Eight
Later that night, Edgar tossed in bed. The hole called to him. The freefall, the wind, the speed. He yearned to feel the sensation of flying once more. It wasn’t so bad after you got over the initial feeling.
For a while he thought about ducking out his bedroom window, sprinting off into the warm night to the cabin that housed the hole, and popping up into the sunshine of the other side of the world. But it was just too much of a risk. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to sneak out. He was petrified of what his parents might do. He would probably be grounded for years.
__________
On his way to school the next day, Edgar meandered down a deserted mountain road through a chorus of angry insects inhabiting the brown hillsides. Wildflowers here crumpled with dryness, waving as warm gusts fanned them. The whole world was stiff and brown from the lack of rain. Everything crackled. Everything hissed.
When he neared the town and topped a long, sloping hill, he peered down at Mount Lanier, noticing the grid of intersecting streets. Cars in the distance crawling the roadways like multi-colored ants darted to and fro. He held out his hand to feel the last of the dry wildflowers as they swayed in the mountain breeze, then descended to the bottom of the hill.
The ensuing valley was essentially the town square, and once in town he walked along until he came upon an old, western-style saloon. Elk horns hanging over the door and everything. It was, like all other establishments in Mount Lanier, fashioned in the rancher’s style: log cabins, unused horse hitches, statues of wooly pioneers. If not for the SUVs and an occasional airplane overhead, it might have just been the Old West.
Nearing the movie theater, he came upon a makeshift fish stand. It was just a display case, really, with four wheels on the bottom, and one side hitched to the back of an old, beat-up van. It was filled to the brim with an array of beautiful fish and crustaceans.
Behind the case scurried a family of what seemed to be Italian fish mongers: a mother, a father, a daughter, and a son. The father was shouting, “Fresh Fish!” to all who passed by. Edgar recognized the son immediately: the kid from school they called “Flounder,” the one from Dr. Van Rossum’s class who Weedy had been picking on.
Edgar neared the stand and watched Flounder fillet a salmon for an elderly woman.
Flounder, he quickly discovered, was awesome at it.
“How many?” Flounder asked the lady.
“Four fillets, thank you, Anthony,” she smiled. Edgar marveled at Flounder’s handiwork. The short, timid teenager, who had a haystack of black, curly hair, was an artist with a fillet knife. Like a surgeon he assaulted the fish with quick cuts using his razor-sharp, blood-darkened blade. He made the skin and meat come away from the bone in a matter of seconds. It was better cutting than anyone Edgar had ever seen—better than any captain on any charter boat back home in Bon Secour, hands down.
“What are you gonna do with those pliers?” Edgar spoke up. Flounder looked up and seemed to recognize him. He nodded and pointed the knife down at the fish.
“Those are pin bones,” he explained. “I pull them out of the bottom of the fillet. I yank them out with these pliers.” He smiled at the old lady. “Who wants to eat bones, am I right?”
“That’s awesome,” said Edgar, watching him work. “You’re pretty good at this.”
One by one, Flounder yanked the bones from the fish.
“So,” said Flounder, without looking up, “you’re the Gravity Man, right?” He smiled and flashed Edgar a glance. “I think it’s funny how you always drive Dr. Van Rossum nuts.”
“That’s me,” said Edgar.
“So, do I call you Flounder?” Edgar asked from behind the stand.
Anthony, busy cutting into another fish, suddenly froze. His cheeks went red and he glanced up from the salmon mid-slice, shooting a quick glance at his mother who was busy icing lobsters. Thankfully, she did not seem to hear. Relieved, he flashed a conspicuous frown at Edgar and shook his head no.
“Sorry,” mouthed Edgar.
“Here you go, ma’am,” said Flounder, his salesman’s smile easy and natural. He handed the woman her salmon steaks all neatly wrapped in clean, white paper. Then he moved to the water cooler to wash up.
