I adopted a teeny turtle voice and made the egg talk. “Put me back! I miss my brothers and sister! Then I placed the egg with the others. I helped Alphonse cover them up with sand.
“I get how marking the nest protects it from people, and maybe dogs if their owners are with them,” I said. “How does it help with raccoons and foxes?”
“It doesn’t,” Alphonse said, rising to his feet. “That’s why Erika’s making cages.”
I stood up and brushed the sand off my shorts. “You put the cages over the nests?”
“Yeah. They’re made out of metal, and we plant them deep enough that a fox can’t dig under it.”
“So this nest’ll be safe? Once a cage is over it?”
He started down the dune. “Safer than it would have been.”
“That’s awesome,” I said. I took skittering steps behind him, hopping over sticks and brambles. “I mean, that’s a lot of turtles.”
“Do you know how many’ll survive to adulthood?”
“Uh ...” I’d assumed all of them would, if they didn’t get eaten or crushed while they were still in their eggs. But his tone suggested otherwise. “Seventy-five?”
“Guess again.”
“Fifty?”
We cleared the dune, and walking grew easier.
“Two,” Alphonse said.
“Two? Out of a hundred babies, only two will survive?”
“And that’s if we’re lucky. Could be one, could be zero.”
Watching Alphonse by the nest, it was clear he cared about the turtles. I sensed he enjoyed being the bearer of this bad news, though.
“Why?” I demanded. “What happens to the other ninety-eight?”
“The hatchlings are born with a built-in mapping system. They know to follow the moon to the water. But if there’s another source of light, they could head for that instead of the moon.”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“Or a predator could get them as they make their way across the sand. Seagulls will swoop down and get them, too.”
I winced. What a terrible way to go, snatched up and carried off before you were a day old.
“And the turtles that do make it to the water ...” Alphonse shrugged. “A lot of them will end up as shark food.”
“Shark food!” I shuddered. “DeBordieu has sharks?!”
“Uh, yeah,” he said, as if I were being stupid. “It’s the ocean.”
“I don’t like sharks,” I stated. “Sharks are mean.”
He shook his head, smiling. He was acting totally condescending, and it made him so much less cute.
Well. That wasn’t true; it actually didn’t take away from his cuteness at all. But it did make me appreciate Lars, who would never make fun of me for saying sharks were mean.
“My boyfriend’s going to flip out,” I said. “He already wants me to come home. And when he hears there’s sharks? That I’ll be swimming with sharhs?! I let out a low whistle to say those sharks better watch out—and then felt immediately fake-ish, like I was playing a role and not being the real me.
Maybe I just wanted to get the boyfriend bit out in the open?
I slid my eyes sideways to see how Alphonse was taking it.
“If I had a girlfriend, I’d want her to do more than sit around and look pretty,” he said.
What?! I made a face, which—if he chose to notice— would tell him how ridiculous his comment was. Like Lars just wanted me to sit around and look pretty. Whatever.
Wait. Was Alphonse saying he thought I was pretty?
“If I had a girlfriend ...” he went on. He paused, glancing at me. Then he gazed deliberately into the distance and kicked a shell.
Oh good grief. Another difference between boys and girls was how boys operated under the misapprehension that the start-a-sentence-but-not-finish-it ploy was, like, clever and cool. Alphonse wanted me to beg and plead and care soooooo much about this hypothetical girlfriend of his, but I was not going to give him that satisfaction.
So I gazed deliberately into the distance, too. La la la, gazing into the distance, thinking deep thoughts ...
“If you had a girlfriend, what?” I demanded.
Alphonse smiled smugly. “She wouldn’t be the type of girl who was afraid of sharks, that’s all.”
Nyeh, nyeh, nyeh, I responded silently. What I said out loud, was, “How lovely for you.”
He laughed a clean, happy laugh, and just like that, I liked him again. But not as a boy! Just as a person!!!! Or, hey—as a new friend, which meant I could cross off another item on my list. Sweet.
“Well, good thing we’re not going out,” I told my new friend. “Because if we were, you’d have to dump me. I’m even afraid of land sharks.”
