Sharks & Boys (5 page)

It’s
after midnight when I pull onto the party block. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I think I’ll look bad, and by that I mean emotionally unbalanced, if I immediately storm the house and start making demands on Wick. I should probably case things out and try to catch him doing something wrong first. I drum my hands on the steering wheel and think this over.

I pick up my phone, which I muted outside Vergennes, and see that I’ve got fifteen missed calls from my mother, four from my father, and zero from Wick. Not even Landon has called me. I feel ridiculous. I toss the phone in the backseat.

My head throbs. The only thing I’ve eaten today is the marzipan shoes and a bag of pretzels that I bought at a gas station along the way. I’d intended to buy a sandwich, but their refrigeration system was down, and the only lunch-type food available was nachos. I couldn’t bring myself to introduce a molten cheddar product into my mother’s new car. Her bucket seats are so immaculate, they’re virginal. Sadly, as much as I want to explore my risk-taking side, responsibility dominates my personality. Even while stealing a car.

I park down the street. What next? I’ve seen people stalk other people on television dramas. I replay those scenes. The next step now seems obvious. Hunched over, I run down the sidewalk through puddles of light made by the streetlamps overhead. For the first time in my life, I wish I was shorter than five feet four. After passing several well-groomed hedges, I finally arrive at 2510 Hobart. A dog barks at me from across the street.

I’ve already passed three signs alerting me that this street is protected by a Neighborhood Watch. I wonder if I look suspicious? A car passes by and I hurry into the back.

Before I round the corner, I hear all their voices. They’re sitting in the backyard. I stay on the side of the house and crouch down in the grass.

I hear the sound of a can cracking open. I’m disgusted. If somebody says all of the digits in Natalie-the-gymnast’s phone number, I am going to call her and warn her about Dale.

Wick is so sensible. It’s one of his best qualities. But he’s got a lot of good qualities. One of my favorites is that he’s completely tuned in to other people. Once, to cheer me up, he made an amazing picnic lunch for me in Leddy Park. I’d just gotten a terrible grade on an English paper about
Animal Farm
. I tried to locate redeeming qualities in Squealer. Wick used a pig-shaped cookie cutter to mold a variety of cheeses into all the swine characters from the book. I ate those symbolic pigs and laughed harder than I’d ever laughed with another person.

I lean back against the house and try to will my head not to ache. At the rate things are going, it could take hours before Wick does anything incriminating.

“Man, look at the moon,” Skate says. “It looks just like a lemon wedge. I feel like I should write a poem about that moon.”

Based on the e-zine, I’m not sure if Skate has poet potential. Is he sincere enough? Can he make his rhymes less lazy? Stop. Why am I being so mean? This is one of the last times I’ll be around him before he goes to college. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe I’m pushing him and Burr away. We don’t talk at all anymore. And we stopped talking way before the e-zine incident. I didn’t know how to handle things. I’d never lost anybody before. I was worried I’d say the wrong thing.

“Write a poem about this moon,” Dale says.

I hear the sound of a zipper followed by the clink of a belt buckle hitting the pavement. Laughter erupts. I don’t need to see what’s happening. Wick’s brother is notorious for mooning people, places, and things. Once, after pressing his pasty cheeks against the emergency exit window on the way home from school—as we passed an outdoor church brunch for widows—Dale was permanently banned from the school bus.

I begin to pluck at the grass. I keep expecting to hear Simone’s dumb giggle float around the corner. But it truly seems to be a gathering of just guys. I’m ashamed. I didn’t do anything interesting; I just did something incredibly stupid. I guess it’s a fine line between the two. How will I explain things to my mother? What excuse can I possibly come up with for abandoning her and putting more than a thousand extra miles on her new car? I guess I can claim an illness. Like I thought my appendix was bursting, and I wanted to get to a really good hospital that specialized in that sort of thing. Or maybe I should keep thinking.