Edgar watched as Flounder approached a bucket of fresh water and washed meticulously, slowly soaping up three or four times. He scrubbed slowly and carefully, then dried off with a white towel. Afterward, he squeezed fresh lemon juice on his hands and then rubbed them with vanilla extract to kill the smell, and when finished, sniffed deeply of his hands. Nodding with satisfaction, he turned to hug his mother goodbye and gave his little sister a push (who tried not to smile), then joined Edgar for the walk to school.
“Dude,” he said, once clear of the fish stand. “You can’t ever call me ‘Flounder’ in front of my mom, OK?”
“But, why?” said Edgar. “I thought that was your nickname.”
“Well, it’s not,” said Flounder. “My name is
Anthony . . . Artese. They call me ‘Flounder’ at school, but that’s not my name. They say I smell like fish. Get it? Flounder?” He looked at Edgar, then absently sniffed his hands. “They make me work all morning—my parents do—and all the time it’s all I can do to just make it to school without being late. What am I supposed to do about the fish smell? My smock can only catch so many of the fish guts. Sometimes a drop gets on my shirt, and sometimes on my jeans. I can’t help it.” He turned away in disgust and kicked a rock down the dusty road. “We don’t even sell flounder,” he mumbled glumly.
“Well, I actually think it’s pretty cool, if you ask me,” said Edgar. He bent and scooped a handful of rocks and tossed them in a trickling stream.
“What is?” asked Anthony.
“Your nickname.”
“Yeah? Whatever.”
“I’m serious. Back in Alabama we’d kill to have a nickname like that. Especially at the fish charter.”
Flounder didn’t seem too convinced, so Edgar continued.
“Look, man,” he explained. “Just think of those good mafia nicknames: Bagel Joe. Two Shoes. Little Eddie. If Flounder’s not as good as those mafia names, what is? It’s like: ‘Who whacked Don Amici?’ ‘Oh, Flounder did!’ That’s a cool nickname if you think about it.”
“You’re crazy,” said Flounder, smiling.
As they made their way to school, Flounder began to tell Edgar all about the family business. Each week, the Arteses drove several hours to the shores of Washington State and purchased various types of fish from different fisheries—as much as the van could hold. Bringing it back to Mount Lanier, they put it on display outside their van, like Edgar had seen earlier.
Apparently, the fish sold like hotcakes. Everybody in the town bought from them.
“We mark it up pretty good, too,” Flounder said proudly. “It’s a pretty good living. Just a lot of work.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll catch my own,” said Edgar, smiling. “Why would I pay so much money for something I can always catch for free?”
“Dude,” laughed Flounder, “I don’t know if you saw back there but our stuff comes from the deep sea. It’s super fresh, too!”
“So?”
“So?”
“Yeah! Like I said. I can catch my own.”
“Well, good luck,” laughed Flounder. “You’ve got about six hours to any shore.”
__________
Five minutes before the first bell rang, Flounder and Edgar were spotted walking up to school by the worst person: Chris Weedy.
“Flounderrrrrr!” he yelled through cupped hands, cackling as his jock friends chimed in. From nearby tables just off the common, several around them began to sniff the air in what seemed to be a well-worn ritual. All of them yelled, “Flounderrrrr!” and cackled, and Edgar watched as Anthony stiffened and tried to ignore it, but couldn’t.
Watching Flounder endure it, suddenly, without realizing it, he was enraged. He stopped and turned and glared directly at Weedy just outside the doors of the school.
He didn’t even think about it; he just did it. And when Weedy saw it—Edgar glaring at him like he was, his fist twisting like a storm— Weedy’s evil grin suddenly evaporated and his face went wrinkly with rage.
“That’s right, Christopher,” muttered Edgar, enunciating every syllable. “I’m looking at you.”
“Dude,” said Flounder, “stop that! Don’t mess with that guy! He’s totally nuts. You just don’t know how bad.”
Edgar turned to Flounder and smiled.
“Who whacked Chris Weedy?” he said. “Flounder did, that’s who!”
Just outside the double doors, Flounder held out a hand to Edgar, and just as the first bell rang, the two boys shook hands. It was Edgar’s first friend in Washington: a fellow fisherman and a genuinely cool dude. Edgar would have to toughen him up, though.