“Land sharks,” he repeated.
“Yup. Security guards, too.”
He cocked one eyebrow, that smile of his tugging at his lips. “Am I missing something?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, using the same tone he used when I asked if DeBordieu had sharks. I spread my arms and held out my hands, palms up. “Me.”
“You? How?”
I looked mysterious (or tried to) and stayed mum. Either he’d figure it out or he wouldn’t, and it didn’t really matter, since I wasn’t sure what I meant, anyway. It danced somewhere along the lines of how he was missing out on fabulous me because of his decree not to date girls who refused to swim with sharks. Or something.
Of course, I also meant it hypothetically
I already had a boyfriend.
Be Completely Spazzy
JUNE TURNED INTO JULY, and my skin turned the warm brown of maple syrup. Even Dinah got tan lines, though they developed so gradually, I couldn’t have said when. We operated on “beach time,” as Virginia called it, which meant not worrying about boring details like what day it was, or even what time it was. Getting up early to scout for turtle crawls was the only activity done on schedule, as it had to be done by sunup.
I learned the strangest thing ever, though. I (dare I say it?) was a morning person. I liked the stillness of dawn. I liked the peace and quiet. So I stayed on crawl patrol. It suited me.
Cinnamon turned out to have a knack for building cages, and she and Erika became pretty good friends. And yes, Erika was gay, Cinnamon confirmed. She had a girlfriend back home she was always talking about.
“And her girlfriend is pretty,” Cinnamon told me and Dinah as we rode borrowed bikes to the gatehouse one hot Saturday in July. The grizzled old guard had called to say he had something for Virginia, and we’d volunteered to go pick it up. “Like, really pretty. Girly pretty, with makeup and everything.”
“So Erika’s, like, the guy?” I said. “And her girlfriend’s the girl?”
“Except they’re both girls,” Dinah said.
“Right,” I said. I swung my handlebars to the right and then to the left, tracing lazy S’s on the asphalt road. “What do y’all think about that?”
“About what?” Cinnamon said.
“About ... I don’t know. About them being gay.”
“Hmm,” Dinah mused. “I don’t think it’s gross or anything. Do y’all?”
“No,” Cinnamon said with attitude. “Why would I think it was gross? In fact, why would I care, period? I don’t care who Erika goes out with.”
“You cared enough to tell us how pretty she is,” I pointed out.
“Oh,” Cinnamon said. First she looked pissed at being caught out ... and then she laughed. “I did, didn’t I?”
“I don’t think it’s gross, either,” I said. “I do think it’s interesting, but I think all relationships are interesting.” I paused. “Like you and James, for example.”
Cinnamon turned red, and Dinah and I shared an amused glance. All we had to do was mention James, and right on cue Cinnamon would turn red. Our tough-as-nails Cinnamon had been slayed by sweet, skinny James.
“Don’t you start on James,” she threatened. She pedaled faster.
I sped up to keep even. “I can’t help it. Y
ou two are so cute together.”
“You know how I feel about that word, Winnie. Don’t you use that word—I mean it.”
“But you are cute, how you’re always holding hands and gazing adoringly at each other. Cute cute cutie cute.”
“Remember that very first day?” Dinah said. Her sentences came out choppy, punctuated by huffs of exertion. “When James complimented your flip-flops?”
Cinnamon turned a brighter shade of red and stood up to pump. She was giggling helplessly, however, because that’s what James did to her. I thought it was great. James was far nicer than Bryce, and he’d managed to do what no one else could. After three weeks in James’s company, she was finally off her Black Widow kick.
“Slow down, lady!” I called.
Her words floated over her shoulder. “Will you change the subject?”
“Hmmm ... maybe?”
She worked those quads and didn’t let up.
Dinah, who was dying, called, “Yes! ”—pant, pant—“We promise! ”
Cinnamon stopped her manic pedaling and coasted. I caught up first and coasted alongside her.
“Hi!” I said cheerfully.
She pretend-scowled, but her twitching lips betrayed her.
