by John Brandon
It was one in the afternoon. Shelby had left school during her lunch period, cutting psychology and algebra out of her day, and it felt like a sound decision. She felt better off. This was one thing she would make no promises about; she would continue to skip school whenever she felt it would benefit her, whenever she felt school would do her no good. She had her science book on the patio with her, and also an erotic novel, and she planned to switch back and forth chapter for chapter.
Shelby perused the periodic table of elements for fifteen minutes, cooling her mind with rows of letters and numbers, then slid the science book aside and flipped onto her back. She opened The Wild, Warm Winter of Shauna Black. A girl in her twenties, a virgin, went to a bar and picked out a guy and they went to a hotel. The girl was scared, wouldn’t come out of the bathroom. Description of the bathroom. Guy talking his way into the bathroom. Kissing and whispering. Fingers slipping beneath panties. In the space of the next paragraph, the author referred to Shauna’s nether regions a dozen different ways, in painstaking detail, dragging each moment out and piling on the adjectives. And surprisingly, it was effective. It was working on Shelby. At the same time as she felt the tightness and tingle of the sun doing its work on her tummy and thighs, she felt the perk of sex inside her. Shauna was holding herself back, reluctant to give up what she had held dear for so long. Shelby rolled on her side, collecting herself before going further. She was sweating. The man clutched Shauna high on the leg and put her where he wanted her. He unbuttoned her blouse, put his thumb in her mouth. Shelby put her own thumb to her lips. She could hear the sound of bees.
The phone rang and Shelby flinched. She shut the book and flopped her arm behind her, finding first the apple and then wrapping her pinkie around the hot metal antenna. She squeezed the phone in her hands, stifling everything she was feeling in her body, blocking out the sun and blocking out what was happening to Shauna in the hotel room.
She pushed the Talk button and said hello.
The voice on the other end was composed, with the slightest grain to it—a man’s voice. “I’m looking for Mr. Ben Register.”
“You’ve got his secretary.”
“My name is Finch Warren.”
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“Most people haven’t,” Finch said.
“It’s 1:45 in the afternoon. Don’t you think my father might be at work?”
“You’re the older sister,” Finch said.
“Now I’m just a secretary.”
Finch cleared his throat. “I’m a writer. I teach at USF. I wrote a memoir that was short-listed for the Blackburn-Hickey award. I want to write a book about you and your father.” He cleared his throat again.
“I’m still here,” said Shelby. “I haven’t hung up as of yet.”
“I thought we could take a cut of the proceeds and do something for Kaley, like dedicate a scholarship in her name.”
“I’m going to need a scholarship before long,” Shelby said.
“You won’t need a scholarship if this book does what I think it will.”
Shelby opened her science book and looked down at a diagram that explained nuclear energy. She didn’t hear bees anymore. There were drowsy clouds spread evenly across the sky.
“I can get my own scholarship,” Shelby said. “I’m going to start getting back on top of my grades, Finch. Me and my dad are going to start getting on top of things, and I appreciate your interest but I’m afraid we’re not going to have anything to do with your book. I’ve heard you out and given you an answer.”
“I wouldn’t prefer to do the book without you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Shelby said.
“Maybe you should take a little time to think about it. Talk it over with your dad.”
“It doesn’t take me long to think. I’m fast and accurate when it comes to thinking.”
Shelby picked up the apple. Her limbs were heavy. The phone felt like a brick. She thanked Finch for his time and got off the phone. She knew she ought to feel insulted by someone suggesting that money be made off Kaley’s disappearance, but she didn’t. Finch Warren was doing his job. Everyone in the world, they were just doing whatever they got paid for.
Shelby carried the phone inside and put it on its cradle in the kitchen. She could feel all the shame in her. Not for any specific deed—shame for being able to carry on. She could eat, put on clothes, read trashy books, clean house, make summer plans, worry about things going sour with a boy. Shelby was not a good person. Her mother had hardened a portion of her and her sister another portion and now she wasn’t a good person.
She was still holding the apple. She dropped it in the trash, then stood at the kitchen sink and drank a glass of water. She went to the patio, gathered everything into the blanket and hauled it inside. Shelby picked up the Shauna Black novel and her stomach felt sick, like the water she’d drank had been sour milk. She took the book to the kitchen and rested it in the trash can. After a moment, she pushed it down under the other trash.
