straddling him in the pushed-back front seat.
Laughing, his stubble rough against her cheek, he says, “What do you mean?” He slips his hands under her shirt and strokes her ribs with his fingers.
“That tickles,” she says, squirming.
“I like it when you move like that.”
She kisses his neck, the dark patch on his chin, the corner of his lip, a thick eyebrow, and he pulls her closer, running his hands up her sides and under her small breasts, cupping them.
“I don’t know a damn thing about her life—not that I care! But she expects me to tell her everything about mine.”
“Oh, come on, what can it hurt? If she knows a little more about you, maybe she’s nicer to you. Maybe the hours go a little faster. She’s probably lonely. Just wants someone to talk to.”
Molly screws up her face.
“Try a little tenderness,” Jack croons.
She sighs. “I don’t need to entertain her with stories about my shitty life. We can’t all be rich as hell and live in a mansion.”
He kisses her shoulder. “So turn it around. Ask her questions.”
“Do I care?” She sighs, tracing her finger along his ear until he turns his head and bites it, takes it in his mouth.
He reaches down and grabs the lever, and the seat falls back with a jolt. Molly lands sloppily on top of him and they both start to laugh. Sliding over to make room for her in the bucket seat, Jack says, “Just do what it takes to get those hours over with, right?” Turning sideways, he runs his fingers along the waistband of her black leggings. “If you can’t stick it out, I might have to figure out a way to go to juvie with you. And that would suck for both of us.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
Pushing her waistband down over her hip, he says, “That’s what I’m looking for.” He traces the inky black lines of the turtle on her hip. Its shell is a pointy oval, bisected at an angle, like a shield with a daisy on one side and a tribal flourish on the other, its flippers extending in pointy arcs. “What’s this little guy’s name again?”
“It doesn’t have a name.”
Leaning down and kissing her hip, he says, “I’m going to call him Carlos.”
“Why?”
“He looks like a Carlos. Right? See his little head? He’s kind of wagging it, like ‘What’s up?’ Hey, Carlos,” he says in a Dominican-accented falsetto, tapping the turtle with his index finger. “What’s happening, man?”
“It’s not a Carlos. It’s an Indian symbol,” she says, a little irritated, pushing his hand away.
“Oh, come on, admit it—you were drunk and got this random-ass turtle. It could just as easily have been a heart dripping blood or some fake Chinese words.”
“That’s not true! Turtles mean something very specific in my culture.”
“Oh yeah, warrior princess?” he says. “Like what?”
“Turtles carry their homes on their backs.” Running her finger over the tattoo, she tells him what her dad told her: “They’re exposed and hidden at the same time. They’re a symbol of strength and perseverance.”
“That’s very deep.”
“You know why? Because I’m very deep.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. “Actually, I did it because when we lived on Indian Island we had this turtle named Shelly.”
“Hah, Shelly. I get it.”
“Yup. Anyway, I don’t know what happened to it.”
Jack curls his hand around her hip bone. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says. “Don’t turtles live, like, a hundred years?”
“Not in a tank with no one to feed them they don’t.”
He doesn’t say anything, just puts his arm around her shoulder and kisses her hair.
She settles in beside him on the bucket seat. The windshield is fogged and the night is dark, and in Jack’s hard-domed little Saturn she feels cocooned, protected. Yeah, that’s right. Like a turtle in a shell.
Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
No one comes to the door when Molly rings the buzzer. The house is quiet. She looks at
Laughing, his stubble rough against her cheek, he says, “What do you mean?” He slips his hands under her shirt and strokes her ribs with his fingers.
“That tickles,” she says, squirming.
“I like it when you move like that.”
She kisses his neck, the dark patch on his chin, the corner of his lip, a thick eyebrow, and he pulls her closer, running his hands up her sides and under her small breasts, cupping them.
“I don’t know a damn thing about her life—not that I care! But she expects me to tell her everything about mine.”
“Oh, come on, what can it hurt? If she knows a little more about you, maybe she’s nicer to you. Maybe the hours go a little faster. She’s probably lonely. Just wants someone to talk to.”
Molly screws up her face.
“Try a little tenderness,” Jack croons.
She sighs. “I don’t need to entertain her with stories about my shitty life. We can’t all be rich as hell and live in a mansion.”
He kisses her shoulder. “So turn it around. Ask her questions.”
“Do I care?” She sighs, tracing her finger along his ear until he turns his head and bites it, takes it in his mouth.
He reaches down and grabs the lever, and the seat falls back with a jolt. Molly lands sloppily on top of him and they both start to laugh. Sliding over to make room for her in the bucket seat, Jack says, “Just do what it takes to get those hours over with, right?” Turning sideways, he runs his fingers along the waistband of her black leggings. “If you can’t stick it out, I might have to figure out a way to go to juvie with you. And that would suck for both of us.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
Pushing her waistband down over her hip, he says, “That’s what I’m looking for.” He traces the inky black lines of the turtle on her hip. Its shell is a pointy oval, bisected at an angle, like a shield with a daisy on one side and a tribal flourish on the other, its flippers extending in pointy arcs. “What’s this little guy’s name again?”
“It doesn’t have a name.”
Leaning down and kissing her hip, he says, “I’m going to call him Carlos.”
“Why?”
“He looks like a Carlos. Right? See his little head? He’s kind of wagging it, like ‘What’s up?’ Hey, Carlos,” he says in a Dominican-accented falsetto, tapping the turtle with his index finger. “What’s happening, man?”
“It’s not a Carlos. It’s an Indian symbol,” she says, a little irritated, pushing his hand away.
“Oh, come on, admit it—you were drunk and got this random-ass turtle. It could just as easily have been a heart dripping blood or some fake Chinese words.”
“That’s not true! Turtles mean something very specific in my culture.”
“Oh yeah, warrior princess?” he says. “Like what?”
“Turtles carry their homes on their backs.” Running her finger over the tattoo, she tells him what her dad told her: “They’re exposed and hidden at the same time. They’re a symbol of strength and perseverance.”
“That’s very deep.”
“You know why? Because I’m very deep.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. “Actually, I did it because when we lived on Indian Island we had this turtle named Shelly.”
“Hah, Shelly. I get it.”
“Yup. Anyway, I don’t know what happened to it.”
Jack curls his hand around her hip bone. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says. “Don’t turtles live, like, a hundred years?”
“Not in a tank with no one to feed them they don’t.”
He doesn’t say anything, just puts his arm around her shoulder and kisses her hair.
She settles in beside him on the bucket seat. The windshield is fogged and the night is dark, and in Jack’s hard-domed little Saturn she feels cocooned, protected. Yeah, that’s right. Like a turtle in a shell.
Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
No one comes to the door when Molly rings the buzzer. The house is quiet. She looks at
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