Paris winked. I half laughed, shocked.
“Sorry,” said Paris. “Humor is my defense mechanism. Apparently. Anyway … if I try to mention it now, when I’m speaking to my mom, she just goes blank. A laptop going into sleep mode, you know? That on its own is enough to drive a person crazy.”
“She never … confronted your dad?”
She laughed. “No. As far as she’s concerned it never happened and he never happened.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. It’s ****ed up.”
“And your dad?”
“He and I are not on speaking terms,” said Paris. “That’s why I want to stop taking his checks as soon as I can. I mean, he’s paying my tuition and allowing me to learn, and I don’t have to see him. That’s almost acceptable. But not really.”
“Hence …”
“Hence, yes, the side work.”
I took a step forward, and she flinched when I put my arms around her; her body was thin and hard against me, barely any flesh there to clothe her, to protect her. Then a kind of shiver went through her and she hugged me tight, before letting go.
“I will never speak about this again,” she said. “Just so you know.”
“That’s cool,” I said. An impulse overtook me. “Who cares about your sob stories anyway?”
She stared at me for a second. Then she burst out laughing. “I knew you were friend material,” she said.
I put my hand in the air, solemnly. “I swear never to speak to Paris again about her childhood.”
“Or my dad.”
“Agreed.”
I thought. “Paris. I’m scared.”
“Of what?” she asked. Her face was serious again now.
“Me.”
“Oh, baby,” she said. “Yeah. That’s normal.” She took my hand and began walking briskly. “I’m not even going to ask about your trauma because I doubt you know yet. But the Doc will help you, I do know that. And I’ll be there to support you. I’ll be looking out for you. Always.”
NO.
THAT WAS THE MOST WRONG STATEMENT EVER.
Paris left me on the sidewalk outside the house. I stood there for the longest time, looking at it. I’d never noticed its squat malignance before; the way the windows seemed like eyes glaring at me. The lights were out, so I figured Dad was still at the restaurant.
After a while, I sat down on the sidewalk. It was still warm from the sun of the day, though it was dark now and the crickets were chirping. There was a moon, and in the eastern sky I could see a gleam from where it was reflecting on the ocean.
I heard a car and turned, and there was your F-150, pulling up by the curb. You killed the engine and got out.
“Going inside?” you said.
“No,” I said. You were wearing a short-sleeved shirt; I noticed that your arms had got more muscular already. Lifting those bags of plush. There was a scent of flowers on the air.
“Argument with your dad?”
I shook my head. “Just don’t want to.”
You came and stood next to me. “Houses look kind of malignant when they’re unlit, at night, don’t they?”
I turned to you, surprised. “Yes,” I said. “I was just thinking that.”
Silence.
Or rather: crickets far-off engines music people shouting.
But silence between me and you. Comfortable silence.
“So what’s your plan?” you said. “You just going to sit out on the sidewalk all night?”
I shrugged. “You have a better plan?”
You looked up at the moon. “Yes,” you said.
You were driving.
You crossed the last intersection, and then we were a block from the ocean, the houses falling away, replaced by dirty dunes. At the end of the block, there was a turn that you could take, but if you did you’d have to turn around again pretty quickly—it became the boardwalk.
But at the corner, where the road curved, there was a track between the dunes, and it led onto the beach.
You drove toward it, not showing any signs of steering. A sign said NO VEHICULAR ACCESS TO THE BEACH OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
I said: “Are you going to—”
And …
It appeared so. You drove right off the road, onto the track, and we bumped over tufts of grass for a few dozen yards, and then we were on the beach. You stopped. We were on the far south side—to our right, an expanse of sand and dunes, followed by houses on stilts, small from here, looking like shacks but I knew they were worth like a million dollars each. To our left, the wide strip of sand that runs the length of the town, the lights of the city and boardwalk fringing it, bright and garish against the gunmetal shine of the moonlit ocean. The piers two dark stripes connecting city and ocean, bristling with the odd shapes of fairground rides.
And that flat, smooth beach … empty, apart from a couple of groups huddled around coolers, not wanting to say good-bye to the day.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you said.
“You get used to it,” I said.
Why did everything that came out of my mouth have to come out rude? I didn’t mean it. That’s what I’m telling you now.
“Is this allowed?” I asked. “The truck?”