A Swirl of Ocean

by Melissa Sarno

  She looked back into the arcade. She could see them, through the glass, in the dark, their backs leaning against the Final Lap racing game, Kimmy’s lips against Len’s, and he wasn’t even pulling away. His hand was in her hair, like he knew exactly what he was doing, and Tink stood beside her sister’s real-life poem, brought the cigarette to her lips, and breathed in.

  She caught the smoke and swallowed it. She let it stay inside her, trapping it there as long as she could. She could feel it filling her. Then she let it out in one smooth breath.

  My toes squish in the sand as the water bobs at my shoulders. I flipper my feet and lift my chin as high as it can go. When I reach for the sand again, it’s gone. The water dizzies around me, and I swirl inside of it, trying to swim and stay in control. But the waves topple over my head. I take in long, choking gasps as the ocean drags me under.

  I can’t see a thing, but I feel the sea take me until I smash into the ground, my bare skin grinding against the harsh sand.

  When I open my eyes, I feel like I’m clawing at the beach, but it’s only my fingernails scratching the sheets of my bed. I’m awake now, and the sunlight from the window warms my cheeks. I take in a giant, full, roomy breath.

  “Why’re you dragging me here?” Jeremiah whines.

  “For clues.” I pedal my bike faster, then lift up on my feet, so I’m standing and soaring through the warm air. The boardwalk hammers beneath our tires, and we ride toward the end of the island.

  “How far is it?” he asks.

  “Just before the lighthouse.”

  Jeremiah groans.

  “We’re almost there.” I point my chin toward the lighthouse. We’ve gone this far across the island before. But usually we stop and laze around for the rest of the day on the beach, eating sandwiches at Rocky’s truck stop. This time, I just want to get to where we’re going. “Come on.” I speed up again, glad we went early so I can ride easy, with just a few dollars in the back pocket of my shorts.

  “What’re you expecting to see?” asks Jeremiah. “I told you. It’s gone.”

  “I don’t know.” I stand up on my pedals again and point my arm out. “Look.”

  The old Adventure Park sign still stands tall against the milky sky. Its lights are burnt out, but the frame of each letter is still there, with a gem-studded capital A, and Park in faded, fancy script.

  Adventure Park’s a relic. There was an electrical fire that spread and smoldered, and sent the Ferris wheel up in flames. But I figure there has to be a small something left to see.

  As we edge closer, though, it’s not looking promising. There’s a rusted chain-link fence and an empty lot. The pavement is all cracked, so grass grows up in between the pockets. The abandoned building of the arcade looks like nothing special, with the rest of the lights and signs and rides all torn down.

  Jeremiah squints across the lot, raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He takes a big sigh.

  “I’m sorry. I thought there’d be more,” I say.

  “Well, we’d better turn around.” He does a 360 on his bike, grabbing his handlebars and popping a wheelie up in the air.

  I shake my head. “We’ve at least got to go in.”

  “In?” Jeremiah points to the wraparound fence. “How’re we supposed to do that?”

  But I’m already clamoring my bike down the steps of the boardwalk, resting it against the fence. I secure my foot through a loop in the chain, then shake the fence a little. It seems sturdy enough, like it can hold me, and I let myself wobble against it before turning one leg over and jumping right down into the sandy lot.

  Jeremiah’s whining from the steps. “Come on, Summer. There’s nothing here. Let’s go to Rocky’s or something.”

  “You are no fun, Jeremiah Cooper,” I call out, hands on my hips while I watch the stick-skinny kid wrangle his bike down the stairs.

  “I’m just supposed to leave my bike here?” he complains.

  “You’re not supposed to do anything,” I holler back. “Do what you want.” Then I turn around and start walking toward the abandoned arcade.

  I hear Jeremiah huffing behind me before long, skidding his feet against the pavement, kicking rocks, mumbling about getting in trouble and whatever else his little brain is warning him, but I’m not worried about anyone finding us. Lindy says sometimes it’s better to do something and apologize for it later than ask permission up front. And who’s around to ask permission from, anyway?

