Whisper to Me(21)

“Gutting shrimp,” said Dad.

“Excuse me?” you said.

Dad smiled. “It’s what they get the out-of-town kids to do. There’s a big shrimp restaurant on Pier One. It’s kind of their thing. Buckets of shrimp, you know. The kids pull **** out of shrimps, all day long, six days a week. They keep the cushy jobs for the townies—running the stands, that kind of thing.”

“Oh,” you said, frowning.

“Shane here has the right idea,” said Dad. “Lifeguard certificate. Smart. Sit on your ass all day long, watching the girls go— Oh, sorry, honey.”

I shrugged. I wanted to be alone.

“You were a lifeguard, sir?” you asked Dad, breaking my fantasy, picking up on the tone of nostalgia in his voice.

“Yep,” said Dad. “You don’t swim? You couldn’t have gotten a certificate like your buddy here?”

You and Shane exchanged a look. I didn’t know, then, what it meant. “I swim,” you said. “But the hours are longer on the Pier. Beach shuts at sunset.”

“You need the cash, huh?” said Dad.

You nodded.

“I feel that,” said Dad. “Well, I should show you two the apartment. You’ve got everything—washing machine, if you know how to use one, bath, kitchen. Though I don’t guess you’ll want to be cooking after shelling shrimp all day.”

You gave a weak smile. But even that crinkled the skin around your green eyes and dimpled your cheeks. A half-formed thought crossed my mind that I wanted to make you smile at me.

I want to be as accurate as possible, you know? It’s not like you were haloed by sunlight, or anything, that moment in the yard. I didn’t know then who you were going to be.

Dad walked you up the stairs by the garage, you and Shane. I noticed something else then. Shane bounded up the steps, muscles moving under his sweatshirt. He had both your bags in his hands, showing off for me, I think. You walked up slowly behind him, looking around you, like you always did.

I watched you, and I thought about ballet dancers. Not because you moved with grace, because you didn’t. It was like … You know how you watch a ballet dancer pirouetting or extending their leg or whatever, and you think what they’re doing seems smooth and effortless? But then you try it yourself—I did some ballet as a kid—and you realize that it takes just an unbelievable amount of strength to hold your body like that. Watching you climb the steps, that was the impression I had. That Shane might be the one with the muscles, but you were the strong one. It was something in the way you moved. A control.

But I’m making it seem like this was a big deal in my mind, and it really wasn’t, sorry to offend you. I just want to try to record the things that went through my head when we first met.

Mainly, I was thinking about how it was going to be way harder now to be alone, that’s the honest truth. As soon as you disappeared into the apartment you disappeared from my mind. It’s so hard, when you fall for someone—the temptation is to look back on the past and rewrite things so they seem more significant. There’s a part of me going: Did I know? Did I know the first time we met that you would change everything? That you would change me?

But I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. The absolute reality is that I probably had a mental image of making out with Shane, just for a second. I mean, he was the obviously attractive one.

Given what I did to you later, or what you think I did, I know this will not be easy for you to read. And I know this is not helping you to forgive me. But bear with me, please. I promise you, things are more complicated than you realize.

Well, you know that already, now.

But there’s more.

Oh, there’s so much more.





More:





The day after you arrived, I went to the library. I walked, as usual. Mist had rolled in from the Atlantic: the ocean invading the town, sending smoke ahead of it to hide its troop movements. The street was full of cars now, and almost none of them were rusted. Tourists.

I waited until someone was talking to Jane, but just as I walked past, the woman turned and walked away.

Jane waved. “Cassie!” She’d redyed her hair; it was green now. Her nails looked like she’d painted them with Wite-Out. She was wearing a T-shirt with an old Moby-Dick cover on it.

I tried to keep walking.

“Cassie!” she called again, waving even more.

****, I thought.

I turned and smiled at her. I felt like I was stepping in front of a bus. I went closer.

“Hi,” I said.

Waited, tense.

No voice.

Not yet.

Jane beamed. “Hi! I haven’t wanted to disturb you. You’ve seemed like you wanted privacy. But you were passing and, well, I’ve missed you.” I could hear tinny music coming from the iPod buds hooked around her neck. It sounded like the Smiths.

“You too,” I said truthfully. “Sorry, I’ve been … I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she said. “You like the Murakami?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, it was great.” I hadn’t read it of course.

“The Manchuria part is dark, right?”

“Hmm.”

“And school’s out for the summer, that’s cool, huh?”