Apparently, the South Dock Boardwalk already had a new living statue. At least I figured that out before I painted myself gold and did anything to provoke an unintentional rivalry. But given that he just sat there on a park bench (well away from the seagulls), we probably wouldn’t learn much from spying on him.
And so, Yuri and I scoped out the rest of the Boardwalk. One thing Isaac was right about: the Back to Nature crowd sure was a happy bunch. Unfortunately, while the tourists were numerous enough to hide behind, they kept the Boardwalkers so busy, the buskers and salespeople had zero time to talk among themselves. The ukulele player didn’t stop strumming for a second. The trained poodle jumped through the hula hoop until it was too full of treat-kibbles to move. And the yodeler yodeled himself hoarse.
Yuri and I threaded through the crowd from one end of the Boardwalk to the other and back again. “I’d thought the crowd would settle by now,” I said, “but they only seem to be getting more rambunctious.”
“And the performers are all occupied. We need to figure out the best way to infiltrate.” Yuri gave the paintbox in his pocket a meaningful pat.
Spellcrafting with Yuri is not so different from our bedroom antics—fun and thrilling and ever so slightly risqué. So, it goes without saying, I’m totally up for it, anytime, anywhere. If he was in the mood, then I was on board. We squeezed through the pink-shirted crowd until we found an unoccupied picnic table. The way the sun was glaring off the bay, it was easy to see why no one had settled at that particular spot. But Yuri put his back to the water and made his own shade—enough for both him and me.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked me. “Is the volshebstvo plucking at your Scribing hand yet?”
I wouldn’t exactly say I was overstimulated, but between the press of the crowd, the smell of the corn dogs and the shrieks of the seagulls, I couldn’t quite separate my own edgy anticipation from the feel of nascent Spellcraft tickling around the edges of my creativity. “Hard to say. You take the reins and I’ll follow your lead.”
Yuri got the faraway look in his eyes he gets when he searches through the ethers for his inspiration. Like me, he was born with the gift. But while I’d prepared my whole life to be a Scrivener, Yuri had a crash course in Spellcraft as an adult. In Russia. Where, I gather from the occasional stray comment, his teacher wasn’t someone you’d invite to your potluck…and not just because she’d bring something unappetizing, like borscht.
Yuri pulled out his notepad and opened up his pocket paint set. I pulled my water bottle out of my bag and tipped a few drops of water into the lid. His expression went grim. Okay, grimmer than usual. Yuri’s not a big fan of crowds, especially crowds that’re really enjoying themselves, so this press of pink-shirted humanity definitely wasn’t helping him focus, either. I drew a circle around one of his knuckles with the tip of my forefinger and said, “The world is full of Handless, Yuri, but the Spellcraft doesn’t take any notice of them. Not until we tell it to. You got this.”
He looked at me, hard. I often think he sees more than the rest of us, even when he’s not officially Seeing. Normally, I’d be a little nervous about what he saw when he stared at me like that. But that look has never once been followed by an admonition to lower my voice, or calm down, or man up. Okay, once in a while he might suggest I stop talking. But only when something objectively dangerous is going on.
With his eyes fixed on me, Yuri wet his brush, then dabbed it along the traces of paint that had settled into the cracks between the compartments, where the hues had mixed into something more subtle. But just as he set brush to paper, a man burst through the crowd.
A very loud man.
In a very colorful apron.
Covered in sequins.
Spelling out the words, Drew Draws.
“As I live and breathe!” he cried out, rushing the picnic table. “Never in my life did I think I’d be so happy to have competition encroaching on my territory!”
I always figured I was familiar with every Seer in Pinyin Bay, though the way I met Yuri clearly demonstrates that you never know when a new Seer might surface. This one was a middle-aged guy in a sparkly beret. I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered him. “Are you new to the area?” I asked.
“Lived here long enough to stake my claim on this very Boardwalk. I’ll have you know you can’t just set up shop wherever you please. There are rules. Paperwork. Permits. And that’s not even counting the unwritten rule of the Boardwalk. I was here first. I have dibs.”
“No doubt dibs are sacrosanct,” I said. “But you’ve lost me.”
