Teeth(9)

“How do you have sex with a mermaid?” I say.

“Rudy, honestly.”

“Okay, sorry. God.” But I don’t know if she even hears me, because she’s holding that monitor like she wants it to be a part of her skull. And I don’t even know if I’m sorry.



I draw that night, with Dylan watching, with enough of my attention on the waves instead of the page that it takes me a really long time to realize I’m sketching Diana.

Not a good idea, Rudy. One girl on a whole big island. If you’re not going to marry her, stay the hell away.

I drift off that night imagining regaling her with stories of my conversations with the fishboy. I dream up a smile for her.





five


MOM AND DYLAN END UP COMING WITH US TO GO FISHING, which should probably make me angry. But really I’m thankful that we can blame the awkwardness between us on Mom’s presence rather than the simple fact that we have nothing to talk about. “How’s a guy supposed to bond with his son with a chick around, huh?” Dad says, with a wink at me, and I smile back. After that, we don’t know what to do.

It’s not that we don’t have anything in common. It’s that we have everything in common, and every single bit of our lives has been discussed to death, and neither of us has anything to say that won’t put the other to sleep.

But Dylan is being adorable, sitting next to Mom in the sand next to the dock, kicking his feet in the spray. Mom keeps worrying that he’s going to get loose and float over to us somehow and we’re going to catch him with our fishing lines. Sometimes, the things she finds to worry about, it’s like we don’t have any real problems.

“We’re going to catch the freshest fish you’ve ever eaten, Dyl,” Dad calls down. Dylan could not care less.

But I’m getting comfortable sitting here on the dock, with just the tips of my toes freezing in the water. For a minute everything really is okay. I get my brain to shut up, and I breathe. Dylan digs in the sand until he finds a sand crab, one of those massive armored bugs, and he goes absolutely wild and shows it to Mom, laughing so hard he starts coughing. She’s nervous watching him get all worked up, but she’s smiling, too.

It’s warmer today than it has been, and even though the sun’s starting to go down, I’m not shivering for the first time in what seems like forever. I could probably convince myself that it’s summer, if my goddamn feet weren’t so cold.

I look up at the Delaneys’ mansion, or what I can see of it, anyway—the stilts, the underside, a bit of the lowest balcony that juts out over the dune. I don’t think they could see us unless they really craned over the edge of the balcony, which is probably a good thing, since none of us has gone up to the mansion since that time I ruined dinner two weeks ago.

I see a pair of legs—in jeans, sneakers, Diana—on the mansion’s deck, facing away from us. This might be the first time I’ve ever seen someone whose gaze doesn’t naturally aim at the ocean. Whenever you have a conversation with anyone here, their eyes are always drifting toward it, like we’re all compasses and the whole sea is north, or like if we look away for a minute, we’re afraid it will disappear and nothing will hold us here. We’ll forget why the f*ck we’re on this island.

This is the first time I’ve seen Diana since that dinner. And it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her outside. I keep expecting Ms. Delaney to come and call her in, to tell her she’s going to catch a cold or something.

I wish I knew what the hell was up with them. Maybe Ms. Delaney believes the ghost story, and she’s afraid of them, and afraid for Diana, so she keeps them both cooped up. Maybe Ms. Delaney met the fishboy once. Maybe she’s not a fan.

Diana might be able to see us now that she’s on the sand and beyond the crest of rock that stands like a fence in front of her house, so I go back to scanning the water. I’m hoping the fishboy will appear, even if just to prove to my parents that I’m not totally crazy. And it would probably impress Diana. I’d look like some superspy, spotting the mysterious sea creature before anyone else.

But when I check back toward the house, Diana is gone. I see the curtains inside move and the hint of her hair as she draws them closed over the huge window.

An hour later we still have no fish, and Mom thinks it’s time to pack it up and go home. “I’ll make brussels sprouts,” she says, like this is an incentive for us to hurry up. Or maybe she’s just rubbing in our failure. We’re so lame, we have to go back home and eat soggy brussels sprouts instead of fresh fish.

A big wave crashes on the rock in front of us. It misses me but soaks Dad. And I laugh until he yanks me up a few inches by the back of my shirt and threatens to throw me in the ocean. He tugs me up to kiss the top of my head and drops me right before his fishing rod almost jumps out of his other hand. “Hey,” he says. “Got something.”

“Hallelujah,” Mom mumbles, pulling yet another sweater over Dylan’s head. Soon we’re not going to be able to identify him. We’ll think he’s a pile of laundry.

Dad’s fishing rod jerks with another sharp tug, and then he says, “Shit, feels like I lost it.” He keeps reeling in the line.

My own fishing rod tugs. “Whoa, Dad, I think I got something now.”

“You have it?”