Raffy is the reason that we wear protective gear. He demands “loans” from our meager treasury and mocks the size of our genitalia and brags about fornicating with our mothers. If you inform Raffy that you do not, in fact, have a mother, as I have on several occasions, he tells you to go fornicate with yourself. All the girls in the Sci-Fi/Fantasy Club confide to me that they are secretly in love with Raffy. It’s not fair. Everybody knows that bullies are supposed to have squat bodies and flattish heads like hammerhead sharks. But Raffy is tall and lean and regal-looking, with these leonine dreadlocks and laughing black eyes. He’s bashed me into the gym wall several times and “borrowed” my dollars, but we’ve never had what you’d call a real conversation.
“I’m Ollie,” I remind him. “Oliver White? We have class together. I’m staying over at the Bowl-a-Bed Hotel….”
“You staying on this side of the island too? Small fucking world,” Raffy says. He narrows his eyes and gives me the once-over, and I am painfully aware of my dimpled arms, my effeminate blond curls, my collared shirt on which every button has been dutifully buttoned. I feel my planisphere bulging conspicuously in my pocket. But Raffy just nods at me, visibly relaxing.
“Well, Ollie…” He turns to the girl, who hands him a big burlap sack. He holds it open for my inspection. “We could use a third. Are you in?”
I peer inside the bag. It’s empty, except for one lone potato peel.
In what? I wonder. They’re all staring at me expectantly, even Petey. In the uncomfortable silence that follows, the only possibility I can come up with is that Raffy wants me to get in the sack. I try to swing my right leg over, and end up kicking the little girl in the shin.
“No, you retard!” Raffy yells. “Not in the bag. I want to know if you’re in on our baby turtle smuggling ring.”
“Shhh,” the girl says, a finger to her lips. “Don’t talk about retards that way in front of Petey.”
We all stare at Petey. He’s resumed his dance, shaking the flashlights with such gusto that the tinfoil’s peeling off, chunks of aluminum big enough to wrap up a ham sandwich. Shimmering bits of foil fall all around him, revealing swatches of Petey’s skin. He looks sort of like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz, were the Tin Man to contract some leprous skin disease. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it: I gasp when I first glimpse the skin on Petey’s arm. In the moonlight, he looks like he’s made of liquid silver.
“We think Petey’s an albino,” Marta explains.
“And a retard,” Raffy adds.
“Mentally handicapped.” She frowns, punching him in the arm.
“Special,” I say, and it’s true. I think that Petey might be the most special person I have ever seen.
“Hi, Petey,” I say. “Good to finally meet you.”
Petey waggles his silvery fingers at me.
“What about the rest of you?” I ask. “Who are you?”
I smile at the girl. She’s cute. She has a freckle-dusted face and these big round glasses with pink frames. She looks like she should be eating vanilla wafers, or pasting evening wear on paper dolls. She definitely doesn’t look like she should be hanging around with guys like Raffy. Or even guys like me.
“Who, her?” He pinches her cheek. “This my bitch, Marta.”
“I’m his bitch,” she repeats happily.
“Oh,” I say. “I’m Ollie. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“So, Ollie,” Raffy asks again. “You down for some turtle smuggling tonight?”
“Um…yeah. I mean, maybe. What is this smuggling ring, exactly?”
Raffy nods at Marta, who hands me a yellow flyer. I recognize it from the lobby of my hotel. They’re posted all over the place on the island, in English and Spanish and Creole:
WARNING: DISTURBING A SEA TURTLE NEST
IS A VIOLATION OF FEDERAL AND STATE LAWS
As you may be aware, the months of June–August are prime time for sea turtle eggs to hatch. Baby turtles possess an inborn tendency to move in the brightest direction. On a natural beach, they will orient themselves by the reflection of moonbeams and starlight on the water. However, in recent years our hatchlings have become disoriented by artificial lights, which beckon them away from the sanctuary of the ocean.
On the coast of Namibia, a nest of disoriented hatchlings walked into a beach barbecue and were burned to a crisp.
On the shores of Greece, the fatally bright lights of the discotheques lured thousands of baby turtles to their deaths.
Let’s not make the same mistake here in Loomis County! Please turn off all outside lights between the hours of dusk and dawn.