“For reals, you and James are adorable,” I told her. I glanced behind me to see how close Dinah was. “But I’ll stop talking about it for now—if you’ll help me put Dinah in the hot seat, eh?”
“Thank god,” Cinnamon said. “And yes, please. With my whole heart, I beg you.”
Dinah reached us, and we rode along peacefully for a minute or so. Tra-la-la. Dinah caught her breath.
Then, with the innocence of a daisy, I said, “You know who else is a cutie?”
“Who?” Cinnamon said, equally daisy-esque.
“That guy who hardly ever talks,” I said. I scrunched my forehead. “Shiloh, is it?”
Dinah grew immediately flustered. “Guys.”
“It’s Milo,” Cinnamon corrected. “And he talks—just not to us.”
“Really?” I said. “Then to who?”
“Please don’t,” Dinah begged. “If you talk about this, I’m going to wreck.”
I glanced at her to see how pink she was. On a scale of one to ten, she was an eleven.
“He doesn’t even like me,” she went on.
“Sure he does,” Cinnamon said. “Why else would he keep signing up for bumper sticker duty?”
“Because he likes bumper stickers?”
“Or because he likes you,” I said.
She rode over a rock that was directly in front of her, sending her front tire wobbling all over the place.
“Whoa there, Romeo,” Cinnamon cautioned.
“You mean Juliet,” I said. “Milo is Romeo.”
“Mile-ee-o,” Cinnamon said, trying it out.
Dinah moaned. “He’s so smart, y’all. And funny. I know y’all haven’t seen that side of him, but he is. Did I tell you about his online fund-raiser?”
“Yes,” Cinnamon and I chorused.
“Where he challenged people to participate in his first annual Oatmeal Cream Pie Eat-Off?”
“Ye-e-es!”
“And Milo ate—”
“Two dozen oatmeal cream pies,” Cinnamon and I recited in unison. “And he vlogged it on Blog.TV, even the part where he threw up, inspiring his viewers to donate over two hundred dollars—”
“To the no-kill animal shelter in his town,” Dinah finished. She sighed rapturously. “Because he loves animals. Just like me.”
“You two are a match made in heaven, and I’m not even lying,” Cinnamon said.
Dinah thought so, too. It was written all over her face.
“He’s gotten handsomer since we got here,” I said. “I think the sun has helped his skin, don’t you?”
“I don’t care about his skin,” Dinah said.
I hmmm-ed, because I didn’t believe her. Milo’s skin was looking better, but in all honesty, his acne was still pretty bad.
“I don’t,” Dinah said, sounding mad. “I don’t care about superficial stuff like that.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Sorry.”
She glanced at me to say Fine, but don’t mention Milo’s skin again.
I kept thinking about it, though. Did Dinah truly not care, or did she just like Milo enough to look past it?
If I had bad skin, I would care. Did that make me superficial?
If we were all blind, it would be a different story. And maybe blind people were less superficial for that very reason. Also, people in wheelchairs and people who were missing limbs, like that famous surfer girl who got her arm chomped off by a shark. That must have been so scary for her, though I read an article about her in People, and it seemed as if she’d gone on with her life just fine.
Sometimes I thought, If I’m going to lose my arm—if it’s written in the cards that it’s going to happen one day—then let it happen now so that I can go ahead and start being self-actualized.
But imagining losing an arm made it hard to breathe, especially on this beautiful hot day, on this clunky loaner bicycle, which I probably wouldn’t be riding if I only had one arm. I was decent at riding one-handed for brief spurts of time, but not forever and ever, amen.
I sent the universe an amended message, closing my eyes just long enough for the words to go through. Never mind! I prayed. Pay no attention to the superficial girl behind the curtain—she actually does want to keep both arms!
“Win! Head’s up!” Cinnamon called.
“Whoa,” I said, opening my eyes and swerving to avoid the Please Do Not Feed or Molest the Alligators sign. The DeBordieu roads didn’t have curbs, and I’d ridden off the pavement without realizing it.
“That sign’s coming home with me, you know,” Cinnamon said.
“That sign is private property,” Dinah scolded.
