hey. Maybe we should start a fire.”

  Burr: “We don’t have a pit.”

  Dale: “Minor setback. We could make one. And there’s a ton of wood around this place.”

  Wick: “Why don’t we put on jackets and wait to burn down the world until tomorrow night.”

  Skate: “That works.”

  Wick is so sensible. It’s one of his best qualities. But he’s got a lot of good qualities. One of my favorites is that he’s completely tuned in to other people. Once, to cheer me up, he made an amazing picnic lunch for me in Leddy Park. I’d just gotten a terrible grade on an English paper about Animal Farm. I tried to locate redeeming qualities in Squealer. Wick used a pig-shaped cookie cutter to mold a variety of cheeses into all the swine characters from the book. I ate those symbolic pigs and laughed harder than I’d ever laughed with another person.

  I lean back against the house and try to will my head not to ache. At the rate things are going, it could take hours before Wick does anything incriminating.

  “Man, look at the moon,” Skate says. “It looks just like a lemon wedge. I feel like I should write a poem about that moon.”

  Based on the e-zine, I’m not sure if Skate has poet potential. Is he sincere enough? Can he make his rhymes less lazy? Stop. Why am I being so mean? This is one of the last times I’ll be around him before he goes to college. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe I’m pushing him and Burr away. We don’t talk at all anymore. And we stopped talking way before the e-zine incident. I didn’t know how to handle things. I’d never lost anybody before. I was worried I’d say the wrong thing.

  “Write a poem about this moon,” Dale says.

  I hear the sound of a zipper followed by the clink of a belt buckle hitting the pavement. Laughter erupts. I don’t need to see what’s happening. Wick’s brother is notorious for mooning people, places, and things. Once, after pressing his pasty cheeks against the emergency exit window on the way home from school—as we passed an outdoor church brunch for widows—Dale was permanently banned from the school bus.

  I begin to pluck at the grass. I keep expecting to hear Simone’s dumb giggle float around the corner. But it truly seems to be a gathering of just guys. I’m ashamed. I didn’t do anything interesting; I just did something incredibly stupid. I guess it’s a fine line between the two. How will I explain things to my mother? What excuse can I possibly come up with for abandoning her and putting more than a thousand extra miles on her new car? I guess I can claim an illness. Like I thought my appendix was bursting, and I wanted to get to a really good hospital that specialized in that sort of thing. Or maybe I should keep thinking.

  But thinking makes me feel like throwing up. In a patch of wet grass, I lie down. I can’t listen to them drink beer and eat pizza all night. Shouldn’t I drive back? A charley horse is starting in my calf. I stand and hop on my right leg, trying to unkink the muscle in my left. Sadly, pumps are not a tight-fitting shoe. I watch the left shoe sail in the direction of the guys. I hunker down in the grass again. My shoe is not in clear view; it’s off to the side, still hidden in the darkness. But it’s so white it looks somewhat radioactive. Somebody drags a chair across the cement patio.

  “Well, boys, I think it’s time we visit Gretchen.”

  The gathering seems happy about this suggestion. More metal chair legs rub across the patio. Cheers and whistles mix with the unpleasant scraping sound.

  “I’ll get more beer,” offers Burr.

  “Who’s going to drive?” asks Sov. “You can’t drink and drive in my dad’s van.”

  I feel a little sorry for Sov and Munny. Sometimes I think Burr uses them. Dale too. Sov and Munny’s dad works as the assistant men’s basketball coach for the University of Vermont. They get free tickets to games and the chance to mingle with the players. Sometimes they share these perks with their friends. It’s pretty obvious that the guys enjoy basking in the cultural cachet that Mr. Paddington’s job extends to them. Sov and Munny aren’t too caught up in it, but Burr, Skate, and Dale love it.