REMEMBER: SEA TURTLE HATCHLINGS RELY ON
NATURAL LIGHT TO ORIENT THEMSELVES.
DO NOT INTERFERE WITH THE MOON!
“Did you read that first part?” Raffy asks, dreamy-eyed. “A federal offense!”
“You’re going to use a mentally handicapped man to help you steal baby turtles?” I ask.
“Yup!” the girl says brightly. “We’re going to trick those silly turtles into walking into our burlap sack instead of the ocean. Isn’t that right, Petey?”
“Tuuuurtles,” he says in his creepy monotone drawl.
“But…but why?”
They all stare at me blankly. Raffy shakes the letter in my face, as if it’s an open invitation to lure endangered species away from their natural habitat and into a burlap sack of certain doom.
“I mean, what are you going to do once you have all the turtles?”
Raffy waves my question away. “We’ll figure that part out later. Don’t people keep them as pets? Or eat them in soups, or something?”
“Tortoiseshell accessories are really trendy now,” Marta says helpfully. She beams at Raffy.
“Tuuuurtles,” Petey says.
“Okay,” I say. “But I still don’t get why Petey has to wear the trash can and the tinfoil and the festive lights. Doesn’t that seem…unnecessary?” I want to say unnecessarily cruel. “Why can’t we just scoop them up with our hands, or sweep them into a dustpan or something?”
“Because,” Raffy says, rolling his eyes at Marta as if I am the mentally handicapped one. “It’s funnier this way.”
Wowie zowie, I think. This is the most truly evil scheme that I have ever heard.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s my job?”
Two hours later, Petey is sweating profusely, and the turtles have yet to emerge from their nest. His calves quake with exhaustion in a way that makes the dance a lot less amusing.
“These fucking eggs better get cracking,” Raffy grumbles. “School starts in a few more weeks.” He turns to me. “How long you here for?”
I shrug. My dad is here with a group of his retired astronaut buddies, and my guess is that we’ll stay at the Bowl-a-Bed until Dad exhausts his pension or his lunar nostalgia, whichever comes first.
“Well, don’t dip out on us, Ollie. Meet us here tomorrow morning. We’ll do some practice daytime crimes.”
I gulp. “But these crimes…I mean, we only commit comical and ironical crimes, right? We don’t actually hurt anybody?”
“Please,” Raffy laughs. It’s not a pleasant laugh—it makes you feel like he’s giving you mean little pinches all over your body. “I’m on my summer break here. I save the real crime for the school year.” He grins at me. “Hold up, I do remember you. One of the Sci-Fi boys, right? I always had you figured for a fucking dork, kid, but you a’ight.”
“Um, thanks…” And then, a second too late: “You’re a’ight as well…. So, okay, then…” I try to keep my voice casual, as if being invited to join a crime ring with a cute girl and the coolest kid in my grade is a routine occurrence for me. “See you tomorrow?” I turn to go, but Raffy grabs me and whirls me around.
“Hey, you dropped something,” he says. “Fell out of your pocket.” He reaches down and shakes the sand off my Starry-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy—For Kids!
Uh-oh. I hope that it is too dark to read. I hope that Raffy is
illiterate. I think: Don’t open it—don’t read the title—please God just give it back to me.
Raffy starts flipping through the pages.
The Starry-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy—For Kids! was a gift from my father on my twelfth birthday. Molly and I aren’t exactly little kids anymore, but Dad hasn’t seemed to notice. Besides, it’s not like anybody’s written a Guide to the Galaxy for Awkward Pubescent Boys yet. Anyhow, I kind of like the glow-in-the-dark graphics.
I’m less fond of the book’s other concession to the seven to ten demographic, a bunch of Wowie Zowie! Fun Facts scattered throughout each chapter. As in:
Wowie Zowie! Fun Fact #47:
Q: A shooting star is not a star, how does it shine so bright?
A: The friction as it falls through air produces heat and light!
As in, wowie zowie, we the authors of the Starry-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy—For Kids! have never actually had contact with anyone under the age of forty-two. Or, wowie zowie, if kids like Raffy catch you reading this book, they will crown you as King Nerd and announce the glad tidings of your coronation over the PA system.
