Not much to look at. More like some dad’s boring collection than an actual museum.
We tiptoe around a corner into the front gallery, still seeing by the faint light through the windows. The place is mainly devoted to tourist dreck you can buy anywhere in the state. Bright blue T-shirts decorated with fish and oranges; mugs that say “Grandma and Grandpa went to Florida and all I got was this lousy cup”; toy license plates with kids’ names on them (only never “Vicks,” just “Victoria”); teddy bears wearing sashes that read “The Sunshine State.”
No gator.
“Where is he?” whispers Jesse.
“He’s gotta be here somewhere. The guidebook says.”
“How old is that thing?” Jesse asks.
“The book?” I check the copyright. It’s fifteen years old.
Damn.
“He’s here, I’m telling you,” I insist. No way am I going to let them down. Not when Jesse is finally acting like her old fun self and little Mel got the door open even though it’s obvious she’s scared out of her mind.
I go back into the model room and rummage behind the counter. Yep—a flashlight on the bottom shelf. I flip it on and scan the walls. Right next to the entrance we came in by is a small hallway leading to the bathrooms. And on the wall between the doors I find a small sign, black with red lettering: GATOR DOWNSTAIRS.
The museum basement is practically pitch-dark—it’s only got those tiny windows up high at ground level. I reach the bottom of the stairs and shine my light into the center of the room: Old Joe is sitting in a glass case—sixteen feet long, nose to tail—and grinning an enormous toothy smile that says, “I love you, baby,” and also, “I could eat you alive if I felt like it,” both at the same time.
Mel squeals as my flashlight shines into the gator’s mouth, but Jesse walks straight up to the glass case. She kneels down and stares at him, real intent.
I stride up beside her and say, “Joe! How you doing there? Wow, you’re a big boy, aren’t you?”
Jesse follows my lead. “Aw, who’s a giant reptile, eh?” she says. “You are! You are!”
“Come to Mama!” I coo. “What big teeth you have! And not a single cavity. What a good boy!”
I’m so happy, ’cause it’s me and Jesse, like how we’ve been all summer, working at the Waffle. Us in sync, playing off each other’s jokes. Like how it was up until she got so sour.
Anyway, the two of us are right up near old Joe, kneeling down with our faces close to his big, meat-eating grin—but Mel is hanging back, with a sick look on her face. Suddenly I feel sorry I pushed her so hard when any idiot can see that even a dead gator is making her nearly wet her shorts. “Come on,” I say. “You don’t have to pet him. I’ll keep him away from you. Joe? Sit. Stay. Good boy. Stay….”
I grab Mel’s hand and walk her over to a spot about five feet from the case. We sit down cross-legged on the floor, just looking at him, shining the flashlight along his bumpy green body. Jesse comes and joins us.
We admire Old Joe in silence. Mel’s breathing a little hard, but otherwise she’s okay.
“He may be dead,” I say eventually, “but he’s a badass.”
“He is,” says Mel.
“He’s like a god,” I say. “He’s like the god of badass. Look at him.”
“You should watch your mouth, saying stuff like that.” Jesse smacks my arm playfully.
“What?” I ask.
“He can hear you!”
“Who?” I ask. Then I get it. “God?” I say. “You’re worried God can hear me?” She’s such a Christianpants.
“Listen, I’m all for being a bad…bottom—”
I hoot. “You? You?” To Mel I say, “She said ‘bad-bottom.’”
Mel giggles.
“But it’s a sin to worship false idols,” Jesse reminds me.
“I’m an atheist,” I explain to Mel. “My family worships pretty much nothing besides the glories of the potato.”
“The gator is not a god and neither is a potato,” Jesse tells me. “You shouldn’t worship them.”
“I’m joking,” I say. “Hello? And besides, God—if he or she is up there—God is way more pissed about us breaking into the Wakulla Springs Museum than about me calling the gator a “god of badass.” Any real god wouldn’t get mad about minor stuff like that when there are actual laws being broken.”
“I think God would be okay with us being in here,” puts in Mel.
