by John Rocco
I don’t want to, but I slowly climb the wooden side stairs that lead up to our apartment. My dad built this place ten years ago. He used to be a shellfisherman, digging quahogs on the bay. He was one of the best. But working so hard on the water really screwed up his back, and when the doctor told him he had to stop digging, he decided to switch careers. Why he chose the restaurant business was always a mystery to my mom, but I know. He still wanted to be around it. He wanted to see the quahoggers off to work each morning.
We’ve been living above the Riptide Diner for almost three months now, in what used to be just a storage room and an office for my dad. When he went missing, and the bank took away our house on Wheaton Street, my mom and I moved in here. It’s tiny and smells like bacon grease, but I can see the river from my bedroom window, and I can walk, or bike, anywhere I need to go.
The flickering blue-green light of the television washes over the cramped room. My mom is asleep on the couch, and she has one of Dad’s sweaters balled up on her lap. Her rust-colored hair is coming loose from the bun on top of her head, and she’s still wearing her white waitress uniform that’s sprinkled with coffee and ketchup stains. She looks almost peaceful.
I don’t want to talk to her right now, but she stirs when I shut the door.
“Hey, Jakey, what time is it?” She drags over the words slowly as she sits up.
“It’s late,” I say.
She looks out the rattling window at the pelting rain. “Thank God you’re home. Weatherman says the hurricane is going to be a category two or maybe even three.”
“Who boarded up the windows?” I ask.
“Trax did it before he left. Everybody’s gone to the shelter at Warren High School. I think we should go too.”
“I’m not going to Warren High! I’m not leaving the Riptide.” My voice cracks. “I have to be here in case he comes home.”
“In case who comes home, Jakey?” Her eyebrows scrunch together with concern. “Your father?”
My jaw tightens and I look away as she circles around the couch toward me.
“Oh, Jake, you have to let him go. He’s gone. He’s not coming back.” She reaches out to put her arms on my shoulders and I step back.
“You don’t know that!” I spit the words. “You don’t know what happened for sure. You don’t know anything!” I storm up the narrow stairs toward my room and slam the door.
I rip off my poncho and throw it on the floor, kick off my boots, and walk over to the yellowed newspaper articles taped to the wall above my bed. I’ve read the headlines a million times.
CAPSIZED BOAT FOUND OFF BLOCK ISLAND
RESCUE SEARCH CALLED OFF
My eyes lock on to a grainy picture of my dad standing in front of the diner. He’s smiling proudly. It’s a picture of the day he opened the diner, happier times. Above it reads: LOCAL FISHERMAN PRESUMED DEAD. I know what presumed means. I looked it up. It’s just like assumed, and my dad always said, “Never assume anything.”
I’ve read this article every night for the past six months, and I know every word by heart, and nowhere in it does it say John Cole is dead.
No one else thinks he’s alive, even my mom; it’s crazy. Being the only one, it feels like I’m carrying around this weight, this huge rock, and no one will even acknowledge it.
But they don’t know him like I do. They don’t know how well prepared he is, or what a good swimmer he is, or how well he knows every inch of the water out there and how he knows how to build a fire in the rain and make a lean-to, or any of that stuff. There are a million things that could have happened. He could have been kidnapped, or have amnesia, or he could have been picked up by some boat going to Cuba or some other island and he’s recovering in some faraway hospital where they don’t allow phone calls, or a million other things.
That’s why I can’t leave, not even in a hurricane.
I peel off my wet jeans and empty my pockets onto the dresser. Two quarters, some bag ties that I forgot were there, three one-hundred-dollar bills, my wallet with the fifty that’s got a cut through it, and the knife.
Why didn’t I ask Captain about the pocketknife? He must know something.
I throw on a dry pair of underwear and plop down on my bed. I’ve had the same bed since I was little. I took off the footboard last summer, and now I just let my feet hang off the end.