  I stand at the entrance where Coop and Tink stood with their cigarettes. The arcade is tall and black and window-paned, with the light-up sign drooping from a bunch of loose wires. I peek through the doors but I can’t see anything with the glare of the sun and the dark tint of the window. I tug on them, expecting them to be sealed tight.

  Instead, they open right up, and the musty odor hits me, smelling like sawdust and mold.

  I try to hear the sound of the games, the roll of the Skee-Ball along the ramp, the music, and beeps. I want to smell the crust of old frozen pizza. But the place is mostly empty. Outlets and wires line the floors. There are tools and construction tape on the sticky floor. It’s a big, black box of an empty room.

  Jeremiah’s voice echoes. “Told you there wasn’t anything to see.” The door shuts behind him. We’re left in the pitch black.

  “Prop the door,” I scold him, and he mumbles again about getting caught and what’re we doing here, anyway?

  I take another long look around. I guess Jeremiah was right about there being nothing left. I guess my dream stays a dream, full of a hazy past I can’t figure out.

  I shrug. “At least I know it was here, once.”

  “So we can head back?”

  I nod. “Guess so.”

  Jeremiah’s foot holds on to the door, and I move back toward it. I look down at my feet. There’s a small clump of paper on the black rubber floor. I swoop down and grab it, a quick smile at my lips, knowing exactly what it is.

  “Whatcha got?” Jeremiah asks.

  I hold my palm out. “Prize tickets.”

  “Cool.”

  We walk out into the sunlight, and it hurts my eyes for a brief second. I clutch the tickets in my hand, knowing they’re probably not Tink’s. They could be a million different kids’, or some old tickets already collected at the end of a night. But it’s like the painted boat. Something real.

  “Come on,” I urge Jeremiah forward.

  “You want to go to Rocky’s?” he asks.

  We make our way back to our bikes, up the boardwalk, ready to turn around home with nothing much to show for our trip.

  I shake my head. “Nah.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  The tickets sit in my hand, scratching up my palm. Too bad there’s no prize, no reward, nothing I can claim. “I’m not getting any answers.”

  Jeremiah clicks the brake on his handlebars. “We need a new source.”

  I think of the ocean sitting in my stomach. “More water?” I stretch my hand out to the shore.

  “No. The only other person we’ve never been able to ask.” He grins. “Turtle Lady.”

  “We’re really going to do this, huh?” I ask as we stand in front of Turtle Lady’s overgrown yard.

  I hadn’t been on the property since the first time Jeremiah and I trick-or-treated on our own. He dared me to try her house, even if the light wasn’t on, even if we knew, or everyone knew, she was off-limits on Halloween.

  I ran up to the door, rang the dead doorbell, then banged the metal knocker. She didn’t answer, and I looked back to Jeremiah, who giggled from the sidewalk. Just as I was about to turn around, the light came on. Jeremiah fell silent, and I stood waiting, knowing she was behind the door and I was in front of it.

  I never stayed to see what would happen. She was Turtle Lady and we were kids and I ran off
, shrieking, as Jeremiah squealed.

  On the Halloweens that followed, we carried our pillowcases of candy over our shoulders, like sacks, shrugging when we passed her darkened house, not even bothering to try.

  Now we are in front of it, and the car is in the driveway, which means she’s here, she has to be. And there is no fence between us, no jar of pickles as bait, just me and my dreams and four arcade tickets stuffed in my pocket.

  I take a deep breath, and together, we step over the weeds and up the hard stone stairs, which are cracked with mold and moss. There’s the damp smell of dirt and leaves and wild branches from the birch trees hanging over the stairs. I push them away and march up to the door again, settling my hand against that cold metal knocker, waiting.

  I listen and hear nothing. I try to see through the panes of glass at the top of the door, but there’s only a glare. I peek between the branches to the windows on either side. The shades are low.