Jesse turns to her. “How come?”
“We’re not hurting anything. We’re just—well, you two are appreciating the gator. And that’s what it’s here for, right? To be appreciated.”
“Tell that to the world’s smallest policeman,” I say.
“What?”
“The one who works in the world’s smallest station. ’Cause you know no normal-size policeman could really work in that phone booth we visited.”
Jesse smiles.
I continue, “God might be fine with us breaking and entering to appreciate Old Joe, but the itty-bitty policeman’s gonna have a hissy fit.”
“How tall do you think he is?” asks Mel. “Is he like, yay big? Four foot tall? Or smaller?”
“Oh, way, way smaller. He’s the world’s smallest,” I say.
“I think he’s like six inches tall,” says Jesse.
“What?” says Mel. “That’s not even human. That means he’s a leprechaun.”
For some reason this strikes us all as incredibly funny.
“Of course he’s not a leprechaun!” I cry. “He’s a human being! Give him some respect!”
“He’s an officer of the law!” Jesse giggles. “He’s six inches tall and he’s like the policeman for cats, he makes the cats stop fighting.”
“Cats and those—what are they called, those yappie dogs?” I say.
“Yorkies,” says Jesse, child of a dog-grooming lady.
“Yorkshire terriers,” says Mel, child of a rich man.
“Yeah, he’s breaking up Yorkie fights,” I say.
“And he hits them with a Popsicle stick if they don’t listen to him,” adds Jesse.
“Oh, and he doesn’t eat doughnuts on his break,” cries Mel. “He just eats the little doughnut holes.”
“The Munchkins.” Jesse nods. “That’s so perfect.”
I raise my finger in the air, dead serious. “He’s gonna barge in here any second wielding a miniature club and pointing an itty-bitty gun at us and yelling, ‘Put your hands on your head and back away from the gator!’”
Mel is wheezing she’s laughing so hard.
“But when he does that,” I go on, “we’ll just pick him up and cuddle him to death!” More laughter. “I’ll squash him between my boobs!” I cry. “He’ll die happy!”
We can barely breathe.
“Not to death,” Mel chokes out. “If you boob-squash him to death we could get life in prison for murder of an officer.”
“Oh, he’s like a twelfth of a full-size officer,” I say. “They’ll be lenient.”
“You think?” Jesse wrinkles her brow.
“Oh, for sure,” I say. “You saw the man’s police station. It’s a freakin’ phone booth. He’s got no respect in the community. They barely count him as a police officer. No way will we get life. And besides, we can say the death by cuddling was an accident. It’ll only be, like, accidental manslaughter.”
“Okay, then,” says Mel. “We have a strategy.” She says it with a completely straight face, and at first Jesse and I think she’s missed the entire joke, but then we realize that’s cosmically impossible and bust out laughing again.
When I get my breath, I want to make it up to Jesse. “I don’t mean he’s like a god,” I say. “What I mean is, he’s like a role model.”
“Old Joe?”
“Or the smallest policeman?” Mel makes me laugh again, even though I’m trying to be serious. Because of course I wouldn’t boob-squash my role model to death. “No, the gator. Look at him. He isn’t afraid of
anything.”
“He’s dead, that’s why,” says Mel.
“No, he wasn’t afraid when he was alive. He’s like a symbol. He was never scared a day in his life, he was ugly as sin, and he just rested in the sun, lapping up the goodness of the tropical air and knowing that he could bite clean through anybody who tried to mess with him.”
“He didn’t care what anybody thought.” Mel puts her hand to her cheek.
“Exactly. Don’t you kind of have to admire the guy?”
“Yeah,” says Jesse, after a minute. “I do. We should sing to him.”
“What?” Singing was not part of my plan. “This isn’t a cookout. It’s badass admiration.”
“No,” she says. “I mean we should do like a ritual. To show Old Joe some love.”
“I’m not gonna sit here with you two and sing ‘I love you, you love me,’ like you do in Camp Fire Girls or whatever. That is way too hokey. Old Joe would not like it.”