He gave me an exasperated look and framed his sparkly apron with jazz hands. “Drew Draws. I’m the official portraiture artist of the South Dock Boardwalk.” Oh. Not a Seer after all. He turned to Yuri. “And you, my large friend, are in my spot.”
“I was not painting portrait,” Yuri said.
Drew looked pointedly at the paintbox. And the paintbrush. And the way Yuri was seated across from me, gazing at my face…and I supposed I could see where the artist had come to that conclusion.
Drew told Yuri, “I will let the infraction slide, if you agree to collaborate on this latest bunch of tourists. Fifty percent kickback and you can officially hang out your shingle right beside mine.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Forty percent,” Drew said. Yuri glared at him. “Fine—thirty percent, and that’s my final offer. Either take me up on it, or I send a portrait of you to the Pinyin Bay Journal with the word buttinski scrawled across your forehead. A very unflattering portrait. You choose.”
I won’t say I can read Yuri’s mind—and if I could, chances are he wouldn’t be thinking in English—but I’d bet my last cricket that he was about to tell Drew to go right ahead. I tugged at Yuri’s hand. Wow, his fist was really clenched tight. “Weren’t you just telling me how eager you were to brush shoulders with all the fine talent on the South Dock Boardwalk?” Yuri looked at me as if I was certifiable, but hopefully Drew would just think that’s how his face always was. “Remember? Like the living statue in the book of world records? And the hot dog vendors? And the sword jugglers? Now’s your big chance!”
Yuri grimaced. “I am sure there is another way.”
“You know what they say. Don’t look a gift coral in the mouth. It might turn out to be an old pile of bricks.”
As awesome as it would be to draw portraits of tourists, obviously Yuri was overqualified for the job. But it was a better inroad than either of us could have hoped for. So, I batted my eyelashes and did my best to convey that I’d really shower him with appreciation later. Not that I ever needed an excuse to do that. Sometimes even in the shower.
Yuri scrunched his eyebrows together. “Fine.” He grabbed a wad of napkins and swabbed the wet paint out of his paintbox lid. “Let us hope I am not the only one who finds what he is looking for.”
“Russian sayings. So cryptic. Best not to read anything into them.” I waved as Drew Draws drew Yuri away, momentarily stunned by the alarmingly skimpy short-shorts revealed when Drew turned around. I stood up myself and found a young woman had snuck up behind me, standing so close I nearly sprawled backward over the picnic table to keep from tripping over her.
The close-stander was around my cousin’s age, but worry had already etched a sharp line between her thin eyebrows. She had hair as dark as any Spellcrafter’s, but skin that was milk-pale, and eyes as blue as Pinyin Bay (the water) on a crisp fall morning. In a conspiratorial voice, she asked, “You know about the bricks?”
“Well, sure.” I have no clue what possessed me to imply that I hadn’t, in fact, just learned about them on the way over. But whatever it might’ve been…I went with it. “Doesn’t everybody?”
The woman with the worry-line edged even closer. “You’d be surprised how people tend to see only what they want to see. And anything that might challenge their worldview gets swept conveniently under the carpet. As far as your average person is concerned, Pinyin Beach never had any other name. And the pile of fresh-water coral never existed. But what’s even worse than that, the ones who do know about the bricks…think they just ended up where they were by accident.”
“They…didn’t?”
“Not at all. Clearly, the bricks were a result of a failed dam.”
“What would anyone have to gain by damming off the bay?”
The woman fixed me with a meaningful look. “Now you’re asking the right questions. People around here are complacent. They don’t ask enough questions, and even when they do wonder about something, they’re willing to accept the first explanation they find. You’ve heard of fake news? How about fake history?”
I had a feeling our little chat was about to turn political—Spellcrafters are even less fond of Handless politics than we are sports or religion—but there was a pretty solid picnic table cutting off my escape. “Say, look at the time.”
“Take the first person to write about those bricks…the author of I’ve Been in Pinyin, Mildred Merriweather Block. She could have delved deeper into the origins of the bricks. But instead she just wrote it all off as some sort of accident. A coincidence. Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see here.”