My dad’s version of the book, the staid, declarative Guide to the Galaxy, is nearly identical, except that the graphics are a matte black, and the same information is listed as Fact #47. I guess that’s what growing up means, at least according to the publishing industry: phosphorescence fades to black and white, and facts cease to be fun.
The planisphere was a gift, too. It’s what we Junior Astronomers use to orient us in the night sky. Mine is shiny and compact and has the most accurate star compass on the market. It’s fallen out of my pocket and rolled near Raffy’s foot, and I quickly stoop down to retrieve it before he can see it flashing in the sand.
“Whatcha found there?”
“Nothing,” I squeak. “Just trash.”
I panic. Oh God, I think, they are going to pry my fist open and expose me as a law-abiding astronomy lover. And before I’ve made any sort of conscious decision to do this, I feel myself winding up and chucking my planisphere into the ocean. My weak muscles tense and draw back, and then it’s over. Usually I throw like a girl, but tonight the planisphere goes rocketing from my hand. The waves are so dark that I can’t even see if it makes a splash when it hits the water.
“You know, weirdo, there’s a trash can right over there,” Raffy says, pointing at the lidless can. “Say, what’s this?” He’s turned to the Star-Gazer’s Log of Summer-Time Constellations section in the back. The half-finished Alcyone page stares up at me accusingly.
“Oh.” I blush. “That’s not mine. That’s my twin sister’s.”
Raffy pulls out a pen from behind his ear. He crosses out “Constellations” and writes in “Crimes.”
“Well, now it’s the official log for our crime ring.” He grins down at me. “You can be the secretary.”
“Hey, Big Dipper,” Dad says when I finally get back to our hotel room. He puts down his drink and looks over at me with bleary eyes. “It’s past your curfew. I’ve been waiting up for you for hours.” But he sounds more proud of me than angry. “You must have really gotten lost in the stars tonight. Did you find Alcyone?”
“Yes, sir,” I lie. “Five degrees south of Eta Carinae, right where you said she’d be.”
“Great work, son!” he says, beaming at me. His voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t tell Little Dipper—it’s different for girls—but maybe we can talk about extending that curfew.” He winks at me. “There might be a few foxy new clusters around Cassiopeia tomorrow night, if you know what I mean.”
I picture my planisphere glinting on the bottom of the dark ocean floor. Right now, I think, schools of tiny yellow fish are probably nibbling at the glow-in-the-dark stars.
“Hubble hubble,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Boy, would I love to get Cassiopeia on the other end of my telescope. Thanks, Dad.” We grin at each other, man to man.
Parents can be so dumb.
As I climb into my hotel bed, I have to hold on to the headboard to steady myself. I have the giddy sense that I’m hurtling towards some uncharted corner of space, a world full of bros and bitches and comical, ironical crime. I pull back the covers, preparing to sink into sleep. Then I scream.
“Molly!” She is mummy-wrapped in the hotel sheets and staring right at me, her arms crossed over her flat chest. Anger seems to have inhibited her ability to blink. As usual, I’m dismayed to note that my sister has more arm hair than I do.
Molly and I are twins, but we’re not identical, and thank God for that. People often describe me as “cherubic” because I’m blond and fat, but at least I’m well complected. Poor Molly. My sister’s like a kiwi fruit—sweet on the inside, but small and hairy and round on the outside. Not to mention her face has more craters than friggin’ Callisto.
“Well, well, well,” she says icily. “Howdy, Ollie. How was your hot date with Alcyone?”
“Oh,” I mumble, “It was okay….”
“Liar!” she howls, throwing back the hotel covers. “Don’t patronize me. I know it was a lot better than just okay. We’re talking Alcyone here.” She does a swoony pantomime and collapses against the pillow. “So, are you going to take me with you next time, or what?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pick Molly up and plop her down on her own twin bed. “G’night, Little Dipper.”
“I hate you.”
I sigh and turn off the lights. Molly’s the other fifty percent of the Junior Astronomer Society. At first I didn’t want her to join, but I had to capitulate after the Activities Committee told me that I couldn’t form a society with only one member. Molly thinks that just because we share the same genome, we have to have matching bedsheets and hobbies and moral systems. I don’t want to take her with me tomorrow. The crime ring is my new friendship constellation. Besides, Molly’s such a goody-goody that she’d probably feel betrayed by my baby turtle smuggling or something. Some people just aren’t cut out for a life of crime.
