“I won’t let you go,” Manny said. He picked her up and rested her on his hip like a much smaller child. She held tight to his neck and tried to look brave, but every muscle in her body was tense. She was ashamed she hadn’t learned to swim and hoped Manny wasn’t going to test her. Manny waded into the bath-warm waters until they were in up to her chest and they bobbed up and down with the gentle current. The salt piqued her pores and tingled in her cuts. She loosened her arms around his neck and closed her eyes.
“Okay, now, I’m gonna teach you to float,” he said, peeling her hands away from his neck. “You’re gonna have to lean back and hold most of your breath in your lungs so you stay on top of the water. Take little bitty sips of air and let them out just as small.” Kit did as he said, lowering her head into the warm water, but held tight to his hands. She felt her rear end sinking and pulling her down. It scared her. When she tried to sit up her head dunked below the surface and she took in a great gulp of brine. Manny lifted her, sputtering and coughing, and whacked her on the back. “Strike one, let’s try that again,” he said.
“I’m not ready,” Kit said through the matted hair over her face. She was out of breath and the waves were getting bigger.
“You can’t wait for ready, kiddo,” Manny said. “You can do this. Be cool, okay? Now, let’s go.”
She didn’t like being rushed, but Manny talked to her like he believed in her. She held tight to his hand and stretched herself out, straighter this time, and kept her lungs mostly full. The salty water lapped in her ears and stung her eyes. She could feel the great movement of the ocean all around her and Manny’s hand in hers. The water was perilously close to her lips, to filling her lungs and pulling her under, but knowing he was there was enough.
On their way back to the seawall, big, gelatinous blobs splayed out on the sand, clear and glassy. She found a strange blue and purple one that was filled with air, a liver-shaped bubble. She poked it with a stick.
“That’s a man-o-war,” Manny said, squatting down next to her. “Hell of a wallop. They’ll sting you after they’re dead, too.” He stood up, swept the sand off his calves, and walked toward the stairs.
Can’t sting me, she said to herself and poked it with her bare finger.
They changed in little huts on the boardwalk. Kit struggled with the heavy, wet jeans and was glad for the new clothes Manny had brought, a plain white T-shirt and a green pair of shorts. They walked north along the seawall for a half hour, the breeze coming off the waves too loud to make talk practical. The sun had dropped behind the island, casting a nectarine glow over the Gulf.
Back at the car, Manny suggested they get something to eat. Kit was grateful she didn’t have to ask him for food. He chose a restaurant with a giant, lifelike crab on the roof. Inside there were white tablecloths and the waiters wore black. Kit tugged on Manny’s hand to leave, afraid they would get kicked out, but he strode ahead and asked for a table with a view. The ma?tre d’ looked circumspect but escorted them to a table near the windows.
“Put your napkin in your lap,” Manny whispered, and Kit opened the ironed cloth and spread it across her legs. She could feel the sand gathered around her toes and ignored an impulse to pull off her boot and dump it on the floor.
They ate a feast of chilled crab claws, fried oysters, and shrimp rémoulade. Kit had never seen these foods before, let alone tasted them. She was shocked and delighted by the perfect morsels of crab, the oysters, briny and creamy within the cornmeal crust, the plump pink shrimp in their tangy sauce. Kit was so giddy she forgot to worry about how expensive the meal was, even after Manny ordered a banana dessert prepared tableside and set aflame. When the waiter went for the check, Manny folded his napkin, took her hand, and led her quietly out the door.
The sidewalks were full of people, some strolling, others—saddled with wet towels, beach chairs, and umbrellas—returning to their cars. Kit hoped Manny would explain to her what just happened, but he only pushed on ahead. She had to jog to keep up.
“Hey,” she said. “Hey, Manny, wait up.” She dodged left and right to avoid running into people walking in the opposite direction. “Are we gonna get in trouble for that?”
“Trouble? Why should we get in trouble?” he said over his shoulder, not stopping.
Kit said nothing and jogged behind him. It was one thing to steal out of necessity, but the meal they had eaten was lavish. They could have had McDonald’s for under a dollar. This was stealing for the fun of it. The way he made a show of picking the nicest table and ordering like a king somehow made it extra deviant.
“Look,” Manny said. “I worked in a restaurant once, and you know, they comp people all the time. Crazy thing is, they give free meals to people who need it the least. Politicians, celebrities, power players, what have you. The way I figure, if those people get a free meal, why shouldn’t I?”
Kit didn’t have a ready response to his logic, nor did she have any moral ground to stand on, considering that they had met when she was trying to steal his lunch.
Manny finally slowed down to a pace Kit could match. They strolled up the boardwalk and came across a long pier with a wooden souvenir shop called Murdoch’s Bathhouse. The building was long and narrow, and she could see all the way to the back. Inside, it was a treasure box. Hanging on the ceiling and walls, stacked on shelves, and dangling from displays were dried starfish and seahorses, painted sand dollars, jewelry made of shells of every color, papier-maché parrots on perches, ships floating in glass bottles, pastel-colored T-shirts with silly slogans, key rings, magnets, and statuettes. There were saltwater taffies and pralines in a long glass display, lollipops the size of plates.
Kit wanted to touch each thing. She could spend a year in this place.
Manny clucked at her. “Hey, let me get you a little something to mark the moment,” he said. “Anything strike your fancy?”
There was a display table in front of her with a rack of ornaments made of pink shells. She pointed to a tiny hanging chandelier, no bigger than her hand.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know, it’s pretty though, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” she said.
“Take it,” he said.
“Take it?” She knew what he meant, but she was feeling guilty about the big dinner they’d eaten without paying.
“I don’t have any money for that.”
“Didn’t you just see a thousand little shells like that on the beach? It’s fine, just take it. Think how happy it will make you. They won’t miss a thing.”
She looked up and down the boardwalk. People passed by in twos and threes. There were too many people.