  Sov and Munny don’t care about college sports. Their extracurricular interests are global and fall into two camps: political science and literature. Sov and Munny run this after-school group called the Culture Club, and it attracts all sorts of popular kids: cheerleaders, football players, drama freaks, class officers, the tennis team, stoners, etcetera. They read books. Mainly about philosophy and other cultures, I think. And they also eat foods that represent the philosophical idea or culture that they’re reading about.

  And the Culture Club has some pull. Both Robert Pinsky and George Saunders have written the club letters, declining (due to scheduling conflicts and lack of payment) to come and take part in discussions about their books. Their missives are short, but pretty polite. Sov and Munny got permission to hang the letters in the trophy case. You’d think the Culture Club would be a gathering of losers, but it’s totally the opposite. The month they read Hélène Cixous and ate crepes, I strongly considered going.

  “Seriously, Burr,” Sov says. “No beer in the van. I’m not losing interstate road tripping privileges for you.”

  I wish I had those kinds of privileges.

  “Suit yourself, boys,” adds Skate. “But Gretchen feels better after a few beers.” He laughs. Burr howls like a dog again. Landon joins him. I stick my finger down my throat and pretend to gag myself. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think like a guy. I have way too many brain cells. I pull my finger out of my mouth and wait to hear Wick say that he doesn’t want to visit Gretchen. But Wick isn’t voicing any dissent.

  “I think we should leave the beer here,” says Sov. “If any of it spills in the van, my dad will be able to smell it.”

  Burr laughs. “Relax. We won’t drive with open containers. We’re law abiders.”

  Is he trying to be ironic? They’re drinking underage. I wonder if Sov and Munny will stand the
ir ground. Maybe they’ll act like moral anchors and keep the rest of the guys from becoming reckless idiots. Sov and Munny are the youngest among the twin group. I suspect the main reason they were invited to the party is because their father was willing to lend the guys their fifteen-passenger van. Of course, Sov and Munny didn’t drive; they’re only fifteen. The other five probably took turns, unlike me, who had to be woman enough to do it on her own.

  “More beer for me,” Burr says.

  This sound of his voice makes me shiver. Why does he need to act like this? Has his grief turned him into an exaggerated rebel? And what’s wrong with his uncle? How can you buy your bereaved nephews beer? Who does that? Apparently somebody who is not concerned with contributing to the delinquency of a minor. And what about Gretchen? Who’s Gretchen? She sounds like a floozy. She might be a friend of Simone’s. The guys seem very excited to get to her. For all I know, she could be an exotic dancer. If she is, I bet she’s the kind who takes it all off.

  Wick: “My battery’s dead. Anyone have a phone I can use? I need to send a text.”

  Dale: “I’m not surprised. You were on that thing the whole way down.”

  Landon: “Here. I’ll text for ya. Whoa. My mom’s called five times.”

  Wick: “She loves you.”

  Dale: “Do you need to call Mama?”

  Landon: “It can wait. I told her I’d check in Sunday.”

  I hold my breath. My life is a crisis. I don’t want Landon to talk to Mom, and who was Wick talking to? Wick doesn’t spend countless hours on the phone. I stare at Wick’s phone as though it’s going to be capable of giving me answers. Maybe Wick is going to text me. Where is my phone? It’s in the Subaru. The suspense of waiting until I get back to my car to check makes me feel unusually vulnerable. The wind picks up, and I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.

  When the guys finally go inside, I move toward my shoe. I grab it quickly. It’s the first sense of relief I’ve felt in a long time. I start to creep back to my car. On the way, I can’t resist peeking into a side window of the house. This place is a total pigsty. Burr and Skate’s uncle must be a bachelor. The guys are moving around in the kitchen. There’s a lot of empty pizza boxes on the floor. Near the refrigerator, I can see the back of Landon’s head. Sometimes, when I look at his face, I think I can see the outline of my own features: thin nose, pointed chin. Not now. His dark hair has reformed its curls, and they’re shooting out in every direction, and he looks agitated. Clearly, this is not the party of the century. I feel a little bit better knowing this.