“No, no,” Jesse says. “It’ll be good. Mel, you’ll sing with me, won’t you?”
Mel plays with her fingers. “I probably won’t know whatever you’re going to sing.”
Jesse pooh-poohs her. “You have an iPod with a two-thousand-song capacity. I think we can come up with something you’ll recognize.”
“I meant, I don’t know any church songs or anything. I’m Jewish.”
Jesse looks surprised for a second, but then says, “Shh. Let me think of something.”
So we are quiet for a minute, and then Jesse begins.
From this valley you say you are leavin’
I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile
For they say you are takin’ the sunshine
That has brightened our pathways awhile—
And then Mel takes a breath and joins in:
Come and sit by my side if you love me
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
But remember the Red River Valley
And the cowgirl who loved you so true.
Mel has a real voice, a singer’s voice. Bright and shiny—like a sweet apple. Jesse stops singing to let Mel have a solo.
“‘Won’t you think of the valley you’re leaving—,’” Mel sings, but then stops as soon as she realizes she’s on her own. “Jesse?”
She shakes her head. “You go.”
“I don’t like to sing alone.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Old Joe wants you to. Al Roker wants you to.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest, closing herself off, like she’s about to say no.
“Please?” says Jesse. “You sing so pretty.”
And Mel keeps going:
Oh, how lonely, how sad it will be—
Oh, remember the heart you are breaking,
And be true to your promise to me.
I feel my throat closing up. The girl in the song, her guy goes away and takes the sunshine. He might not remember his promise. Hell, he might not even remember the valley he’s leaving, once it’s out of sight.
They say you are taking the sunshine. That’s exactly how it’s felt since Brady went to Miami. He took the sunshine.
Why hasn’t he called me? How could his feelings change so fast? Why does he have to jump into my brain even when I’m doing everything possible to keep from thinking about him?
And why can’t I make my own sunshine?
I don’t want to start sobbing about my love life in the middle of our Badass Admiration Ritual, so I swallow hard, dig in my bag, and pull out a mango. “Let’s leave him a token of our appreciation,” I say, handing the flashlight to Mel. I walk forward on my knees, bow, and lay the mango at the foot of Joe’s case. “Old Joe Gator, you great Badass of Wakulla Springs, fearless symbol of our road trip, we thank you. For your inspiration. You were uglier than a cactus and never sorry about it. You were fierce. And you had some honking big teeth. Yet you were peaceful and made people happy. Long may you rock.”
“Long may you rock.”
“Long may you rock.”
“Oh, and we hope you like the mango. It looks like a juicy one.”
By the time we leave the museum, it’s officially night. The street is dark. From the shadows, a voice rings out to us. “Find anything good?”
There is a guy sitting on the hood of the Opel.
At first, a jolt runs through me. I think he might be a cop. But as my eyes adjust, I can see his face is smooth, barely shaven. His navy T-shirt is untucked and his jeans are frayed at the bottom, like he keeps stepping on them.
He’s maybe seventeen. Just a teenager holding a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips. Built wide in the shoulders and narrow in the legs. Black hair and darkish skin; maybe he’s Cuban or Puerto Rican. A flat nose, pretty brown eyes.
This guy is a Lotto ticket. Hello! Because if we’re gonna be badass, a hot guy like him is definitely a place to start.
I know, I’m attached, and I love Brady—but that doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes.
“Can you get your butt off our car?” I hear Jesse ask. Mel is staring at her toes.
“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t get off. “But I’m curious why you ladies broke into the museum.” He cocks his head to the side and grins. “You didn’t take anything, did you?”
“Of course not,” Jesse says quickly.
“Are you sure?” he says, still smiling. “They have some excellent postcards.”
“Mind your own business,” she mutters.
“Ignore her,” I tell him, walking over to get a closer look. I lean against the hood of the Opel. “Can I have a chip?”
“Vicks!” Jesse snaps. “You can’t just talk to strangers!”
