Authors: Nick Lake
He looked me up on Facebook?
“No,” I said. There is no point in social media when you don’t socialize.
“Twitter? Instagram?”
“No.” Twitter? Too much like voices in your head. So many people’s voices, never shutting up.
That’s what I was thinking, but all I
said
was no. It probably came out too abrupt. You went silent.
Pirate Golf was close. We caught up with Paris and walked over there, and Shane waved from the entrance. “Hey!” he said. “Cassandra. How’s it going?”
“Okay, thanks,” I said.
“I’m Shane,” said Shane, to Paris.
“I’m Paris,” said Paris, to Shane.
“Ah,” said Shane. “The City of Romance.” He pronounced it like that, with the capital
C
and the capital
R
. He was looking at Paris with a slightly stunned expression, at her long legs and her wide eyes.
“Nope,” said Paris. “Wrong name. Easy mistake. I’m Paris as in Texas. The City of SUVs. And fat people.”
“Huh,” said Shane. He struggled for a riposte. “Bummer,” he said eventually.
Paris winked at me and laughed.
“I’m Julie, by the way,” said Julie, in a sarcastic tone.
“Oh, hey, Julie,” said Shane, but you could tell he wasn’t really interested.
“Hey, Shane,” said Julie, flatly.
Paris clapped her hands. “Let’s play,” she said.
“I get the feeling she’s always playing,” you whispered to me.
“Yep,” I said. “Me too.”
Paris and I showed our VIP passes, and you and Shane showed your employee IDs, which was kind of unnecessary given you were in your denim-shirt uniform with the radio clipped to the V where your chest— And I looked at your chest and you saw and oh the
embarrassment
of it—and Shane was in his red lifeguard shorts and a white T-shirt with the Piers logo on it, and Julie just kind of said, “I’m with them,” and the kid behind the counter gave us sticks and a ball, a different color for each of us. “There’s a family on hole one,” he said. “Just wait two minutes and you can go.”
Is it sticks? I’m hopeless with sports, even mini golf.
I’m going to look it up. I’m on my dad’s computer, by the way. I never said that. I’m in the study, surrounded by bugs, the tanks glowing. It’s kind of peaceful. The keyboard is old though and heavy and the keys make an annoyingly loud clicking sound. Then that sometimes gets the bugs going, and they click back at me. I don’t know which ones click—the beetles, maybe.
This room used to be where my mom would sew. I haven’t told you that either. She was a dressmaker—she had mannequins in here, measuring tapes, an old Singer sewing machine. Patterns and scissors; fabrics on rolls; it was like a treasure shop. Mostly she didn’t make stuff outright—women would bring her expensive dresses though, which they’d bought from Bergdorf Goodman in New York or whatever, and she would alter them so they fitted
perfectly
. Those women loved her for that: I could see it in their eyes, the joy when they saw themselves in the long mirror Mom had hung on the wall.
Dad kept it all for two years, after she died. The mannequins, everything. Then one day I came downstairs and it was all gone, and his bugs, which had been in the basement, were all along the walls. He also put in a safe, and bought a handgun—for protection, he said. After Mom died, he was obsessed with protection. With keeping us safe. Only I never felt very protected; I felt mostly the opposite, like his anger was the biggest threat. It was like living with a black bear.
Anyway.
I didn’t like his redecorating the room and filling it with insects and a gun, but I never said anything. It was like she was finally gone, even from the house. Like, before that, if the house had a mouth, the house would have said it missed her too, because it was still filled with objects that belonged to her, like memories in a mind. You know?
Anyway.
I did look it up. It’s not a stick, it’s a club. A golf club.
Okay, so we got the clubs and went around the course, but of course you were there, you know all this already. We laughed; we had fun. We chipped our balls up into a pirate ship, along the rigging, off a plank and into shark-infested waters. We tapped them up spiral slides and over ramps to clear rivers. We made clocks chime and windmills turn.
Shane tried desperately to hook up with Paris, and she gave weird answers to his questions until he gave up and just started acting normal instead, which was much less annoying. After a while he even tried to hit on Julie for a bit, but he dropped that pretty fast when it was obvious it was going nowhere.