We meet every morning, still bearded with toast crumbs from our continental breakfasts. Everybody assembles in the green shade of the palm trees next to Barnacle Bob’s Shrimp Stand. Everybody except for Petey. We don’t know where Petey goes during the day. Sometimes we plan crimes and sometimes we perpetrate them. Sometimes we just sit around tic-talking down the hours until we can resume the Great Turtle Stakeout. I keep detailed notes of all our activities in my Star Log.
I guess I’d always assumed that Raffy was a bomb-in-your-mailbox, flaming-bag-of-fecal-matter-on-your-stoop kind of outlaw. But Raffy has a real flair for comical ironical crime. I don’t know what he does during the school year, but Raffy’s summer-time crime feels good, and clean, and funny. In fact, that’s the catchphrase that sparks every crime we commit:
“Wouldn’t it be funny if…?”
And Raffy has this magical, abracadabrical ability to transform all his “ifs” into “whens.”
On Monday, we stow away on a glass-bottom boat and then tap out forbidden messages to the dreamy-eyed manatees in full view of the DO NOT TOUCH THE GLASS sign. On Tuesday, we warm up by shoplifting a six-pack of Coke and then throwing the cans away in the PLASTIC ONLY bin. Afterwards we take the bus to the other side of the island—we do not hold on while it is departing—and steal all the pennies from the Children’s Hospital Wishing Well. Raffy uses them to buy a Mr. Goodbar candy bar. He seems unperturbed when I point out that 1 Mr. Goodbar © 187 sick children’s wishes.
“Think of it this way,” Raffy says, his mouth ringed with chocolate. “We’re making our wishes come true.”
On Wednesday, Raffy makes me use my mechanical expertise to rig up a plastic conch shell so that it makes crude potty noises whenever little old ladies in big floppy hats hold it up to their ears to hear the ocean.
On Thursday, Raffy wants to see if taking candy from a baby is really as easy as the old adage suggests. We walk up and down the splintery boardwalk peering into strollers, but I guess that today’s health-conscious parent
s don’t let babies have candy anymore, because all the ones we see are gumming jars of stewed prunes. We take some Ricola cough drops from an elderly sunbather’s straw bag instead. It is easy, and you can tell that Raffy’s disappointed.
“There’s just no stopping us,” he says glumly.
“Stop her!” Raffy yells, a little over an hour into Night Four of our Turtle Vigil. He points down the beach, to where a shadowy figure is bumbling along towards our nest. “Stop that intruder!”
I peer down the beach at the intruder and stifle a groan. It’s Molly. She is engrossed in her star maps, using her birthday planisphere to chart her course. I feel a sudden twinge of remorse. My own star compass is probably all sea-weeded and shattered by now.
“She’s just some kid,” I say.
“Anybody we know?”
“I told you, it’s nobody. Just some girl out past her bedtime.”
“Are you sure you don’t know her?” Raffy asks, turning Petey in her direction and illuminating Molly’s startled face. “Because it looks like she’s mouthing your name.”
“Oh. So she is. That’s my little dip…sister. I guess I didn’t recognize her from here. Hang on, I’ll get rid of her.” I hurry off to intercept her.
“Ollie?” she says when I run over to her. She pronounces my name uncertainly, as if it’s a foreign word. “Is that you? What are you guys doing?” Her eyes are wide and disbelieving. “You’re not hanging out with Rafael Saumat over there, are you?”
I shrug. “Yeah, and? He’s not such a bad guy. He’s my bro now.”
“Your bro?” she snorts. “He’s an asshole, Ollie!”
“Look, you don’t know him like I do. He can be really sweet.” I try to think of some examples. “Like the other day, these bovine girls with back acne floated by us in the pool—I mean, the kind of girls you wouldn’t want to feel up with oven mitts on, Molly—but Raffy gave them these charity cat-calls and politely invited each one to have his baby, even though you could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. Why, he’d probably hit on you!”
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