hear something?” Deirdre said, kicking off her shoes and pulling a CD from a long shelf.
“Sure. Is it a new song?”
“Nope.” She popped it into the player.
“Savannah 911: What’s your emergency?” said a woman’s voice.
“Is that real?” I asked. Deirdre shushed me, nodding.
“Someone just broke in here… they stabbed me and my kids, my little boys,” another woman said. It was real. No one could fake the anguish and adrenaline in that tone.
“Who? Who did it?” the 911 operator said.
“My little boy is dying.”
“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” the operator said.
“I have a whole collection of them,” Deirdre said. A vein in her neck, running over a stretched tendon, pulsed. “They’re not easy to get.”
“Oh my god, my babies are dying.”
I should have told her to turn it off. I should have sprung from the bed, stabbed at the buttons on the CD player until the voices went silent, but I didn’t want Deirdre to think I was… what? Weak. Uncool.
Deirdre unbuttoned her shirt. I leaned in and kissed the soft skin plumping at her cleavage.
“He’s dead. Oh, no. Oh, no. My babies are dead,” said the woman.
Deirdre’s lip was curled. “I don’t ride bikes.”
“Well, we can’t walk,” I said. “The beach is ten miles; everyone else would be heading home by the time we got there.”
Her fists were clenched on her hips, one knee bent. “Then go, I don’t care.” Of course she didn’t mean it. If I left her and went with my friends, she wouldn’t talk to me for days. I looked up into the branches overhead, feeling trapped. It was so rare that we did anything fun. I didn’t want to miss it.
“Well, how else can we get there?” I asked.
Deirdre didn’t answer. A woman with a cane who was way too young to have a cane struggled along the opposite sidewalk. Her legs were twisted, looking as if they might come out from under her at any minute. She paused to admire a small pack of dogs tied to a parking meter. They yipped and barked and wagged their tails, eager for the attention. It was the dog taxi—the owner was sitting on the curb, fanning himself with a piece of cardboard. He said something to the woman that I couldn’t hear.
“Ooh!” Deirdre said, pointing. “That’s how.” Before I could protest she had crossed the street.
She used her charms (lots of “pleeease?” while standing closer to him than was technically necessary for the negotiation to take place) to whittle the guy’s price down to $20. That wasn’t bad. Not as cheap as the nothing it would cost to bike there, but not bad.
I texted Ange to alert the gang that we’d meet them there, then climbed into the hollowed-out Mustang convertible as the driver hitched the team.
The dogs were pretty hilarious. They weren’t like a dogsled team, all lined up and pulling in a disciplined manner—more like the keystone cops, bumping into each other, biting ears, pulling at the wrong angle. They didn’t seem to mind the work, probably because they were getting fed, and had someone telling them they were good dogs.
Occasional traffic passed us on the single-lane causeway out to Tybee Island. Refugee tents were set up alongside the road, beside the golden marsh that stretched for miles.
“This was a good idea,” I said. “It’s a great way to see the marsh.”
Deirdre nodded. “Told you.” A car beeped behind us, then roared past. Deirdre gave them the finger as they passed, with a sweet smile on her face.
The gang was lounging outside Chu’s Beach Supplies when we arrived. Ange went right up to Deirdre like they were old friends. Cortez patted me on the shoulder and called me “bro.” Ange had almost backed out when I told her I’d invited Cortez, but he was a friend, so I didn’t think he should be left out.
The beach was packed with homeless people, leaving no space for us to spread the towels we’d brought. Strung out in a line, we stepped from one meager spot of white sand to the next
“Sure. Is it a new song?”
“Nope.” She popped it into the player.
“Savannah 911: What’s your emergency?” said a woman’s voice.
“Is that real?” I asked. Deirdre shushed me, nodding.
“Someone just broke in here… they stabbed me and my kids, my little boys,” another woman said. It was real. No one could fake the anguish and adrenaline in that tone.
“Who? Who did it?” the 911 operator said.
“My little boy is dying.”
“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” the operator said.
“I have a whole collection of them,” Deirdre said. A vein in her neck, running over a stretched tendon, pulsed. “They’re not easy to get.”
“Oh my god, my babies are dying.”
I should have told her to turn it off. I should have sprung from the bed, stabbed at the buttons on the CD player until the voices went silent, but I didn’t want Deirdre to think I was… what? Weak. Uncool.
Deirdre unbuttoned her shirt. I leaned in and kissed the soft skin plumping at her cleavage.
“He’s dead. Oh, no. Oh, no. My babies are dead,” said the woman.
Deirdre’s lip was curled. “I don’t ride bikes.”
“Well, we can’t walk,” I said. “The beach is ten miles; everyone else would be heading home by the time we got there.”
Her fists were clenched on her hips, one knee bent. “Then go, I don’t care.” Of course she didn’t mean it. If I left her and went with my friends, she wouldn’t talk to me for days. I looked up into the branches overhead, feeling trapped. It was so rare that we did anything fun. I didn’t want to miss it.
“Well, how else can we get there?” I asked.
Deirdre didn’t answer. A woman with a cane who was way too young to have a cane struggled along the opposite sidewalk. Her legs were twisted, looking as if they might come out from under her at any minute. She paused to admire a small pack of dogs tied to a parking meter. They yipped and barked and wagged their tails, eager for the attention. It was the dog taxi—the owner was sitting on the curb, fanning himself with a piece of cardboard. He said something to the woman that I couldn’t hear.
“Ooh!” Deirdre said, pointing. “That’s how.” Before I could protest she had crossed the street.
She used her charms (lots of “pleeease?” while standing closer to him than was technically necessary for the negotiation to take place) to whittle the guy’s price down to $20. That wasn’t bad. Not as cheap as the nothing it would cost to bike there, but not bad.
I texted Ange to alert the gang that we’d meet them there, then climbed into the hollowed-out Mustang convertible as the driver hitched the team.
The dogs were pretty hilarious. They weren’t like a dogsled team, all lined up and pulling in a disciplined manner—more like the keystone cops, bumping into each other, biting ears, pulling at the wrong angle. They didn’t seem to mind the work, probably because they were getting fed, and had someone telling them they were good dogs.
Occasional traffic passed us on the single-lane causeway out to Tybee Island. Refugee tents were set up alongside the road, beside the golden marsh that stretched for miles.
“This was a good idea,” I said. “It’s a great way to see the marsh.”
Deirdre nodded. “Told you.” A car beeped behind us, then roared past. Deirdre gave them the finger as they passed, with a sweet smile on her face.
The gang was lounging outside Chu’s Beach Supplies when we arrived. Ange went right up to Deirdre like they were old friends. Cortez patted me on the shoulder and called me “bro.” Ange had almost backed out when I told her I’d invited Cortez, but he was a friend, so I didn’t think he should be left out.
The beach was packed with homeless people, leaving no space for us to spread the towels we’d brought. Strung out in a line, we stepped from one meager spot of white sand to the next
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