“Let’s make our way around,” I say. Seeing the amazing sculptures is both inspiring and daunting. The more sculptures we pass, the more my confidence plummets. The basic structures I was expecting are missing. Instead, each sculpture we pass is more intricate than the previous. One team has even erected a nearly perfect likeness of Guava Guava, complete with the signature dancing guavas on their sign.
By the time we’ve made it to Carolina’s sculpture, I have a pit in my stomach. I inhale loudly when I see her sculpture up close. This contest means as much to her as it does to me, and it shows in her work.
“This is beautiful.” She’s sculpted a mermaid sitting on a rock, basking in the sun. In one hand, the mermaid holds an easel, and in the other, a completed painting.
“I think we gain creativity in the arts by consuming creativity,” she’s saying to the people gathered around. Foster nods, agreeing with her.
I eye both of them as an epiphany hits me. All of my favorite artists: Frida Kahlo, Andy Warhol, Joan Mitchell, they all dedicated their lives to pursuing art. None of them ever woke up one day and decided to become a great painter, paintbrush in hand, never having studied another artists’ work. All the years I’ve spent drooling over the beautiful paintings hanging in museums and filling the pages of textbooks, and it’s still never occurred to me that they did anything more than inspire me. Consuming other artists’ creations is almost as important as creating my own pieces. Mind blown.
And just like my idols, I've spent the summer so far in pursuit of my own brand of art. Foster's trash art, the bland paintings from the museum, and Carolina's sand creations: they've all led me to here. The feeling that I’m close to being a real artist itches through my wrist, screaming to be let loose to create.
“You deserve to go on to the next round,” I breathe.
She smiles and waves a hand at me. “I’ll tell you if I think you’re going to move on after I check out your sculpture.”
Foster and I share a look behind her back. The thought of Carolina seeing our work makes my stomach turn, but she’ll see it sooner or later, no matter what.
“Okay, but you have to tell us the truth. We can handle it.”
Carolina shoots me a look that says, “Don’t I always tell you the truth?” Which is true—she doesn't sugarcoat things.
Foster leads the way to our station, and I lag behind. It’s hard to imagine her loving it like we loved hers. He and I step back and let Carolina take it in. She stares for a minute and then turns back to us, one eyebrow raised and her mouth scrunched up. This is where I'm supposed to say something deep and meaningful like she did. Too bad my brain's one big blank canvas at the moment.
We've pulled off the masterpiece we planned for, but just barely. The base of the sculpture is thin coiling sand packed tightly and supported by a background block of sand in the shape of a large rectangle. Verging off from the coiled base are five offshoots, each one different. There's one in the shape of a glass bottle, a giant swirled conch shell, a sand dollar with a chipped corner, plastic bottle rings, and a newspaper. Pressed into the sand are real pieces from Foster's collection—the brightest pieces of sea glass and plastic we could find. It's as close to a jumbo-sized copy of Foster's art as we could get, and every time I glance over it, my heart swells and my head gets all light and funny.
“It was a team effort.” I nod toward Foster, who shrugs. He couldn’t care less about impressing her.
Carolina squints at us and grins in the bright sunlight. “It’s really unique. Good job, guys.”
“Thanks. You did a great job, too. It’s just a relief that today’s over. Either way the judging decision goes, there's no more stressing for a while.” I let my body take the break it's aching for and drop down onto the sand. The next second, I feel someone standing over me.
“Is this your sculpture?” The voice looms above my head, and I scramble to my feet. A girl not much older than me holding a small notepad and a megaphone peers at our sand sculpture with pursed lips.
“Yes.” Foster and I respond in sync.
She frowns and scribbles across the page with speed before handing a small rectangle of paper to me. On it are a number and a date for next month. “Congratulations. You will be moving on to the next round. Details to come.”
We’ve barely begun to thank her and squeal with absolute excitement before she trudges on to inspect the next sculpture. I stifle a giggle at her lack of enthusiasm. Everything seems funny right now because I’m slaphappy, too full of glaring sunshine, sugar, and stressful, sleepless nights to think straight. Later, when the high has worn off, I’ll have less to laugh about. Now, I embrace it.
I lean back against Foster’s chest. It's warm and solid, and I could fall asleep in a millisecond if I didn't also want to make out with him right this second. He slips an arm around my shoulders and presses his lips to my cheek. I wish we were alone instead of surrounded on a crowded beach.
We follow Carolina back to her display and learn that she’s moving on to the next round as well. It’s not a surprise, but we cheer for her too because the euphoria is contagious. A sour pang of guilt plagues me when I walk past a few artists who are packing up and watching the cheering groups with wistfulness I know well. Not everyone can win. And only one group can win the next round. If we don't bring our A game, next time we could be the ones walking away with nothing. No way I'm going to let that happen.
Thirty
“We should be celebrating.” Foster frowns through a mouthful of fish taco the next day at lunch.
I point to the tray of tacos between us on our table at Guava Guava. I guess we have different definitions of the word.
“We are celebrating. What did you have in mind?”
