The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,48

asks me.

“Blood?” I say. The words tuxedo and sunset suddenly seem too ridiculous, as if I’m talking about a prom date rather than a dead fish.

“It looks like the tail feathers of a huge tropical bird,” he says, a true poet.

I spray the hose and the blood pools into the far corner, flowing out through the vents and into the ocean. Sam looks into my eyes and says, “You must miss dancing if you’ve hung your slippers up above your bunk.”

I shift in my rubber boots. After standing for hours on a cement deck with cold water rushing over them, my feet are chunks of ice.

“I bet you’re really good…,” he says cautiously, sensing that it’s a sensitive topic. “A good dancer, I mean.”

“I could be,” I admit, yanking my eyes away from his. “The auditions are happening in early August, and if I want to get into a college dance program, I have to be accepted this summer. It’s a small window to make it as a dancer. But it’s right in the middle of fishing season, so it’s not going to happen. But,” I add hastily, “it’s not that big a deal.”

This could be the biggest lie I’ve ever told, and he’s not buying it.

“Does your dad even know about it?”

I’m afraid I’ll start crying. It really does seem like a stupid thing to cry over. Doesn’t anybody understand that I feel like even asking is letting my dad down? Why does that seem so obvious to me, and so dumb to people like Sally and Izzy and Selma—and now Sam? But he doesn’t actually say that. He doesn’t say anything.

Instead he pulls me in close, and I think for a minute that he’s going to kiss me.

“You’ve got some blood on your nose,” he says, wiping my face with an orange-gloved finger. “Oops, I think I just made it worse.”

“Well,” I say, “you’re pretty bloody yourself. Here, let me help you.”

And without warning I lift the hose and spray him right in the face. He shouts and grabs the other hose, and a full-on water fight ensues. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad shake his head and shut the wheelhouse door to keep the damage contained on the back deck. Just as he ducks inside, though, I watch a shadow cross his face. How much of that did he just hear?

—

Later we anchor up in Crawfish Inlet and Dad says we can take the Pelican out and paddle around before dinner. It’s supposed to blow tonight, so we pulled the gear early and got inside to shelter, but so far there isn’t a hint of what the forecast promised. Sam asks if he can row, so I lie back and trail my hand over the side, watching the water ripple past.

“This is my favorite place,” I tell him. “I shot my first deer up on that ridge. From the top you can see all the islands within spitting distance. When I die, I want my ashes scattered here.”

“You’re the weirdest ballerina I’ve ever met.”

I watch him as he rows the raft that saved him. He is wearing my uncle’s sweatshirt that says IF YOU MUST SMOKE, SMOKE SALMON. It’s weird to see this boy in my family’s clothes—as if we’ve created him out of nothing. Or we’re making him into something because he is our found object. My found object. I push away the thought that it’s probably very unfair to do that to someone.

“You okay?” I ask him.

He shrugs—another gesture he picked up from my dad and uncle. Maybe it comes with the clothes.

“You can tell me,” I say, but I sound pushy.

He looks at me and his lips form a half-smile. I never knew how much I liked being noticed before, being smiled at. Even partially smiled at.

“Old habit…,” he says, and then stops.

I wait. He is struggling to find words, which I already know is unusual for him.

“Ever since my dad went missing, I felt like I was being disloyal if I didn’t think about him every single minute…” The pauses between his sentences are so long, I hold my breath waiting for him to finish. “But I get it, he’s really gone.”

“I’m sorry about your dad” is all I can think to say.

“It’s not that. It’s just…I figured Hank was mad at me, but it seems like a long time for him not to try to find me. Maybe he didn’t see me get rescued. What if he thinks