“Yes, but it says not to molest the alligators,” Cinnamon said. “That kills me.”
“The alligators’ll kill you if they see you stealing their sign,” Dinah said.
“Wah, wah, wah,” Cinnamon said good-naturedly. “Dinah, you worry too much about those gators.”
“I worry just the right amount,” Dinah retorted. “They will eat you, Cinnamon. They’ll eat you quick as a wink if you give them the chance—just like they ate that poor man’s dog.”
Two days ago, an old guy let his Yorkie go sniffing around in the marsh, and the Yorkie never returned.
“The gators see dogs and cats as snacks,” Virginia had said, shaking her head. “Renters are always learning that the hard way.”
“Look, there’s the gatehouse,” Cinnamon said. “Race ya.”
She took off at a clip. Neither Dinah nor I gave chase, choosing instead to watch her lean into the wind and pump.
“Yes!” she cried when she got there first. She thrust her fist up high. “Whaddaya think of that, suckers?” She glanced around, breathing hard and gloating. When she realized she was alone, she put on her brakes, straddled her bike, and looked over her shoulder.
“Heyyyy!” she objected.
I smiled at Dinah. She smiled back.
“I do think Milo likes you,” I told her. “You just have to get him alone so that he can act on it before it’s too late.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” Dinah implored. “What if I give him all sorts of hints, and he still doesn’t act on it?”
Hmm.
“Kiss him,” I said impulsively. Last year, before Lars and I had our first kiss, Dinah and Cinnamon had teased me without mercy. “Do it!” they urged, and, “You know you want to.” And from Cinnamon alone, “Just jump his bones, Winnie. Sheesh.”
“Seriously, Dinah,” I said. “Just, the next time you’re alone, just grab his shoulders, lean in, and plant one on him.”
“Winnie!” Dinah said, blushing like crazy and looking around to make sure Milo wasn’t floating along behind us or hiding beneath a particularly large rock.
“Hurry up, you lazy-booti
es!” Cinnamon bellowed. “Put the pedal to the metal!”
“Hey, Cin, I need you to weigh in on something,” I called. “I told Dinah she should—”
“Winnie!” Dinah squeaked.
“What?” I said.
There was panic in her eyes. “Don’t you remember what it was like before Lars kissed you? How nervous you were? ” She dropped her voice, because we were almost to the gatehouse. “Please don’t give Cinnamon any ideas, because she’ll bring it up in front of Milo. You know she will.”
I grimaced. She had a point.
“Didn’t quite catch that,” Cinnamon said as we coasted up to her. “What do you want me to weigh in on?”
“Nothing,” Dinah said quickly.
Cinnamon turned to me, raising her eyebrows.
“It was crazy talk,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But I love crazy talk, and I am worrying about it,” Cinnamon said. “Spill.”
“Well, if you really want to know ...”
“Winnie,” Dinah begged.
“I do,” Cinnamon said.
I swung my leg over the seat of my bike and hopped off. “You can’t be all Cinnamon about it. You have to be chill.”
Cinnamon made the sign of the cross. “Swear to Bob.”
“Who’s Bob?”
“I dunno. But I swear on his name that I’ll be chillier than an icicle.”
Dinah interrupted. “Shouldn’t we get Virginia’s package? She’s probably wondering where we are.”
“True,” I said. I walked my bike into the shade, swung off it, and put down the kickstand. “I’ll get it.”
“Whoa there, Sally,” Cinnamon said, dismounting at lightning speed and sidling in front of me. “Not until you tell me what Dinah said.”
“Cinnamon, you are so nosy.” I twisted my arm, freeing myself and capturing her wrist in one smooth move. “All Dinah said was that she could beat you if she tried.”
Cinnamon frowned.
“In a bike race. Actually, she said she could easily beat you, without even half trying, because you’re a big weeniebutt. I think those were her exact words—right, Dinah?”
“Exsqueeze me?” Cinnamon said.
“Go, Dinah!” I cried. “While you’ve got a head start!”
Dinah eek-ed and leaped into action, taking awkward hitch-steps to turn her bike around.