Foster grins, and I think I might regret asking. “Well, I took the liberty of picking Livvy’s brain the other day, and she let me in on a little secret.”
I definitely regret asking him. “I don’t like where this is going,” I say. I shovel another taco in my mouth so it looks like I’m just starving and not so nervous that my neck’s working up a cold sweat.
Foster thumps his hands on the tabletop like a drum. He makes a trilling noise with his mouth. I wrinkle my nose.
“What are you doing? Stop.”
He stops and rolls his eyes, letting out a low whistle of a sigh. He hasn’t known me long enough to understand how much I truly hate surprises. The only thing worse than surprises are drawn-out surprises, which is where this looks to be headed.
“Just tell me, please.” I’m actually desperate for this to end.
Foster puts his hands down and studies me. “You look like you’re being tortured. Is my drumroll that bad?”
“Actually, it is. And, while we’re being honest, I just thought you should know I’m not the kind of girl who enjoys surprises. I like knowing what’s going on. The idea of being led somewhere mysterious while wearing a blindfold is basically my worst nightmare.”
Foster chuckles and ducks his head. “Okay, fair enough. I’ll throw away my blindfold. But do you think you trust me enough to let me have one small surprise? I promise it won't be anything awful.”
I groan. He’s trying to be sweet, and I’m ruining things, per usual. If he’s trying so hard, I guess I can try a little, too. “Sure,” I say, “of course I trust you.” We finish our lunch and walk back to my car. “Where now?”
Foster shakes his head. “This is only going to work if you let me drive.”
This plan is getting more involved by the minute. But in the spirit of trying to be fair, we switch seats, and I stare at him, waiting for the answer. This better not just be his ploy to get a turn driving.
“I can’t tell you where we’re going because it will ruin the surprise, but I can tell you that you'll love it. I think.”
I bite my lip and slump into the passenger seat. Foster starts driving and he’s going slower than Opa used to. “You know you’re driving like a grandpa, right?”
He turns towar
d me when we stop at a red light, and his mouth is open wide. It’s hard not to laugh at his expression. “I do actually know that,” he says. “I’m driving slowly because I know you'll kill me if I crash your car. Safety first, Claire.”
“Oh yeah. Good idea.” I smile to myself as he putters along and the other Florida drivers lay on their car horns as they zoom past us. It’s a nice feeling to have someone other than my parents care about my safety. Even if I'm tempted to duck my head anytime someone passes us.
When Foster makes a right on a familiar country road, my stomach jumps. When he turns the car into a parking lot with a giant green billboard over it, I almost leap out of the moving car.
“The Alligator Zoo?” I’m practically squealing as I reach across the seat divider to squeeze his arm. “Livvy told you about this?”
It’s hard to imagine my sister doing something so nice, but there’s no other explanation. I can’t even think of any ulterior motive she’d have for telling Foster how much I’ve always wanted to visit the zoo. The Alligator Zoo is a farm out in the country with various species of alligators in a fenced-in swamp. It’s located in the middle of nowhere off the highway, right between two stands that sell fresh Florida oranges. Every summer of my life, I’ve begged my parents to take us to see the alligators, and every summer my mom refuses. They took us to the regular zoo, the aquarium, the wax museum, but the Alligator Zoo was off limits because Mom insists just the sight of alligators makes her physically sick.
“This is the first good surprise I’ve ever had.” I lean across the console to kiss him. He grins with his lips pressed against mine. Our breath comes together in short, fast puffs of air.
“I’m glad. You deserve it. You did awesome at the sculpting contest. We’re a perfect team.”
I blush, and I can’t think of anything else to say. I smile back at him until I have to look away or we’ll never make it out of the car and into the zoo. We hand the tickets Foster purchased in advance to the zoo employee and head through the entrance gate.
There are several exhibits of small reptile breeds at the beginning of the park, and I walk slowly past them, eagerly staring. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been fascinated by all animals, but especially the green and slithering ones like lizards and snakes. My mom’s been trying to talk me out of my interest for about as long as I can remember. The fact that Foster brought me here is the best thing ever.
We walk along paved pathways that wind around different water enclosures. Each enclosure holds small families of alligators, grouped together according to size and sex. In the very middle of the zoo, located directly under a swooping bridge, is the main attraction. There’s an informational sign explaining that this is the home of Big Benny, the second-largest alligator in captivity in all of Florida. Foster and I huddle together to read it and then turn to each other with wide eyes. He tugs on my hand and leads me closer. I don’t even have to say it out loud because Foster understands I can’t leave the zoo without seeing Big Benny up close.
We join a crowd gathering in the center of the bridge and peer down into the water. There are several gators swirling around in the murky green-brown gunk, but it’s impossible to tell whether or not any of them are the famed alligator. Minutes later, someone in the still-growing crowd points at the water, and we all follow his focus. A massive green-and-tan tail whips up, and a trickle of water lands on the crowd watching from above. Everyone screams.