Why is she so uptight? We were just downstairs bonding and singing folk songs and being badass despite singing folk songs—and now it’s like The Return of Christianpants. A month ago, I swear she would have been flipping that corn-silk hair at him and adjusting her shorts to show a little more belly. Jesse might think that premarital sex is a guaranteed ticket to hell, but she never used to think the Lord was against flirting.
“He’s not a stranger,” I say. “He’s…”
“Marco.” He hops off the Opel and offers me the bag of chips.
“There you go,” I tell Jesse, popping a chip into my mouth. “He’s Marco. Hello, Marco. Thanks, Marco.”
Jesse stomps over, leaving Mel gawking on the sidewalk. “Well, Marco, what are you doing, sitting on my car?”
Her hostility has got to go. God, we sit on the stupid Opel at least twice a week, eating toasted almond ice-cream bars in the 7-Eleven parking lot.
Marco shrugs. “I live here.”
“At the museum?” Jesse asks.
He smiles, like she’s being funny on purpose. “In Wakulla Springs.”
Jesse crosses her arms. “And you perched yourself on my car because…?”
He crumples the empty bag of chips and jerks his head down the road, where I can see a dingy cement building. “I was walking to the bus station when I heard a noise. Thought it was Morrison closing up. Turns out it was you three, doing some kind of stealth maneuver.”
“We were just visiting the gator,” I explain, holding out Fantastical Florida. “I read about him in my guidebook.”
“Ahhhh.”
“We didn’t hurt a thing, took nothing,” I add. “You can search me if you want.”
He gives me a look that reminds me of Brady, like he knows I’m a professional flirt. But he’s enjoying it. I can tell.
“Come on, you trust me, don’t you, Marco?” I say.
“I don’t even know your name,” he says, but he’s bluffing. I learned this from my brothers: If a guy thinks you’re hot, he always remembers your name, even if he just heard it in passing.
“Sure you do,” I say. “My girlfriend here called me by it just thirty seconds ago.”
“Okay.” He chuckles. “Vicks.”
Ha! See, Brady? You’re not the only guy who ever looks my way.
“We
have to move,” Jesse interrupts, pointing at me. “We’re going to Miami to see her boyfriend.”
She thinks she’s making me feel guilty, but I wasn’t gonna do anything. I was being badass, that’s all.
I know how to get her back. “Where you going?” I ask Marco.
“Fenholloway.”
“Isn’t that off 98?”
“Yup.”
“Then it’s your lucky day,” I tell him. “Want a ride?”
“No way,” Jesse snaps.
“Why not?” I ask her.
“Because I said so.”
“What happened to Christian charity?” I give her a steely eye. “Don’t worry,” I tell Marco. “You can come.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“No problem.”
I glance at Mel, to see if I’ve got an ally or an enemy, but I can’t quite tell. She’s stopped staring at her feet, and now she’s glancing at Marco with a weak, dizzy look. Like she can’t quite breathe around him. Like he’s making her feel faint.
“Why are you going to Fenholloway?” Jesse wants to know.
“My boy Robbie’s having an end-of-summer party. He wants me to come.”
“That’s gotta be at least an hour and a half away,” Jesse says.
“I used to live there,” he explains.
“Uh-huh.”
“You know what?” Marco tells her, bending down to get his pack. “I can take the bus if a lift isn’t cool.”
“It’s cool,” I tell him.
Jesse gives me a dirty look. “We’re not letting some random guy in our car. He could be a serial killer.”
“Are you a serial killer?” I ask.
“I am not.”
“As if he would tell us!” Jesse cries.
He gives Jesse a half-smile. His eyes crinkle. “I would. I’m very honest. You can search me if you like.”
Mel laughs. Or rather, Mel giggles semihysterically, and Jesse turns on her, cheeks flushed. “Shut up, Mel!”
And for the first time, Marco turns and looks at Mel too. He smiles.
She smiles back.
That’s it. I can tell Mel likes him, even if she’s not saying anything. And I can see that he’s looking at her—not exactly like he looked at me. More like he’s seeing her as a person, not just as a cute girl.
How to Be Bad Page 6