their arms with the frustrated vigor of flightless birds.
“Look out!” I yell. Everybody but Petey turns and obliges.
“It’s the environmentalists,” Raffy wails. “Shit, man, do something!”
Marta warned us yesterday that a group of environmentalists were holding a conference at the Hostile Hostel, but I told her not to worry about it. I figured that the environmentalists would probably just stay in the lobby the entire time so as not to put any undue strain on the fragile beach ecosystem.
“What should we do, Raffy?” I ask. “If these environmentalists find out about this nest, they’ll be here every night with their environmentalist friends, waiting to take digital photographs of one another as they shepherd our baby turtles into the sea!”
Raffy pushes me towards them. “You’re a good talker, Ollie. Make with the orating.” He can tell he’s surprised us with his diction. “I do go to class sometimes, you bitches.” He shrugs. “Now go!”
So I orate. I extemporize. I run like hell.
“Hey!” I yell to the environmentalists, leading them far away from the nest. “Over here! I think I hear some beached marine creature.”
Then I try to approximate the sound of air wheezing plaintively out of a blowhole. But I can’t figure out how to do this without interrupting my own speech like some ventriloquy school dropout:
“I [bubble bubble] think [bubble bubble] it’s a whale!”
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. And it’s not the hand of an ovo-lacto vegan. It’s a big, red-meaty kind of hand.
“That’s no whale,” the man growls, whirling me around. “That’s a human boy making those noises!”
“Well, you got me, sir,” I admit. Then I wriggle out of his grasp and do wind sprints down the beach. I just keep on running, even though neither of the men bother to give chase, until I finally collapse on the sand outside my hotel.
All I’m saying is, Raffy better remember this come school time.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say when I get in, disheveled and breathless and over two hours late for my newly extended curfew. “I got a little Milky Way–laid and lost track of time.”
“Ahhh, Ollie,” he chuckles. “Like father, like son.” He shakes his head fondly. “I know it’s hard for you kids to imagine, but your old man spent some wild nights up in the Milky Way himself when he was your age.” He lifts his glass in my direction.
“Here’s to youth! Here’s to you, Big Dipper!”
“So what did you see up there tonight?” I ask, and my voice comes out choked and strange. “You, uh, you notice any new nebulas? Any anomalies in the orbit?”
But my father has gone somewhere pensive and inward and doesn’t answer. So I get away with it, for the fifth night in a row. I should feel good, I guess, but instead I feel this awful loneliness, an outlaw’s loneliness, lying to the person I love best in the world. It’s too easy to use his love to fool him. I almost want to be found out and grounded. I don’t know why my father believes me. I don’t know what the other kids tell their parents they do at night.
We think there must be something wrong with Petey’s parents. What kind of parents would allow their adult child to play on the beach at night with kids like us? What kind of parents would bring their mentally handicapped albino son on a beach vacation in the first place?
Nobody knows if Raffy has parents. Raffy’s not very forthcoming about these kinds of details. I’m still not sure where he’s staying on the island, and we’ve been hanging out every day for nearly a week.
We know that Marta has a mom, because we keep having these awkward run-ins with her outside the Crustaceous Cocktail Lounge. Marta’s mother is always draped across some jowly older individual, and it’s never the same one twice. Two nights ago it was a much older man whom she introduced to Marta and me as “my gentleman caller.” He had a face like an uncooked steak,
“Look out!” I yell. Everybody but Petey turns and obliges.
“It’s the environmentalists,” Raffy wails. “Shit, man, do something!”
Marta warned us yesterday that a group of environmentalists were holding a conference at the Hostile Hostel, but I told her not to worry about it. I figured that the environmentalists would probably just stay in the lobby the entire time so as not to put any undue strain on the fragile beach ecosystem.
“What should we do, Raffy?” I ask. “If these environmentalists find out about this nest, they’ll be here every night with their environmentalist friends, waiting to take digital photographs of one another as they shepherd our baby turtles into the sea!”
Raffy pushes me towards them. “You’re a good talker, Ollie. Make with the orating.” He can tell he’s surprised us with his diction. “I do go to class sometimes, you bitches.” He shrugs. “Now go!”
So I orate. I extemporize. I run like hell.
“Hey!” I yell to the environmentalists, leading them far away from the nest. “Over here! I think I hear some beached marine creature.”
Then I try to approximate the sound of air wheezing plaintively out of a blowhole. But I can’t figure out how to do this without interrupting my own speech like some ventriloquy school dropout:
“I [bubble bubble] think [bubble bubble] it’s a whale!”
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. And it’s not the hand of an ovo-lacto vegan. It’s a big, red-meaty kind of hand.
“That’s no whale,” the man growls, whirling me around. “That’s a human boy making those noises!”
“Well, you got me, sir,” I admit. Then I wriggle out of his grasp and do wind sprints down the beach. I just keep on running, even though neither of the men bother to give chase, until I finally collapse on the sand outside my hotel.
All I’m saying is, Raffy better remember this come school time.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say when I get in, disheveled and breathless and over two hours late for my newly extended curfew. “I got a little Milky Way–laid and lost track of time.”
“Ahhh, Ollie,” he chuckles. “Like father, like son.” He shakes his head fondly. “I know it’s hard for you kids to imagine, but your old man spent some wild nights up in the Milky Way himself when he was your age.” He lifts his glass in my direction.
“Here’s to youth! Here’s to you, Big Dipper!”
“So what did you see up there tonight?” I ask, and my voice comes out choked and strange. “You, uh, you notice any new nebulas? Any anomalies in the orbit?”
But my father has gone somewhere pensive and inward and doesn’t answer. So I get away with it, for the fifth night in a row. I should feel good, I guess, but instead I feel this awful loneliness, an outlaw’s loneliness, lying to the person I love best in the world. It’s too easy to use his love to fool him. I almost want to be found out and grounded. I don’t know why my father believes me. I don’t know what the other kids tell their parents they do at night.
We think there must be something wrong with Petey’s parents. What kind of parents would allow their adult child to play on the beach at night with kids like us? What kind of parents would bring their mentally handicapped albino son on a beach vacation in the first place?
Nobody knows if Raffy has parents. Raffy’s not very forthcoming about these kinds of details. I’m still not sure where he’s staying on the island, and we’ve been hanging out every day for nearly a week.
We know that Marta has a mom, because we keep having these awkward run-ins with her outside the Crustaceous Cocktail Lounge. Marta’s mother is always draped across some jowly older individual, and it’s never the same one twice. Two nights ago it was a much older man whom she introduced to Marta and me as “my gentleman caller.” He had a face like an uncooked steak,
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