But thinking makes me feel like throwing up. In a patch of wet grass, I lie down. I can’t listen to them drink beer and eat pizza all night. Shouldn’t I drive back? A charley horse is starting in my calf. I stand and hop on my right leg, trying to unkink the muscle in my left. Sadly, pumps are not a tight-fitting shoe. I watch the left shoe sail in the direction of the guys. I hunker down in the grass again. My shoe is not in clear view; it’s off to the side, still hidden in the darkness. But it’s so white it looks somewhat radioactive. Somebody drags a chair across the cement patio.

“Well, boys, I think it’s time we visit Gretchen.”

The gathering seems happy about this suggestion. More metal chair legs rub across the patio. Cheers and whistles mix with the unpleasant scraping sound.

“I’ll get more beer,” offers Burr.

“Who’s going to drive?” asks Sov. “You can’t drink and drive in my dad’s van.”

I feel a little sorry for Sov and Munny. Sometimes I think Burr uses them. Dale too. Sov and Munny’s dad works as the assistant men’s basketball coach for the University of Vermont. They get free tickets to games and the chance to mingle with the players. Sometimes they share these perks with their friends. It’s pretty obvious that the guys enjoy basking in the cultural cachet that Mr. Paddington’s job extends to them. Sov and Munny aren’t too caught up in it, but Burr, Skate, and Dale love it.

Sov and Munny don’t care about college sports. Their extracurricular interests are global and fall into two camps: political science and literature. Sov and Munny run this after-school group called the Culture Club, and it attracts all sorts of popular kids: cheerleaders, football players, drama freaks, class officers, the tennis team, stoners, etcetera. They read books. Mainly about philosophy and other cultures, I think. And they also eat foods that represent the philosophical idea or culture that they’re reading about.

And the Culture Club has some pull. Both Robert Pinsky and George Saunders have written the club letters, declining (due to scheduling conflicts and lack of payment) to come and take part in discussions about their books. Their missives are short, but pretty polite. Sov and Munny got permission to hang the letters in the trophy case. You’d think the Culture Club would be a gathering of losers, but it’s totally the opposite. The month they read Hélène Cixous and ate crepes, I strongly considered going.

“Seriously, Burr,” Sov says. “No beer in the van. I’m not losing interstate road tripping privileges for you.”

I wish I had those kinds of privileges.

“Suit yourself, boys,” adds Skate. “But Gretchen feels better after a few beers.” He laughs. Burr howls like a dog again. Landon joins him. I stick my finger down my throat and pretend to gag myself. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think like a guy. I have way too many brain cells. I pull my finger out of my mouth and wait to hear Wick say that he doesn’t want to visit Gretchen. But Wick isn’t voicing any dissent.

“I think we should leave the beer here,” says Sov. “If any of it spills in the van, my dad will be able to smell it.”

Burr laughs. “Relax. We won’t drive with open containers. We’re law abiders.”

Is he trying to be ironic? They’re drinking underage. I wonder if Sov and Munny will stand their ground. Maybe they’ll act like moral anchors and keep the rest of the guys from becoming reckless idiots. Sov and Munny are the youngest among the twin group. I suspect the main reason they were invited to the party is because their father was willing to lend the guys their fifteen-passenger van. Of course, Sov and Munny didn’t drive; they’re only fifteen. The other five probably took turns, unlike me, who had to be woman enough to do it on her own.

“More beer for me,” Burr says.

This sound of his voice makes me shiver. Why does he need to act like this? Has his grief turned him into an exaggerated rebel? And what’s wrong with his uncle? How can you buy your bereaved nephews beer? Who does that? Apparently somebody who is not concerned with contributing to the delinquency of a minor. And what about Gretchen? Who’s Gretchen? She sounds like a floozy. She might be a friend of Simone’s. The guys seem very excited to get to her. For all I know, she could be an exotic dancer. If she is, I bet she’s the kind who takes it all off.

I hold my breath. My life is a crisis. I don’t want Landon to talk to Mom, and who was Wick talking to? Wick doesn’t spend countless hours on the phone. I stare at Wick’s phone as though it’s going to be capable of giving me answers. Maybe Wick is going to text me. Where is my phone? It’s in the Subaru. The suspense of waiting until I get back to my car to check makes me feel unusually vulnerable. The wind picks up, and I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.