On Sunday Mr. Hibma’s girls had dispatched Pasco Middle, the black school, by thirteen points. Though Pasco was in a rebuilding year and three of their starters had been suffering from the flu, this was still something to be proud of for Citrus. All that build-up for Pasco, and then it hadn’t even been a close game. Pasco seemed to concede early in the second half, shorthanded as they were. They didn’t put on a pressure defense. They didn’t take quick shots. When the clock ticked down to all zeroes, the Pasco players absorbed the loss with a dignity that diffused any desire on the part of the Citrus players for a raucous celebration. Even Rosa and Sherrie lined up and shook hands. The win had vaulted Mr. Hibma’s squad into the district semifinals, and he’d given them two days off from practicing, telling them to recharge and get ready to play by Wednesday night. Mr. Hibma tried to enjoy the win, but he found that winning was not what he relished; it was seeing the other guy lose. He loved to see his opponent frustrated, and Pasco hadn’t given him that.
Now it was Wednesday evening, back at the gym, and Mr. Hibma was thrown a nasty curve. An hour prior to the game, with his players straggling in and starting to stretch, a girl wearing a choker walked up to Mr. Hibma and handed him a folded sheet of paper. The girl stared at Mr. Hibma and he stared at her. This girl knew how to deliver bad news. She was a pro. The moment Mr. Hibma looked down at the note and began to unfold it, the girl spun and sashayed out, her heels slapping in her sandals.
Mr. Hibma,
Rosa and I can’t play anymore. We wanted to beat Pasco and we did that. We’re going to states in shot and discus and that’s priority. Thanks for being our coach. Thank the girls for being our teammates.
Sherrie
Mr. Hibma let the girls mill about, let them run their layup lines. He could tell they were wondering about Rosa and Sherrie, hoping they’d had a flat tire or woken up late from a nap, hoping they’d bustle through the double doors any minute, polishing off some tacos, yanking off their warm-ups. The Citrus fans—an ever-growing contingent of boyfriends, a few parents, a smattering of bored elderly—were also worrying about Rosa and Sherrie. The other team was looking down toward Mr. Hibma; they’d noticed, too. The Dade Chargers: solid and unspectacular. They’d advanced to the semis by making free throws and not turning the ball over. This was how they won; they showed up with their sound fundamentals and waited for something to go wrong with the opponent.
When there were twenty minutes to tip, Mr. Hibma pulled his team into the locker room.
“They’re not coming,” Mr. Hibma said. “So there it is. This is no time for looking around and blinking. Rosa and Sherrie are off the team. And that, just then, was the last time we’re ever going to mention them.” Mr. Hibma allowed a moment of silence, a period of grief. When he spoke again, his girls would know they were expected to be recovered from the loss of their largest, meanest comrades.
Mr. Hibma knelt in front of his point guard, his hands on her bony knees. “I want you to push
the ball every single time you get it. Even if you’re one on five, you push all the way into the lane and figure out what to do when you get there.”
The point guard nodded. She liked having a lot asked of her.
“Under what circumstances will you walk the ball up?”
“None,” she answered.
Mr. Hibma moved on to the fast girl, told her she was going to be the star of the game, that she was going to make a dozen layups. He told the three-point-shooting twins to stay right next to each other the whole game, to set screens for one another like a revolving door. Mr. Hibma had instructions for everyone. His troops were captivated. He stood back and addressed the whole team.
“You all know what’s going to happen on Thursday,” he said. “We’re going to run into Ocala. We’re going to be outclassed. We’re going to be outcoached. Ocala is in better shape than we are and they possess a killer instinct.” Mr. Hibma jabbed his finger in the air. “But,” he said. “But tonight, we will pummel these spineless Dade Chargers. We will be a dizzying storm of audacity.”
The girls didn’t know what audacity was, but they knew they were about to embody it. Mr. Hibma wanted the Dade Chargers to lose in the worst way. He wanted their parents to scream at the refs. He wanted their coach to feel powerless. Mr. Hibma, for the first time since he’d been a coach, was not faking. He wasn’t acting like what he thought a coach would act like, but was speaking from his guts.
“There will be no chatter once we leave this locker room. Not one word. No smiling. No looking at boyfriends. I’m going to sit on the bench silently with one leg crossed over the other. You are a silent avalanche.”
Mr. Hibma paced, letting his words get heavy and sink to the floor and settle. His players had frenzy in their hearts. They were trembling.
And they triumphed. Mr. Hibma had never seen a team so thoroughly psyched out as Dade. After the final seconds ticked off the clock, all the voice Mr. Hibma’s players had held inside exploded into the gym. The fans wailed. Even the other coach, it seemed to Mr. Hibma, understood that the good guys had won.