  We wait, and Jeremiah sighs, taking his fist to the door and banging at it.

  But there’s nothing and no one. Not a sound. I’m not sure why I thought Turtle Lady would reveal herself here.

  “It was worth a try,” Jeremiah says.

  I frown. “I guess.”

  “You got to go right away?” Jeremiah asks as we make our way back toward the sidewalk, where my bike rests on its kickstand. My legs are tired and heavy from the long ride to Adventure Park.

  I shrug. “Why?”

  “I wanna show you something.”

  “Haven’t we done enough show-and-tell for the morning?” I feel the sting in my hammies, which is what our PE teacher Mrs. Godin calls the hamstring muscle in our legs. “How far is it?”

  “Just at the landing.” He gestures his chin toward the narrow canal between the ocean and the bay.

  “All right. But then I’ve gotta get back.”

  He nods and we ride the yellow line away from our street, toward the next row of houses, where we can access the small boat launch. We hit the sandy edge and leave our bikes.

  He doesn’t have to point me toward it before I see it, something loaded up in massive clumps on the concrete slope of the boat launch, just past the slips. At first, it looks like dead fish in neat piles, but as we get closer, I see that it’s a bunch of pink and purple lumps of starfish covering the entire slant. They don’t move.

  “How’d you find this?” I ask.

  Jeremiah hesitates. He’s got this long gaze that stretches out over the starfish and the ocean and into the dark. “My dad.”

  “He took you here?”

  He nods. “Says they come in droves when the weather starts changing. They come with the tides.”

  “Are they…ya know?”

  “Dead?”

  I nod, and he shakes his head.

  “I wondered the same thing. He says they’re just waiting for the ocean to take them back. He calls them sea stars.”

  “Sea stars,” I repeat.

  “Poetic.”

  “I like that.”

  I look up into the sky, imagining those stars mirroring the ones that lie and wait here. The sun shines down on the starfish, giving them a wet pink sparkle.

  “What else did he say?” I ask.

  “He used to take my mom here. Before me.”

  “He lived here?”

  He nods. “A year-rounder. Like us.” Jeremiah nudges his foot gently against a starfish. “He’s okay. I mean, like, not a bad dude. Not a jerk or anything.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I think he’s a little bit sorry. About leaving me behind.”

  “Of course he is.” I like to imagine that my parents, whoever they are, would feel the same. Sorry. That they only got two years of me before I ended up here.

  “I guess, with my mom dying…I don’t know. He says he thought he was bad luck.”

  “Bad luck?” I ask.

  Jeremiah shrugs and nods. “He says it followed him wherever he went. He even knew a girl who drowned.”

  “Drowned?”

  “Yup.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Right? He didn’t want it touching me. The bad luck, I mean.”

  “So, why’s he back now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, a few days ago he had some premonition or whatever. This feeling that something bad was going to happen if he didn’t come.”

  “Deep,” I say.

  “Deep. I mean, it’s cool that he admitted all that, right?”

  “It is.” There’s this whole entire past that’s a part of him. And he gets to know it.

  I follow his foot with mine and gently rest it against a neighboring starfish, which curls an arm and hugs itself. My eyes dizzy over them all, so many, in these piles, just lounging there, wondering, waiting, trusting.

  I don’t know how they stand it. I don’t know how they keep their faith, believing that the ocean will come and breathe its life back into them. Even if I know these tides as I know myself. Even if I know that they will come and go as sure as night and day. I feel furious for them. It shouldn’t be like that.

  Something shivers through me.

  “They need our help,” I say.

  I reach down and grab a starfish. I do it fast. Before I can really feel its rough, sandpapery arms. I release my fingers and toss it back in the water.

  Then I reach down and scoop up as many as I can.

  Tossing.

  Releasing.

  It feels a little like I’m throwing pickles at Turtle Lady’s window, like I’m taking something into my own hands that has never truly been mine.

