by Nick Lake
You spoke to me. You spoke to me about the town you grew up in, twenty miles away, and how there was nothing to do there, no way to make money in the summer—just a general store and a gas station and a bunch of farmland that no one could earn a living from.
You spoke to me about how you wanted to go to college; the books you loved. Which were mostly the books I loved, and that was cool. I had noticed you, the very first time I saw you. But the more I spoke to you, the more I realized why I had noticed you. Does that make any sense?
“I’m on an old-texts kick,” you said. “Now that I’ve finished the Ovid. I’m on the Epic of Gilgamesh. It’s Babylonian, the oldest written work in—”
“It’s Sumerian, actually,” I said.
You rolled your eyes. “Geek,” you said.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re reading it. I’m just correcting your elementary errors. There are Babylonian versions, but the Sumerian came first.”
You made a face. “Speaking of which,” you said, “I don’t think the ball is supposed to go in the actual water. You aim for that painted ocean there; see the track up the octopus’s tentacle?” My ball had gone flying over the fence ringing the course, and presumably had landed on the beach below.
“Bite me,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” you said. “It’s a complex game.”
I stuck out my tongue at you.
We talked for hours, it felt like. The voice said nothing at all; the voice couldn’t get past the force field that was you.
It was nice.
I know, I know, that’s the lamest thing I could possibly say, but you have to understand, for me it was major. I mean, hanging with Paris was weird, and fun, but the voice was always there, somewhere—hanging on the edge of things like a dark bat—and it took a lot of energy, being with her, even when the voice was silent.
Being with you though … being with you was nice. And not just because the voice wasn’t there. I want you to know that.
As we walked back down the boardwalk, we passed another basketball stall—the racks of plush toys, the little hoops and child-sized balls. People think the whole thing is gamed, that the hoops are too small for the ball, or that the stallman bends them or something to make the angle impossible. But they don’t. It’s just hard.
Paris stopped. “Competition,” she said.
“What?” said Shane.
The stall was being run by a pimply kid in the same blue shirt that you wore to work, with a leather jacket over it two sizes too big. “You playing?” he said. “Five dollars, three shots.”
“Yes,” said Paris. She reached into her purse.
“We are?” you said.
“Yep,” said Paris. “All of us. Best shot wins … I don’t know. Pride, or something.”
“You get a toy,” said the kid behind the counter. He held out a ball to Paris.
“What size?” said Paris.
“Make one shot, get a small one. Two shots, medium; three shots—”
“Large?” said Paris.
“Yeah.”
“Shocker,” said Paris.
The kid rolled his eyes.
“I work in the plush warehouse,” you said. “I can get a stuffed toy whenever I want.”
“Winning one is different,” said Paris.
“Tell me about it,” said Julie. “I’ve never won anything in my life.”
“Don’t be defeatist,” said Paris.
“Well, I’m up for it,” said Shane. He was kind of bouncing on his toes. He wanted to impress Paris. She wasn’t even looking at him. She lined up her ball and threw it; it bounced off the rim and the kid caught it. Smoothly, I have to say. He didn’t look sporty, but he’d been behind that counter for a month maybe. I knew the feeling.
Paris missed her next two shots too, and then Shane stepped forward and sank his first ball beautifully, straight down through the hoop. He missed the next two though and chose a bunny rabbit Beanie Baby. He handed it to Paris, and she clutched it to her chest, with her two Elmos. “My hero,” she said.
“Uh, okay,” said Shane, like he didn’t know if she was insulting him or not. It was sometimes hard to tell with Paris.
You took your first ball. “I suck at ball games,” you said.
“Excuses,” said Paris.
“Sucking is not an excuse. It’s just sucking. I’m not trying to hide anything.”
Paris frowned. “Yeah, acknowledged. I take it back.”
“Good,” you said, and Paris laughed, and I laughed, because I was glad, I was glad you and her were clicking, even if somewhere deep down I had a worry that went, What if he likes her more than he likes you?
You shot: missed.
Missed again.
Missed again.
“Said I sucked,” you said.
“You were not lying,” said Paris. “Cass. You’re up.”
Maybe it was the kid who made me do it. I don’t know. The way he patronized me. I mean, he handed me the ball and he said, “You might want to come a bit closer. The hoops are higher than they look.”
I raised my eyebrows. He had a month on that stall; I had two whole summers. I got the ball up on my palm, rolled it off my fingers as I laid it up, and it back-spun in an arc that just happened to send it sailing over the kid’s head, and it fell through the hoop with a hush.
Nothing but net.
“You done this before?” said the kid.
“Yep.”
I spun the next ball on my finger and then let it settle in my hand.
Hush.
Two.
Hush.
Three.
“So … ah … you get to choose a big one,” said the kid.
Paris started to say something, behind me, some innuendo, but Julie got in quick, said, “Nuh-uh. Don’t even think about it.”
“Spoilsport,” said Paris.
“What do you want?” asked the kid. He gestured at the big toys on the top shelf.
“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you recommend?”