I pull out my dad’s cigar box from underneath the bed. The pungent smell of tobacco reminds me of him, standing behind the Dumpster, puffing on a cigar and looking out over the river. That was his ritual at the end of each day. For the longest time I couldn’t stand the smell. Now, I stick my face in the box and breathe deeply, wondering where he might be. Is he smoking a cigar somewhere, thinking about me?
I pull out a wad of bills tied together with a thick rubber band and count it out on my bed, two hundred and thirty-three dollars. It’s all the money I’ve saved since I started working as a picker on Gene Hassard’s quahogging boat. As a picker, I sort the quahogs, carry the bags, pull up the pole, and do just about anything else Gene needs me to do. He gave me the job because he’s my Dad’s best friend. I guess he wanted to look after me. Make sure I had someone to lean on or whatever, I don’t know. Anyway, it’s the best job I’ve ever had, and it feels great to be out on the water each day and not stuck in the diner from morning till night.
I take the three one-hundred-dollar bills and the fifty I got earlier from Captain and mix it in. I figure mixing this cash with the money I made with Gene will dilute it, make it less dirty. I count it again. The total comes to five hundred and eighty-three dollars.
The storm is on us now. I can feel the diner shaking and the attic ceiling seems like it’s heaving. I’m wondering if my room will blow right off the top of this place.
I snap the box shut, slide it back under my bed, and shut my eyes.
Great. Only $9,417 to go.
“We can always go live with Grandma,” my mom says as I step down from my bedroom at five fifteen in the morning. She is sitting at the small round card table next to the stove and stabbing away at the keys of a calculator as if nothing happened last night.
“What do you think of that, Jake?” She persists in that way of hers that sounds all bubbly and fake. Every time she does the bills, she talks about giving up the diner, and I usually ignore it because I know she’s not serious. But this time I know it’s different.
“Is it because of yesterday?” I ask. “Is it because of those two guys that came in, the ones from the Italian Club?”
“What guys? What are you talking about, Jake?” She says this without looking up at me.
“Those two big guys, the ones with the satiny jackets with the Italian flags all over the back.” I am angry now and pointing at the floor toward the diner below, where they were sitting yesterday morning. “I heard them. I heard everything! I heard about the ten thousand dollars we owe them, and how they are going to take the diner away if you don’t pay them by the end of the month, and how some guy named Vito is going to turn this place into a nightclub and . . .”
“Wait, stop!” My mom reaches up and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Yes, okay.” Her eyes are darting around, and I can tell she’s thinking of how to put it to me. “It’s true. We do owe those guys ten thousand dollars, and yes, if we don’t pay them off soon they are going to repossess this place, but you have to understand, I’m tired of trying to keep this diner going, Jake. And you . . . you’re working all the time; it’s just not right. We can go live with Gram in Arizona,” my mom continues, suddenly sounding all syrupy sweet. “I can get a job at Fry’s grocery, and you can just, I don’t know, do what other fourteen-year-old kids do.”
I pull away from her. My jaw locks up and my ears start buzzing. I stare at a spot on the wall I want to put my fist through, the one covered in ugly wallpaper of local seaside vignettes. I imagine my fist pulverizing Beavertail Lighthouse to smithereens.
“Forget it, Mom. We’re not moving to Arizona.” I grunt throu
gh clenched teeth. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Could you mumble a little louder, please?” my mom calls after me, but as I ignore her, she adds, “It’s not your decision to make, young man.”
Her voice trails off as I stomp my way down to the diner. The stairs are steep and narrow, and I have to put my size-thirteen feet sideways and scramble down like a crab. I forget to duck on the last step and crack my head against the doorjamb.
Great, another perfect start to the day.
Downstairs in the darkness, I wrestle the bucket out from behind the slop sink and fill it with scalding-hot water. I mop the floor and count tiles. Counting stuff calms me down, and there are seven hundred eighty red and black tiles on the floor of the Riptide. Light pours into the diner, and I can see that Trax is out front, taking the boards off the windows.