You spoke to me. You spoke to me about the town you grew up in, twenty miles away, and how there was nothing to do there, no way to make money in the summer—just a general store and a gas station and a bunch of farmland that no one could earn a living from.
You spoke to me about how you wanted to go to college; the books you loved. Which were mostly the books
I
loved, and that was cool. I had noticed you, the very first time I saw you. But the more I spoke to you, the more I realized
why
I had noticed you. Does that make any sense?
“I’m on an old-texts kick,” you said. “Now that I’ve finished the Ovid. I’m on the
Epic of Gilgamesh
. It’s Babylonian, the oldest written work in—”
“It’s Sumerian, actually,” I said.
You rolled your eyes. “Geek,” you said.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re reading it. I’m just correcting your elementary errors. There are Babylonian versions, but the Sumerian came first.”
You made a face. “Speaking of which,” you said, “I don’t think the ball is supposed to go in the
actual
water. You aim for that painted ocean there; see the track up the octopus’s tentacle?” My ball had gone flying over the fence ringing the course, and presumably had landed on the beach below.
“Bite me,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” you said. “It’s a complex game.”
I stuck out my tongue at you.
We talked for hours, it felt like. The voice said nothing at all; the voice couldn’t get past the force field that was you.
It was nice.
I know, I know, that’s the lamest thing I could possibly say, but you have to understand, for me it was major. I mean, hanging with Paris was weird, and fun, but the voice was always there, somewhere—hanging on the edge of things like a dark bat—and it took a lot of energy, being with her, even when the voice was silent.
Being with you though … being with you was nice. And not just because the voice wasn’t there. I want you to know that.
As we walked back down the boardwalk, we passed another basketball stall—the racks of plush toys, the little hoops and child-sized balls. People think the whole thing is gamed, that the hoops are too small for the ball, or that the stallman bends them or something to make the angle impossible. But they don’t. It’s just hard.
Paris stopped. “Competition,” she said.
“What?” said Shane.
The stall was being run by a pimply kid in the same blue shirt that you wore to work, with a leather jacket over it two sizes too big. “You playing?” he said. “Five dollars, three shots.”
“Yes,” said Paris. She reached into her purse.
“We are?” you said.
“Yep,” said Paris. “All of us. Best shot wins … I don’t know. Pride, or something.”
“You get a toy,” said the kid behind the counter. He held out a ball to Paris.
“What size?” said Paris.
“Make one shot, get a small one. Two shots, medium; three shots—”
“Large?” said Paris.
“Yeah.”
“Shocker,” said Paris.
The kid rolled his eyes.
“I work in the plush warehouse,” you said. “I can get a stuffed toy whenever I want.”
“Winning one is different,” said Paris.
“Tell me about it,” said Julie. “I’ve never won anything in my life.”
“Don’t be defeatist,” said Paris.
“Well, I’m up for it,” said Shane. He was kind of bouncing on his toes. He wanted to impress Paris. She wasn’t even looking at him. She lined up her ball and threw it; it bounced off the rim and the kid caught it. Smoothly, I have to say. He didn’t look sporty, but he’d been behind that counter for a month maybe. I knew the feeling.
Paris missed her next two shots too, and then Shane stepped forward and sank his first ball beautifully, straight down through the hoop. He missed the next two though and chose a bunny rabbit Beanie Baby. He handed it to Paris, and she clutched it to her chest, with her two Elmos. “My hero,” she said.
“Uh, okay,” said Shane, like he didn’t know if she was insulting him or not. It was sometimes hard to tell with Paris.
You took your first ball. “I suck at ball games,” you said.
“Excuses,” said Paris.
“Sucking is not an excuse. It’s just sucking. I’m not trying to hide anything.”
Paris frowned. “Yeah, acknowledged. I take it back.”
“Good,” you said, and Paris laughed, and I laughed, because I was glad, I was glad you and her were clicking, even if somewhere deep down I had a worry that went,
What if he likes her more than he likes you?
You shot: missed.
Missed again.
Missed again.
“Said I sucked,” you said.
“You were not lying,” said Paris. “Cass. You’re up.”
Maybe it was the kid who made me do it. I don’t know. The way he patronized me. I mean, he handed me the ball and he said, “You might want to come a bit closer. The hoops are higher than they look.”
