Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,17
us up” and “Spiffy knows this river better than anyone.” I peer around the shoulders of the other people in the room to see a guy with the most shocking red hair and freckles clap Justin on the back and say, “Yo, man!” He’s wearing a Red Sox cap turned backward and a rumpled T-shirt, and he looks about as unspiffy as a person can get.
I hang back with Angela, who is trying to find one of her booties in her bag. She and Justin brought their own wet suits, since they’re up here all the time, and Hugo borrowed his brother’s. But for me, it’s rental city. Ugh. I don’t really like the idea of a suit that hugged someone else’s most private body parts hugging mine, but I’m determined not to complain. I’m determined to be okay with roughing it, which was why I pretended it was just fine that we didn’t brush our teeth, despite the thick film on mine that I keep trying to wipe away with my tongue. I bite my lip and focus on the pictures in a glass case along with a huge map of the state. Photographs of dozens of smiling people in ballpark-mustard-color rafts, surrounded by white water. They all look so happy. I don’t know if it’s possible for me to smile like that. Well, not surrounded by a raging river, at least.
Then I turn to another picture that looks out of place among all the color photos. It’s faded and yellowing, part of an old newspaper article, and the frame itself is cracked and covered with what looks like years of dust. The headline on it says: RIDE THE DEAD RIVER WITH THE SKIFFINGTON BROTHERS. There are two men, one clean-shaven in a suit and tie, and the other in a beard and a flannel shirt, standing under a GRAND OPENING sign on the porch of what must be the same cabin I’m standing in. The date on it is July 18, 1992.
“Got it!” Angela says, triumphant, hopping around to squeeze the bootie onto her foot. She’s already wearing her wet suit. It’s cute, mostly black with a little pink stitching. She looks even better in the wet suit than she does in regular clothes: strong, statuesque, and athletic. I think I will probably look like a full garbage bag in mine: lumpy, shapeless, and sadly waiting to go to where its life will end.
Justin motions to us. I move through the crowd and lean against the desk as he hands me a pen. “You guys just need to sign this release,” he says.
I read it as both Hugo and Angela hurriedly scribble their names on the line. I have to focus on my breathing when I go down the list of possible risks: “disease, strains, fractures, partial and/or total paralysis, death, or other ailments that cause serious disability.”
I repeat Angela’s words to calm myself. Smooth sailing.
Then I stop when I see: “Signature of parent or guardian if under 18.” I look at Justin. He mouths, It’s okay. Just do it.
I hesitate for only a second. This is Justin. Justin, who always checks my seat belt to make sure it’s fastened before he takes Monster out. Justin, who religiously stays to my left when we’re walking down the sidewalk, to protect me from whatever peril might lie in the street. He wouldn’t have me sign anything unless there really was no danger involved. It’ll just be a leisurely jaunt down the river. Smooth sailing. I grab the pen and sign Kiandra Levesque.
“Let’s get you a suit. It’s twenty to rent,” Spiffy says, inspecting me as I fork over the crumpled bill that’s been glued with sweat to my palm. I think he’s probably just trying to figure out what size I am, but when he turns around and walks into the back of the office, Justin winks at me.
“He does not want me,” I mutter.
“Totally does.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m right.”
I stick my tongue out at him just as Spiffy appears in the doorway with an amorphous gray thing with pee-yellow arms that looks like it has seen better days. “You can try it on here,” he tells me, motioning to the back. “Want some help?”
I look at Justin helplessly. Is that some backwoods pickup line?
He grins at me. “Let him help you get dressed,” he whispers. “It will be the highlight of his young life.”
I scowl at him as Spiffy just pulls aside the curtain and lets me pass, as if