I finish mopping and wheel the bucket back into the kitchen. Through the screen I can see Tommy sitting on the back steps. Tommy is my best friend; he lives next door. He’s always the first one here because he knows I’ll give him free breakfast when Mom’s not around. I watch as he lights match after match and flicks them into the sand at his feet. He doesn’t smoke or anything, but he always has matches on him. He usually grabs a bunch from Deluca’s Pharmacy when the lady behind the counter isn’t looking. I can hear him whistling too as the matches flare up and then fizz out. I twist the lock and stick my head out the back door.
“You know arson is a crime. I think it’s a felony.”
Tommy quickly flicks his fingers, dropping the last match into the sand. Stuffing the empty matchbook into his pocket, he slaps me on the back and stumbles inside.
“Straighten up, Jake. You’re turning into a wicked hunchback.” Tommy is always telling me to straighten up because I slouch a lot. Partly because I don’t want to keep cracking my head on doorjambs, and the other reason is I don’t want to be such a freak. I am already six feet two inches if I stand up straight, and that is just way too tall for an eighth grader. This fall I’m going to be the tallest kid in the freshman class, and maybe in the whole school. A total freak.
In the last year, besides my dad going missing, losing our house, and all the other stuff, I had this crazy growth spurt. I grew so much my mom had to get me all new clothes. My feet were even busting out of my sneakers; it was like I suddenly became Hulk, only a tall, thinner, non-green version. It would be all right if I was a star basketball player or something, but I grew so fast that now I hardly have any control over my body. The kids at school started calling me Unco, which is short for uncoordinated, although it sounds a lot like idiot to me. The doctor says it’ll be a while before I get used to my new size.
“That was a wicked storm last night, huh?” Tommy announces and heads into the kitchen. He doesn’t really walk; he kind of bounces wherever he goes. He’s a toewalker.
I follow Tommy and want to tell him that I was out in the middle of that storm, speeding up the Barrington River in a stranger’s boat. But I’m ashamed of what we did, so I lie. “I slept right through it.”
This is getting worse. I just lied to my best friend.
At the milk dispenser, Tommy puts his head beneath the spigot and pushes the lever. “Aaaahhh.” He wipes his chin on his shirtsleeve and pats the side of the black-and-white box. I grab the tray of ketchup bottles and head back toward the double doors. But Tommy gets there first, puts down his shoulder, and barges into the swinging doors like a football player — the skinniest football player you ever saw. Tommy could hide behind a fishing pole. He’s been my best friend since kindergarten, and he probably weighs the same now as he did then, just two feet taller.
Tommy sits cross-legged in the last booth by the window, unscrewing all the caps to the saltshakers. Every fourth shaker, he throws some salt over his shoulder.
“Knock it off. I’ve got to clean that up.”
“It’s good luck.” Tommy throws another pinch into the booth behind him.
“I don’t need your luck; cut it out! If you want to help, then help. If not, then get out of here so I can get this crap done.” I’m not really mad at Tommy, but I am mad in general and he’s the only one around right now. I want to show him the knife and tell about my night, but I still don’t. Not yet. Not until I can figure out who this Captain guy is and what he knows.
“So it’s Jerk Cole this morning, huh? What’s gotten into you, man? Did you forget to draw in your journal or something?” Tommy knows that’ll usually get a laugh from me.
You see, when my dad went missing I was dealing with a lot of stuff; okay, not stuff. Anger.
That’s what the therapist said: “Jake, you have some anger issues.” She was right; I was pissed off and I had some serious issues. She told me to start journaling to let my feelings out. I didn’t write down much, but I drew a lot in that journal, and it seemed to help. I still draw a little almost every night. I mainly draw the stuff I want to remember: things I used to do with my dad, things that I learn from Gene, things about quahogging.
Tommy bounces over to the counter to get the salt. “It’s too bad you’re so pissy, because I got some news that’ll flip you out.”
“What?” I say, annoyed. I start filling the saltshakers and carrying them around to the tables.
