Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,149

I said, turning back in. “Happy birthday, Rob.” I reached to kiss him, leaning far because he was still at the wheel. It was nice that he wanted to spend it with me.

Surfside was in that peculiar state of restaurant nothingness before the full staff arrives, when the kitchen and bar are the only points of activity, and the main room is set but sleepy and unpeopled. When I was little, my mother used to waitress part-time at Bobby Van’s in Bridgehampton, and sometimes she’d take me to work with her. Between jobs such as polishing spots off silverware or folding napkins, I would eat pan-fried hamburgers and do homework and draw on Guest Check pads. Before closing, I would get chocolate ice cream in the overbright kitchen, then fall asleep in a back booth until my mother was done. She would put her feet up and count cash.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Rob asked. We were in the doorway, white ocean light behind us. Probably we looked cool like thieves or ranchers.

“Nothing,” I said. “My mother.”

The bathroom was frilly, like a man’s idea of a ladies’ room. I brushed the sand from my skin and washed my hair under the faucet. It had gotten longer and lighter over the summer; it went straight below my jaw, and I had bangs. I removed my bathing suit. Two white triangles marked my breasts, and one marked my bottom. I threw on khakis and a white top I’d taken up to the beach with me so I could go shopping before riding my bike home. My breasts had gotten bigger. I wondered how long had they been that way. Maybe from birth control pills.

Rob was at the bar. I walked over, and the bartender stopped cutting limes. He smiled, saying his name was Val. I returned the Red Sox hat to Rob, and I said my name was Eveline. Val was a curious name for a man, I thought, without obvious origin. Rob and I drank two mint juleps each, and when Val started to make us another, Rob said, “Just one. No more for her.”

“Why, what’s the problem?” Val wanted to know.

“With the Contessa over here? I gotta keep my eye on her,” Rob stated matter-of-factly. “She’s very loosely wrapped.”

Before the dinner shift started, Val went on break. Rob and I joined him out back behind the building, cutting through the kitchen. We headed through a screen door so covered in gunk that it didn’t even bang when it slammed shut. It made a sound like a donkey—hee haw. Then—nothing. Right away Val lit a joint. It had been months since I’d gotten high, the last time was the night I broke up with Jack. I didn’t really feel like it, but I didn’t want to say no since it was Rob’s birthday. It hit me quickly. I’d forgotten the way everything leapt to life: the smell of creosote from the retaining wall, the growl of the walk-in refrigerator, the insects sawing noisily, the uneven clamor from the kitchen, the waitresses calling early orders, the newly sizzling things, the clinking racks of last night’s glasses exiting the dishwasher. I felt myself shiver. My skin felt sunburned, which is to say both cold and warm at the same time. Rob removed my sunglasses to clean them, and I thought about Val’s name, whether it was Valery or Valentin.

“Vallejo—it’s my last name. My first name’s Rick,” he said. “My grandfather was Juan Vallejo, a matador from Pamplona who got pinned in the ring. The bull’s horns came on either side of his chest. He survived, but he had scars here and here.” Val opened his shirt and pointed to the pockets beneath his arms. His body was like his name, sleek and curiosity-inspiring.

“Funny coincidence,” Rob said. “Evie’s reading Hemingway—the bullfighting book.”

The cook came up to the kitchen door. He pulled a navy bandana from his pants pocket and tied it ceremoniously around his head. “You guys feel like eating?” he asked.

Rob said, “Absolutely!”

Within the half hour, three plates of grilled tuna hit the bar. The tuna steaks were shaped like triangles with charcoal stripes, and the vegetables were twigs stacked like teepees. There was a little ball of wild rice. I couldn’t imagine eating; it made me sick just to look.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” I proposed.

“What are you talking about?” Rob asked incredulously. “The food just got here.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, which seemed to make him