“What do I recommend? Out of the plush kiddies’ toys?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “Cookie Monster, I guess.”
“I like cookies,” you said.
“Perfect,” I said. I reached out, took the Cookie Monster the kid handed me. It was surprisingly heavy, and furry. It’s funny how holding a toy like that gives you a momentary feeling of warmth, of comfort, even though you’re not small anymore. I handed it to you.
“For me?” you said.
“You like cookies. There you go.”
“Oh wow,” said Paris. “Now it’s Jersey Official.”
“What?” said Julie.
“She’s from out of town,” said Paris.
“So are you,” I said.
Paris waved this away like it was an unimportant detail; small print.
“What?” said Julie.
“When a guy wins a toy for a girl on the boardwalk, that’s like the sign that they’re, you know, together,” said Shane.
“Shut up, it’s not,” I said, feeling myself going red. Even though I knew it totally was.
Awkward.
“Anyway, she’s not a guy,” you said. “She’s … a girl.” But you had hesitated too long—Paris caught it. Hell, even I caught it, and I’m not exactly experienced with this stuff. The pause. The inflection on “girl.”
“She certainly is,” said Paris. “You’ve noticed that, huh?”
Double awkward.
“Shut up,” I said again. I was waiting for the voice to chime in, to tell me that I was imagining this vibe anyway, this idea that you might be interested in me, but then I remembered that you were there, so the voice wouldn’t speak.
You lifted the Cookie Monster, pushed it between me and Paris. “Excuse me,” you said, in the Cookie Monster’s voice. “I’m hungry. I want cookies.”
Paris smiled. “No cookies. This is Jersey, land of the funnel cake.”
You nodded. “Funnel cake it
is, oh courageous leader.”
“I should think so,” said Paris. “But first, Julie’s turn.”
“No, no,” said Julie. “I told you, I never—”
“—win anything, I know,” said Paris. “Still.” Julie sighed and stepped up. She took the balls and she barely tried, she just threw them kind of randomly. She didn’t win anything. I have to say, she didn’t look at home there, competing for a plush toy at a concession stand in an amusement park. I felt a flash of irritation at Paris for humiliating her like this. I mean, Julie had tattoos all down her arms and was wearing a pleated fifties skirt with a Replacements T-shirt. This was not her scene.
“See?” said Julie, as the last ball pinged off the board and went flying. “It’s like a curse.”
“What is?” you said. You’d been chasing Shane with the Cookie Monster a moment before, growling; you’d missed the part before.
“I never win anything,” said Julie. “Like, not even scratch cards. Never.”
“That sucks,” you said.
Julie did an eye-shrug. “Whatever.” She started walking, and we followed.
Your cell rang and you looked at it, then at us. “My dad,” you said. “Save some funnel cake for me.” You answered the phone. “Hi, Dad. Yeah, I’m at work. Yeah, I’ve been practicing. Yeah, listen …”
You walked off a little distance, head down, talking low and intently into the phone.
“Funnel cake, yes?” Julie said. There was a funnel stall a bit farther down—we could see it.
“Yep,” said Paris.
You put your hand over the bottom of your phone. “Save some for—”
“You, I know,” I shouted back.
You nodded, pleased, and turned away again. “Yeah, Dad, I know, I’m—”
I stopped eavesdropping, and walked on.
Fell into step beside Julie.
“Not even a spelling bee?” I asked, as we walked.
“Huh?”
“You said you didn’t ever win anything.”
Julie shook her head. “I am a born loser,” she said.
“What about you, Shane?” Paris asked. “Won anything?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Like, football trophies.”
“And him?” she gestured back to you, still on your phone.
“Oh yeah,” said Shane. “He has a shelf of the things.”
“My brother’s the same,” said Julie. We were in line for funnel cakes now. The smell was amazing. “Growing up, he was always winning that stuff. You know, those little pedestal things with statues of guys on them, swinging a baseball bat or diving or whatever. His room was full of them. I always …”
“Yeah?” said Shane. I felt like I had underestimated him. He looked genuinely interested, I mean, interested in the story.
“I don’t know. I just wanted one, you know? Just one.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why. They were stupid, those little statues.”
“Give us all of your funnel cake,” said Paris, reaching the front of the line.
“I’ve got like a ton,” said the redheaded girl in the stall.
“Give us five of your funnel cakes.”
“Five dollars,” said the girl, handing over a bag.
For a long moment we just ate funnel cake. When I say “we” ate it, I mean the others, not me, because of my allergy. I miss out on all the fun. Major understatement!
Paris said it was good. I mean, you know that anyway. I don’t know why I’m telling you. Funnel cake is good. Alert the President and the Joint Chiefs.
Anyway.
“But you might still win a trophy,” said Paris, to Julie.
“What?” said Julie.
“Roller derby,” said Paris. “You guys are in the final, no?”
“Oh. Yeah. But you get, like, a certificate.”
“No trophy?” said Shane.
“No.”
“Dude. That sucks,” said Shane. He was serious. I kind of fell in love with him a bit in that moment. I mean, in a platonic way. I knew now why the two of you were friends, even though you were so different. He would never be reading Ovid, that was for sure.