Tommy slaps both hands down on the counter and says, “The Mermaid is back.”
“Yeah, and . . . ?” I say this like I don’t really care, but I do feel a shiver of excitement. Janna Miller comes up from New York City every summer to spend time with her dad, Jay. I know Jay because he’s a quahogger like Gene. I see him out on the water when I’m working on Gene’s boat. Janna is tall and blond and tanned and probably the best-looking girl that ever was or ever will be on a quahogging boat. Jay used to bring her to the diner a lot and Tommy calls her the Mermaid, but not to her face. He’s never actually gotten up the nerve to talk to her.
Tommy starts toe-walking around the diner, moving his hands in circles like he’s crazy.
“You thought she was hot last summer. Wait till you see her now!” His eyebrows bounce up and down, and he’s got that crooked smile going that he uses when he’s really stoked about something.
“Dude, she’s out of your league. Actually she’s out of your universe.”
“Not this summer. I’m going to catch me a mermaid!” Tommy grabs a butter knife from behind the counter and leans up against the wall, where my mom has been measuring me for years. It’s covered with dozens of marks and dates and notes because she never lets me paint over it. Tommy places the knife above his head, presses against the wall, and turns around. He locates his own name from last month and starts writing on the wall with a ballpoint pen.
“Get this . . . I lost a pound and I gained a half inch. Come on, Jake, stand over here.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Come on, Jake, it can’t be that bad.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
I shuffle over to the wall, mostly because I know Tommy won’t stop pestering me until I do. He pushes my shoulders back and stands on his toes to get the knife flat on top of my head.
“Stop bending your knees, Jake. Stand up, stand up the whole way,” he orders. I stand up. “Holy crap! You’ve grown eight inches since . . .” Tommy is squinting at the wall. “Since last July. If you keep it up, you’re going to be the tallest kid in Warren.” I quickly move away from the wall and knock the pen out of his hand before he gets a chance to write it down.
“I hate that stupid wall! It’s like a billboard letting everyone know what a freak I am.” I ball up my fist and punch the wall right where Tommy started writing my name. It dents just a little, and the rest of the damage is to my knuckles. It stings like crazy.
“Oooh. You showed that wall who’s boss.” Tommy moves in to inspect the dent. “Your mom’s going to throw a fit.”
“Who cares? She’ll just take another Valium and get all fuzzy and forget it ever happened. Besides, she wants to give this place up and have us move
in with Gram,” I say, rubbing my knuckles. They’re starting to swell into ripe cherries, but I feel calmer, as if I punched some of my anger straight into the wall.
“Wait, doesn’t your grandmother live in Arizona?” Tommy asks.
“Phoenix, yeah. Doesn’t that suck? I won’t go. She can take that idea and shove it. My dad’s coming back and I am going to be here when he does.”
Tommy doesn’t say anything, and I’m not sure if he thinks I’m nuts or what. We never talk about it. I plop down on one of the chrome stools in front of the counter, and Tommy does the same. We both sit there in silence. Tommy starts spinning around like he’s a little kid. We both used to do that until we were dizzy, and then we would try to walk a straight line. My mom and dad would laugh like crazy. I can’t spin anymore because my knees just jam into the counter.
“Darcy’s here.” Tommy points to the street, where Darcy Green is standing on the sidewalk, using the front window as a mirror while she ties her jet-black hair back into a ponytail. Darcy is in our grade, and she started working here last June. She is wearing her usual outfit: worn jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a long-sleeved Lycra shirt. The shirt is like something a gymnast might wear: skin-tight with sleeves that go all the way to her wrist. On top of that she always wears a T-shirt with the name of some obscure band that I’ve usually never heard of. Today it says THE RAMONES. I grab the keys from behind the register and let her in.
“What’s up, Stretch?”
I only let Darcy call me that.
“Morning, Darce.” I smile just a little as she glides past me toward the coffeemaker.
“Leaving us to go fishing again?” Darcy asks as she pulls the filters down from the shelf.