We consider going to Weeki Wachee after all but decide to spend the rest of the day in Ybor City, a historic section of Tampa that was once the center of the cigar-rolling industry. We park at the top of the parking garage, and Clarisse lights the joint she’d stashed in her bra at home, before handing it to me. We take turns, passing it from our lips to our fingers and back, getting higher and higher until it’s gone.
We get out of the car and hold hands as we walk down the stairs and onto the street. I feel like I’m walking on air, my legs warm and flexible, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much.
We eat at the Columbia, which the menu states is the oldest restaurant in Florida, family owned since 1905. We’re seated in the Patio Room, with high ceilings and a sky light above that bathes us in white. There are colorful Spanish tiles on the walls and a marble fountain in the center of the room—it looks like a young man riding a fish, with the creature’s tail and the man’s legs intertwined. When I point it out to Clarisse, the waiter tells us the piece is called “Eros and Dolphin,” and it’s a replica of a statue found in the ruins of Pompeii, buried in volcanic ash.
“Who is Eros?” Clarisse asks, and I swear the waiter blushes as he explains that Eros is the god of love. We order two Cuban sandwiches, a slice of key lime pie, and a piece of mango mousse cake. I ask for lemonade, and Clarisse orders a beer with the confidence of a stoned seventeen-year-old. She winks at the waiter, and he nods and smiles and starts walking away, and for a minute, I think she may have actually charmed him into it. But seconds later he is back and asking for some ID, which Clarisse pretends to look for in her tiny bag until she finally looks up and tells him a café con leche would be just fabulous.
After we’re finished eating, Clarisse pays for everything with cash her mother gave her for the day, which she will say she spent on the mermaid show and the glass-bottom boat ride. We step back into the brutal sunshine and walk down Seventh Avenue. It’s the main drag of Ybor City, lined with bars and shops and restaurants. Two men walk past us smoking cigars, and I breathe in the woodsy scent that reminds me of hickory, of a bonfire burning on the beach at night. There’s a tattoo parlor on the corner, and we turn our hands into makeshift binoculars, using them to cut the glare so we can peer through the glass to see inside, where a woman lies on her stomach while a tattooed man presses a contraption to the back of her thigh, purple and black ink smeared on her tanned skin.
When we make it back to the car, we’re hot and sweaty from the sun. Clarisse starts the engine and turns the AC on full blast. She leans her face into the air vent and lets out a loud sigh. “I didn’t know failing a test could feel this good,” she says. “Although I have to admit, I was a little freaked out when you went and knocked on Grandma’s front door. Why didn’t you just tell me you were going to pretend you were a neighbor looking for a cat? I would have loved to play along. I’m pretty good at getting into character, actually.”
“Oh, so you like role play?” I surprise myself by saying it out loud, still a little high on the weed and the excitement of the day.
“I’ve been known to put on a show,” Clarisse says. “You, on the other hand, you seem like the voyeur type. I bet you like to watch.” She turns to face me, her eyes narrowing as if she’s trying to read my mind, unlock my secrets.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, I guess I’ve never had the chance. What about you?”
“Well, why watch,” she says, “when it’s so much fun to join in?” She looks at me, raising her eyebrows, and we laugh together. The sounds of our voices blend until I can’t tell where hers ends and mine begins. I want to kiss her, and I think she might want to kiss me too, but then she puts the car in gear and turns the radio on and we drive.
As we merge onto the highway, Clarisse reaches over, placing a cool palm on the back of my neck. “I don’t think anyone else would go through this shit with me,” she says. I look over and see her smiling, although tears are welled up in her eyes. “So thank you for that. I owe you one, Ev.”
“Well, I’ve been keeping track,” I say, tapping my finger to my temple. “So I’ll let you know when I need to cash in.”
After Clarisse delivers me home on time, after I satisfy my mother and Shea with a few stories from Weeki Wachee—what we saw through the glass bottom of the boat on the river—I go to my room. I climb in bed still wearing my clothes. I dig Emerald’s small comb from my pocket and put it to my lips. I breathe in its scent—a mix of her oily hair and shampoo—impossibly sweet and musty at the same time. I run the comb through my own hair and then secure it just above my ear.
I slide through the recent photos on my phone: Clarisse at the Columbia, giving the key lime pie a thumbs-up, me posing with a candy cigar we found inside a candy store, a blurry shot of the yellow-and-red streetcar moving along Eighth Avenue.
I delete each one with a tap of my finger, and just like that, it’s as though the entire day never happened.