  I don’t need to say anything more before Jeremiah follows. They don’t belong here, the weather changing around them, pushing them, in clumps, up into this space, where boats slide into the water, where bare feet tiptoe around, where streetlights hover, instead of the moon or sun they’re used to. They’re stars, sea stars, and they shouldn’t have to wait around to get to where they should be.

  I scoop them, fling them, frantic, and I don’t know where they land. I don’t know if it’s okay. I don’t know if the ocean is ready for them. But they’re ready. Of course they are. They belong in the water. In the sand. Not on concrete. Not here.

  “Hey!” someone calls from out behind, and I don’t turn around. I don’t care.

  “Hey!” The voice gets closer. “What do you think you’re doing?” The voice is at my shoulder at the same time a hand is at my elbow, turning me, sharp and quick. It’s nobody I recognize, and as Jeremiah swings around, I don’t see any recognition in his eyes, either.

  I look over at a beard-scratched face. Fishhooks dangle from his rubber overalls, and knowing that’s how Jeremiah rolls, it softens me to him. He’s just a fisherman, out a little late, maybe, but we’re used to them in Barnes Bluff.

  I explain myself before I need to. “They need a little help.”

  “Leave ’em alone.” His voice is gentler now. “The tide’ll come for them.”

  I shake my head, about to explain, but he takes my elbow again. His hands are rough and worn, but his touch is light.

  “That’s the way of things,” he says. “Don’t intrude.” He’s stern about it, and I can see it matters to him. The way of things.

  “They don’t belong here,” I argue.

  He reaches down and handles a starfish carefully in his palm, like he’s holding a flat leaf. Then he places it in my hand. “Feel it.”

  I feel the weight in my hand. It’s bumpy on my skin but still and limp. I would swear it was dead if I hadn’t seen that one starfish curl up onto itself.

  “It’s fine,” the fisherman tells me. “It has no heart. No blood. No brains. Its blood is filtered seawater.”

  “Seawater?” I ask.

  “It burrows. It waits. It shines. It hol
ds on to where it came from. That’s how it survives.” His light eyes twinkle from his tanned, wrinkled skin. “It always belongs.”

  That night, I sit in bed, next to the breeze of the curtains. I clutch the jar of ocean water to my chest. I think of the arcade and Jeremiah’s dad and Turtle Lady hiding away. I think of the starfish, full of seawater, always a part of where they came from. I take a sip, knowing, when I fall asleep, the ocean will become a part of me, too.

  They call it a supermoon, when the moon is closest to the earth, and there was one that night, with light pouring into Tink and Kimmy’s room, keeping both girls awake, wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling from their lumpy floor mattresses.

  Kimmy was wired, saying how strange her lips felt from her kiss with Len, raw and kind of tingly. Tink ran her tongue across her own lips, tasting the lingering hush of cigarette smoke, even though she’d brushed her teeth for what felt like a million times.

  “I hope it’s not weird now,” Kimmy said. “Between the three of us, I mean.”

  “Now?” Tink groaned.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tink had been too quiet all summer. She was tired. “It’s been weird,” she argued. “Not just now.”

  “My mom always says that three’s a bad number for friendships. Someone always gets left out.” Then she giggled. “But I mean, now, Len and I aren’t just friends.”

  Tink rolled her eyes, even if no one could see her. “It was just a kiss.”

  “It wasn’t,” Kimmy insisted. “We made out for, like, twenty minutes, I think. I don’t know. I didn’t time it. I was just, in it.”

  Tink knew. It was twenty-six minutes. It was twenty-six minutes of her standing with Coop, watching the rain, saying nothing, letting the cigarette smolder to ash in her hands.

  She couldn’t imagine twenty-six minutes of kissing someone. How did you even breathe? And your teeth—did they knock together? It sounded suffocating. She didn’t dare ask Kimmy. It would seem like she cared.

  “You never wanted to kiss Len?” Kimmy asked.

  “No way.”