I raised my eyebrows. He had a month on that stall; I had two whole summers. I got the ball up on my palm, rolled it off my fingers as I laid it up, and it back-spun in an arc that just happened to send it sailing over the kid’s head, and it fell through the hoop with a
hush
.
Nothing but net.
“You done this before?” said the kid.
“Yep.”
I spun the next ball on my finger and then let it settle in my hand.
Hush.
Two.
Hush.
Three.
“So … ah … you get to choose a big one,” said the kid.
Paris started to say something, behind me, some innuendo, but Julie got in quick, said, “Nuh-uh. Don’t even think about it.”
“Spoilsport,” said Paris.
“What do you want?” asked the kid. He gestured at the big toys on the top shelf.
“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you recommend?”
“What do I recommend? Out of the plush kiddies’ toys?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “Cookie Monster, I guess.”
“I like cookies,” you said.
“Perfect,” I said. I reached out, took the Cookie Monster the kid handed me. It was surprisingly heavy, and furry. It’s funny how holding a toy like that gives you a momentary feeling of warmth, of comfort, even though you’re not small anymore. I handed it to you.
“For me?” you said.
“You like cookies. There you go.”
“Oh wow,” said Paris. “Now it’s Jersey Official.”
“What?” said Julie.
“She’s from out of town,” said Paris.
“So are you,” I said.
Paris waved this away like it was an unimportant detail; small print.
“
What
?” said Julie.
“When a guy wins a toy for a girl on the boardwalk, that’s like the sign that they’re, you know, together,” said Shane.
“Shut up, it’s not,” I said, feeling myself going red. Even though I knew it totally was.
Awkward.
“Anyway, she’s not a guy,” you said. “She’s … a girl.” But you had hesitated too long—Paris caught it. Hell, even I caught it, and I’m not exactly experienced with this stuff. The pause. The inflection on “girl.”
“She certainly is,” said Paris. “You’ve noticed that, huh?”
Double awkward.
“Shut up,” I said again. I was waiting for the voice to chime in, to tell me that I was imagining this vibe anyway, this idea that you might be interested in me, but then I remembered that you were there, so the voice wouldn’t speak.
You lifted the Cookie Monster, pushed it between me and Paris. “Excuse me,” you said, in the Cookie Monster’s voice. “I’m hungry. I want cookies.”
Paris smiled. “No cookies. This is Jersey, land of the funnel cake.”
You nodded. “Funnel cake it is, oh courageous leader.”
“I should think so,” said Paris. “But first, Julie’s turn.”
“No, no,” said Julie. “I told you, I never—”
“—win anything, I know,” said Paris. “Still.” Julie sighed and stepped up. She took the balls and she barely tried, she just threw them kind of randomly. She didn’t win anything. I have to say, she didn’t look at home there, competing for a plush toy at a concession stand in an amusement park. I felt a flash of irritation at Paris for humiliating her like this. I mean, Julie had tattoos all down her arms and was wearing a pleated fifties skirt with a Replacements T-shirt. This was
not
her scene.
“See?” said Julie, as the last ball pinged off the board and went flying. “It’s like a curse.”
“What is?” you said. You’d been chasing Shane with the Cookie Monster a moment before, growling; you’d missed the part before.
“I never win anything,” said Julie. “Like, not even scratch cards.
Never
.”
“That sucks,” you said.
Julie did an eye-shrug. “Whatever.” She started walking, and we followed.
Your cell rang and you looked at it, then at us. “My dad,” you said. “Save some funnel cake for me.” You answered the phone. “Hi, Dad. Yeah, I’m at work. Yeah, I’ve been practicing. Yeah, listen …”
You walked off a little distance, head down, talking low and intently into the phone.
“Funnel cake, yes?” Julie said. There was a funnel stall a bit farther down—we could see it.
“Yep,” said Paris.
You put your hand over the bottom of your phone. “Save some for—”
“You, I know,” I shouted back.
You nodded, pleased, and turned away again. “Yeah, Dad, I know, I’m—”
I stopped eavesdropping, and walked on.
Fell into step beside Julie.
“Not even a spelling bee?” I asked, as we walked.
“Huh?”
“You said you didn’t ever win anything.”
Julie shook her head. “I am a born loser,” she said.
“What about you, Shane?” Paris asked. “Won anything?”