I can’t believe you’re missing a Saturday morning at the jetty.” Shea cracks a brown egg into a cast iron skillet on the stove as I pour orange juice into my glass. “This could make the local news, Ev. This could be bigger than the famous beach parking kerfuffle of 2015.” Sunny-side up, the egg sizzles, becoming a puddle of white against the black, the yolk suspended in the center like a blind eye. Shea pulls two slices of rye bread from a bag and drops them in the toaster.
“I think I’ll survive one Saturday without the jetty.” I drink my juice, savoring the sensation of pulp against the inside of my cheek for a moment before swallowing.
“Ah, but will the jetty survive one Saturday without you?” Shea pokes at the egg yolk with one finger, testing its consistency. The toaster dings as toast pops up.
“I’m sure no one will even notice I’m missing,” I say, but I’m thinking of the old man gliding the wand of his metal detector over the surface of the sand and looking for me from the corner of his eye, the slow beeps of the machine speeding up as he uncovers a broken necklace or a silver dollar.
“I haven’t been to Weeki Wachee in ages,” Shea says. She plucks the toast from the toaster and scrapes butter on each slice with the blunt edge of the knife. “You know I hate to be a feminist killjoy, but…”
“But that’s never stopped you before. Go on.”
Shea laughs at me through her nose as she plates the egg, scooping it gently from the skillet with a purple-handled spatula. “But I just think the mermaid show is exploitative. You know, in a historical context, the mermaid myth was perpetuated so sailors could have a scapegoat for rough waters. They believed these hybrid fish women, who were depicted with bare breasts, of course, could calm or stir the sea at will. Not to mention the sexual fantasy of it all.”
“Well, Professor Killjoy, they have Prince Eric in the show at Weeki Wachee now,” I say. “So there.”
“Oh, great!” Shea says sarcastically. “And I’m sure he’s fully clothed, right? Not just wearing a seashell that barely covers his bits?”
“You must be a blast at dinner parties, Shea.”
“Ha, well, the joke’s on you, Ev. I never get invited to dinner parties.”
I feign a shocked face before I finish my juice in one big gulp.
“You know I’m just reminding you of your power. Women don’t exist to fulfill the needs of others. Society would like you to believe that.”
“Says the woman who is currently making breakfast in bed for her girlfriend.”
As I walk over and place the empty glass in the dishwasher, Shea swats my shoulder lightly with the back of her hand. “Not so loud,” she says. “This breakfast in bed is supposed to be a surprise!”
“Well, you two crazy kids have fun,” I say as I sling my backpack onto my back. The wrench is inside, wrapped up in a sweatshirt along with two pairs of rubber gloves and a roll of duct tape, just in case.
I peek out the front window and watch for Clarisse. Any minute now, she’ll pull up in George’s bright blue hatchback with tinted windows, and I’ll kiss my mother and Shea good-bye. I’ll get in the car, and Clarisse will drive north on I-275. We’ll cross the Howard Frankland Bridge, and I’ll see sunlight reflecting on the water on either side of us. I’ll watch for dolphins like I always do, letting my eyes search the chop of the bay, desperate for the thrill of a smooth gray body breaking the water, that moment of magic when you see just a glimpse of its beauty before it dives under again, just below the surface yet out of sight forever. I like to think that it’s always the same dolphin I see jumping from the bay, intoxicated by the idea that the dolphin is searching for me too, swimming alongside the bridge and waiting to catch a glimpse of me through the glass. For isn’t that all we want in this life, human and animal alike? To see one another? To know we have been seen?
Before we get to I-4, the highway that will take us across the center of the state and toward Celebration, Clarisse announces that she needs to stop for gas. She signals and then merges onto the ramp, and eventually we’re parked at a 7-Eleven, and I’m filling the tank while Clarisse goes inside for snacks. “It’s not a road trip without snacks,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away from me, pulls one of the glass doors, and disappears inside.
By the time Clarisse returns, I’m already back in the passenger seat. She gets in the driver’s side and hands me a Wild Cherry Pepsi and puts another in the cup holder between us. I hold the cool of the bottle to my forehead, a relief after standing in the heat pumping gas.
Clarisse starts the car and then tears open a package of Twizzlers. She rips one strand away from the others, holding it between her teeth as she drives. There’s construction most of the way along I-4 with fat barrels striped orange and white. We play the license plate game for a while to see how many states we can spot. We rack them up quickly, because it seems most everyone here is from somewhere else.
We’re using my phone to navigate, the address punched in, the electronic voice directing Clarisse to exit toward Celebration. We park on Teal Avenue, two houses down from Emerald’s. I reach for the backpack between my feet, unzip the main compartment, and put the rolled-up sweatshirt onto my lap. I slide the wrench from within the sweatshirt, offering it to Clarisse.
She reaches out to touch it, pulling away as soon as her skin makes contact as if testing a hot stove and miscalculating, burning herself.
“Hold it. Get used to the weight of it,” I tell her, but she’s looking down at my lap now, eyeing the rest of the supplies—duct tape, rubber gloves, Clorox disinfectant wipes. Then she looks straight ahead, sitting still as a stone.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but Clarisse doesn’t respond. She rests her chin on the top of the steering wheel. “Reesey Cup, you okay?” I use the pet name I made up for her, the one she allows only when it’s the two of us.
“I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Evelyn.” She takes her sunglasses off, leans over, and presses her face against my shoulder. “I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. I can’t, I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I can’t do it, I won’t.” The words tumble and fall, cascading like waterfalls from her lips.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh. It’s okay, it’s okay. Clarisse, it’s okay.” I put everything back in the backpack and zip it up.
Clarisse looks up at me, her face wet with tears. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”
I run my fingers through her hair. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s all going to be okay.” I say it over and over. I repeat it like a mantra until she stops crying, until her breath returns to normal.
I open The Catalog of Everything I’ve Done Wrong and add a new entry: made Clarisse cry.
Then I grab the backpack and get out of the car.