A handler appears at the edge of the bank down below. She probably took one of the narrow paths from the bank while the rest of us were distracted by trying to find Benny. I take in a sharp breath. I love watching the gators, and I’m dying to see the big one, but I know I’d never be brave enough to risk standing feet away from their powerful bodies. Feedback echoes from a sound box, bringing everyone’s attention to the handler. There are more gasps and murmuring from the impressed crowd. The handler’s face gives no reaction. She taps the voice piece hooked on to the side of her ear before speaking into it.
“Hello there, y’all. Welcome to feeding time at the Alligator Zoo. As you can see, our very intelligent alligators here know their lunch is on its way.”
She pauses as we all look toward the swirling alligators below us. “I’ll begin by feeding the smaller ones, and then we’ll end with feeding Big Benny.”
She reaches to her side for a bucket of small, wriggling fish. She waves two of the fish high up in the air, and a small alligator jumps from the water and snatches them from her outstretched hand. The crowd goes silent as we’re all reminded how dangerous these animals can be. She empties the bucket two by two, and with every alligator fed, their sizes increase. Finally, she holds up the empty bucket so everyone can see that the fish are gone. Then she holds up her other hand, producing a second bucket. She pulls out a chicken. Dead poultry stings at my nose and taints the air.
It’s not alive, but it is fully beaked and feathered. The way it hangs limp in her hands makes me want to turn away, but I’m too invested in seeing Big Benny emerge to leave now.
“I’ll need complete silence for this, please,” she says into her voice piece, scratchy and urgent. I can’t tell if I’m imagining things, but her voice seems to be shaking a little.
I reach for Foster’s hand and slide directly in front of him, his chest behind my head. The handler raises the chicken in the air by its legs. We wait. Three seconds later, an enormous creature leaps out of the murky water and attaches its powerful jaws to the butt of the chicken, yanking it out of the handler’s hands. Water sprays in a rainbow pattern as his tail slaps the water. As the gator dives back under with its food, the handler sways on her feet, knocked off her balance by the monster that is Big Benny.
“There you go, y’all,” she says. “I’m going to get out of here while these guys are eating, but thanks for watching feeding time. We’ll see you for the next meal at 5:00.”
I can’t stop talking about Big Benny on the car ride home. “Could you imagine being that close to an alligator so big that he almost knocks you off your feet?” Foster nods at all the right times, but I’m not sure he’s as into all of it as I am. I grin back at him. “Thank you. That was so amazing, and it means a lot to me.”
He eyes me while he drives. “I had fun too."
It’s getting late, but the sun doesn’t set until after nine during the summer, so it’s still light outside.
“Should we stay up and watch a movie?” I don’t want him to drop me off yet; the day has been too perfect.
Dad's programmed the TV remote in the living room so it's almost impossible for anyone but him to use. While Foster makes popcorn, I run to the bathroom and change into a spare pair of pajamas to get rid of the alligator smell. We sit on the sofa while we watch one of the Fast and the Furious movies on my laptop which is on the coffee table. I’m not really sure which one it is. I let Foster pick the movie since he saw the alligators for me, but these kinds of movies aren't my thing. Foster loves cars and action movies, but he’s not paying attention to any of it tonight.
Instead, he’s running his hands over my back and bumping his legs against mine every chance he gets. I’d rather kiss him than watch the movie anyway. I pull his face toward mine and kiss him, hard, until I’m forced to come up for air. His lips are salty from the popcorn. My hands wrap around his neck and trail down his arms and along velvety tan skin. He touches my face, his hands running through my wild hair. Everywhere he touches tingles with warmth.
“Should I take you to Carolina's now?” His voice is low and breathy.
I shake my head and whisper, even though there’s no reason to. My heart beats into my chest as soon as I get the words out. "Not yet.”
Foster stretches across the space between us to kiss me again and everything is warmer and faster than before. I stop kissing him back and try to catch my breath—and clear my head. He pulls away, and we stare at each other, breathing hard and eyes wide.
“Are you okay?” he whispers with his nose against min
e. I breathe in the coconut shampoo from the guest bathroom.
I nod.
He untangles his arms and legs from my body and leans back against the couch. I stay perfectly still until he reaches for my hand again and squeezes. I join him and lean on his shoulder.
“Thank you for today,” I say.
I snuggle my head into his chest where his heartbeat drums wildly against my ear.
Thirty-One
My body is so stiff and sore when I first wake up that I’m sure it’s the middle of the night. One squinted glance at the room around me, and I'm completely lost. Light pours through the windows and fills the room with dancing spots of yellow and white. Foster’s arm flops over my stomach...and then I remember with a flash how tired we were last night after the movie. I told myself I’d just close my eyes for another minute and then I’d get up and have Foster take me to Carolina's. Apparently, that was a terrible plan.
I shake Foster’s shoulder until his eyes drift open. “Foster, wake up.” My voice is softer than I mean it to be and my face warmer. I don’t know why I feel shy about it; it’s not like we planned on spending the night together. But we did, and somehow it feels like a big deal.
He glances around until he comes to the same realization. “We fell asleep?”
The Art of Falling in Love Page 16