While I love a good paranoid rant as much as the next guy, I had a Boardwalk to spy on. Plus, my new friend was brushing up against my suit in too many places for such a recent acquaintance. But luckily, as I struggled to come up with a plausible exit line, a matronly Handless woman with steely eyes and a tiny, pursed mouth peeled out of the Historical Society and saved me the trouble. “Charlotte?” she called over.
Charlotte leaned in closer yet and said, “Geez. You’d think I could get away from Pearl for two minutes.”
Pearl said, “Why are you lollygagging around with just one tourist? You can see the next Barge on the Bay tour is all sold out.”
It was then that I realized Charlotte had on a nautical-themed blue polyester blazer that no one in their right mind would willingly wear unless they were freezing to death. And even then, they’d probably think twice. As someone who once delivered food in a lime green visor, I could definitely sympathize. Pearl wore a similar blazer—but with sparkly gold epaulets that ranked her higher than Charlotte.
As I pondered whether the addition of lamé epaulets was enough to raise the garment from unfortunate to tackily charming, Pearl said, “With a crowd this big, we’ll need to run the tour together.”
“No,” Charlotte answered quickly. “Really, that’s okay. I can handle it myself.”
“Safely regulations. We need one staff member aboard for every twelve people. I don’t make the rules.”
Charlotte squeezed herself behind me as if to use me for a human shield. “Then, good thing the community college sent over a new intern!”
The manager narrowed her eyes. I highly doubted a random fact from an old book would impress her, but how many chances would I feasibly get to parrot a little Pinyin Bay history to someone who might actually appreciate it? And besides, it was flattering to think I still looked young enough to be in community college. I squared my shoulders and said, “Pinyin Bay has the most fire hydrants per capita. Outside Alabama, that is.”
Pearl looked surprised, then grudgingly pleased. “Oh. Well, then. It’s about time you showed up. You get one fifteen-minute break for every four hours you work. And the glare off the bay is no small matter. I suggest you wear sunscreen—though you’ll have to provide your own. The Barge of the Bay runs on very slim margins.” And with that proclamation, she turned on her heel and went to wrangle the T-shirted tourists.
Charlotte leaned in closer yet and whispered, “Talk about a close call! That woman drives me bonkers. If I get stuck with her on the barge one more time, I can’t be responsible for my own actions.”
My excitement over scoring my first official internship wilted at the thought of riding on the Barge of the Bay. I don’t know much about nautical terms—aside from seamen—but I really couldn’t think of a more unappealing name for a ship than barge. Except scow. Or maybe dinghy.
“Well,” I said briskly, “glad I could spare you from an afternoon of alone-time with your boss, but I’ve gotta be going—”
“What? You can’t leave now, I’ll be in big trouble when the barge offloads and I’m the only tour guide on it.” Charlotte grabbed me unceremoniously by the arm and hauled me off to a nearby shanty. The inside was covered with photos of Pinyin Bay—the sesquicentennial, the annual four-legged race, and even the Pinyin Bay Perch cutting the ribbon at the opening of a new car wash. I was so busy taking in all the history that I didn’t notice Charlotte sneaking up behind me with a blue polyester blazer until she thrust it into my hands…along with a bright yellow tie.
“Bold fashion choice,” I said, figuring a little flattery might help me weasel out of putting the appalling getup on my body. “But synthetics make me break out in hives.”
“If you want to pass yourself off as an intern, you’ll need to look the part.”
I shook out the blazer. It had yellow piping that matched the tie. And sparkly stars on the cuffs. You’d think I’d jump at the chance to wear lamé…but not like this. “Are you positive there’s no other way? I’m sure a jaunty name tag would suffice.” Heck, even a lime green visor was preferable.
“The key to fitting in is looking like you belong.” Charlotte shoved the blazer at me more insistently, and quelling a wince, I accepted it. Because she was right. And what better way to keep an eye on the Boardwalk than from the Barge of the Bay? So, even though it involved swallowing my pride and wishing I was colorblind, I looped the tie around my neck and slipped on the jacket.
But that didn’t mean I had to like it.