Julie brushed some powdered sugar from her T-shirt. “If we win a certificate, I’ll be happy,” she said. “At least that’s something.”
“So, roller derby?” said Shane. “What are you, a jammer or a blocker?”
“You know it?”
“Yeah, my sister …”
The two of them strolled on, chatting about roller derby. The two unlikeliest people to be talking to each other. The jock and the punk. It was like a Benetton ad or something.
And you were still talking on the phone, like twenty feet behind, pretty intensely. Now I’ve met your dad, of course, and I know a bit more about you, so I get why, but at the time it seemed strange.
Which left me and Paris.
“What was that?” I said.
“What?”
“That whole deal with the basketball. You know I worked one of those stalls. You knew I’d be good.”
“No. But I figured you might be.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So what was the deal?”
“With what?” she asked. She seemed truly bemused.
“With me and … him. Now he’ll be feeling, I don’t know, emasculated. He lost. I won.”
Paris smiled so wide it was like her face splitting. Only nice. Okay, ignore that simile. Let’s leave it at: she smiled wide. “Please,” she said. “If he was feeling that, then he wouldn’t be the guy for you. And now the tone has been set, you know, for your relationship. You won him a Cookie Monster. Now he’s your bitch. Not the other way around. I think St. Thomas of Aquinas said that.”
“Our relationship?”
“Come on. You’re seriously crushing. Even after an hour I can see that. And the whole deal with rushing to the side of the pier when you saw his truck?”
“I’m not—” I started to say.
“Whatever,” said Paris, waving a hand. “Anyway, he’s cute. Not the other one, Shane. The troglodyte.”
“He’s actually quite—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure he’s an angel. But anyway, your guy? I approve.”
“Oh good,” I said. “What would I have done otherwise?”
“Not gone out with him, obviously,” said Paris.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” said Paris. “What, you’ve never had anyone look out for you before? Someone has to watch out for a person. For you, that’s me. Okay. That was inelegantly phrased. I am not on fire today. If I am a fire, I am officially out. I am, what would you say? I am damp.”
“Damp?”
“Like wood that won’t catch, you know? That’s how not on fire I am.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “Well, thanks,” I said. “For watching out for me.”
“Of course. And now he has passed my stringent tests.”
“By acting cool when I won him a Cookie Monster?”
“Indeed.”
We sped up, to catch you and the others. You were off the phone now and eating your funnel cake. It left a white sugar smile around your real smile.
“Seriously, has anyone been looking after you?” asked Paris as we approached. “Your dad …”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“He hurts you?”
“No! God, no. No, he just … it’s complicated.”
“You said.”
“Yeah.”
She linked her arm through mine. “Well, I’m here now. And I will keep you safe. I’ll be, like, your tooth fairy, watching over you.”
“I think you mean fairy godmother,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Paris, shaking her head. “I felt it even as I was saying it. Not my A game.”
I smiled.
“Hey,” said Paris. “You look nice when you smile.”
“I don’t usually smile?”
“No,” said
Paris.
An uncomfortable silence.
“Oh,” I said.
“Well,” said Paris, after a while. “We’ve only just met. I mean, relatively recently. We have our whole lives ahead of us. Whole lives of smiling and fun.”
False statement.
I paid for the fun, it goes without saying.
We got home about eleven, and Dad wasn’t home yet. There were no lights on. You and Shane said good night, then went up to your apartment. Shane was nudging you with his elbow, whispering to you, and you whispered fiercely back at him. I thought … I thought maybe he was telling you to make a move.
I hoped.
But you didn’t make a move. You followed him up, and disappeared through the door.
I put my hand to my pocket where I usually kept my keys—
No keys.
Oh yeah.
“You’re locked out,” said the voice.
“Uh, yes,” I said. “Because I wasn’t allowed to take keys.”
“You’ll have to wait for your dad.”
“He’ll ground me. I have a curfew.”
“Yes. That was the point of the exercise.”
“You wanted to get me grounded?”
“I wanted to get you.”
I sat down on the porch step and closed my eyes. “I thought …” I hesitated, amazed at the weirdness that had become normal in my life. “I thought we were getting along well,” I said. It sounded crazy even to me.
“You’re having too much fun,” said the voice. “It’s time you realized that I am the ****** boss around here and what I say goes. And you forgot the date.”
“The date?”
“Think about it.”
I did. Oh, Jesus. August 7. It was the day … the day …
“You ****** forgot, Cass. You forgot.”
“I didn’t mean … I just …”
“You disgust me. You are a ****** disgrace. I am going to ruin your life. I am going to break you. You are nothing.”
There was wetness on my cheeks; I touched them with my fingers, felt the tears. I didn’t mean to, I wanted to say, I didn’t even think, I didn’t say anything to Dad, didn’t mention it this morning at breakfast, and no wonder he was acting so weird and quiet when he was making pancakes.
I put my head in my hands, then I saw movement in the window of your apartment, and a moment later the door opened.