Mr. Hibma guided his car along the roads that led to his villa. He stopped at the grocery store and picked up wine, hummus, pickles, salami. He ran his car through a car wash then pulled around to get gas. Mr. Hibma was leaning on his car, the trigger of the nozzle locked in place and pumping steadily, when an SUV pulled up across from him and the most curvaceous woman Mr. Hibma had ever seen stepped down from it. She was wearing a purposely tattered T-shirt, overmatched shorts, and canvas shoes. She was not from the area. Her ankles and knees and waist were delicate and in between those points was bursting, fecund flesh. Her face was an arranged jumble of plump cheeks and full lips and dark eyebrows.
When Mr. Hibma’s tank was full, he replaced the nozzle on the pump and screwed on his gas cap. He fondled his keys in his pocket. He stepped around the pump and emerged next to the woman’s SUV. She was facing away from Mr. Hibma, kicking some hosing out of her way, fixing up a place to stand. Her calves were flexing preposterously.
“Miss,” Mr. Hibma said.
The woman turned, caught off-guard. It was night and she was at a service station in a redneck county.
“When a man sees the sexiest woman he’ll ever see, he knows he has received a gift that will enrich him and curse him. You have broadened my notion of feminine allure. Because of you, this gas station will be one of the places in the world most dear to my heart.”
The woman giggled breathily. She gave Mr. Hibma a look that meant he ought to know better.
The woman’s nozzle clicked, her tank full, and Mr. Hibma did not miss his chance for a well-timed exit. He backed out of the woman’s sight, slid into his car, and pulled away from the gas station. The whole way home, he kept looking at himself in the rearview, wondering about himself, doubting very little that the person he saw in the mirror was a cold-blooded killer, doubting very little that he could pull off a grand act that would transform him. It wasn’t that complicated. Your mind told your body to do things and your body obeyed. If he needed to coach, he could coach. If he needed to charm a sexy woman, he could charm a sexy woman. If he needed to kill Mrs. Conner, he could kill Mrs. Conner. He could sit long hours in his storage unit and let his soul curdle. Mr. Hibma wasn’t stuck in his life. He was cocked and loaded, ready to blow his life apart.
On the way into his villa he checked the mail and, he should’ve known, there was a letter from Dale waiting for him. The address of his PO Box in Clermont was written in Dale’s hand, and beneath that a yellow sticker had been affixed which directed the envelope to Citrus County.
Mr. H,
Write me once more, to let me know where to be and when to be there. I’m game, as you’ve gathered. At the very least, as game as you are.
After school, Toby and Shelby walked past a trailer park where only old people were allowed to live. They went into the woods and passed a hill of tires and kept going until they reached the old warehouse, the one with all the statues leaning against it. Toby had walked past it a bunch of times but had never tried to venture inside. The door didn’t have a knob. Shelby lifted the thin rod out of its setting and Toby gave a shove and they were looking at the dim immensity of the place. Boxes were everywhere, none of them closed. Bibles and shoes. Heavy, glossy leather bibles and plain black shoes. And that’s what the place smelled like, brand-new rubber and old, old words. Shelby started kissing Toby and he was ready. He could enjoy kissing her now. He wanted to do nothing but kiss her. In two days he was going to put everything right and his mind would be empty and ready for brand-new inventory. He wasn’t using his faulty instincts anymore. He was thinking. He was thinking of the new day that would dawn, when everyone would wake up where they were supposed to. Shelby wouldn’t come to Toby’s house and he wouldn’t come to hers but the rest of the county would be their stomping grounds, their kissing grounds.
Shelby backed into the shadows and reclined herself on some boxes. Toby wondered if she was on shoes or bibles. She undid the buttons of her shirt and calmly drew one arm out of its sleeve and then the other. She was wearing nothing underneath. Toby’s mouth was dry from nerves and it was dry from the lack of Shelby’s mouth. He’d been watching her body for months and now here it was. Shelby was so pale and somehow her breasts were an even lighter shade. They were of a shape and character that Toby could not have imagined. He reached and placed his hand on one of them and a husky squeak escaped Shelby. Toby didn’t want to be scared again. He didn’t want to feel like a sucker. He wanted to feel what you were supposed to feel.
Shelby wanted this to go further, but she wasn’t going to lead Toby anymore. She wanted him to do something. He reached with his free hand for her shorts, no idea what was going to happen. She was right in front of him, but it seemed like he had to reach a long way. He fumbled with the button for a moment, his fingers stupid, and then Shelby was reaching for him, clutching at him.
Toby stepped back into a stack of boxes and they teetered and almost fell.
“I don’t want you to touch me this time,” he said.
“Why not?”
Toby didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be able to keep his nerve, to touch Shelby because that’s what she wanted. He reclaimed the space between them, and then both of them were holding still and listening. They heard a car. The noise got steadily louder until it was right outside the warehouse. The car didn’t have a muffler or something. The doors opened and then slammed. Toby handed Shelby her shirt and she accepted it and began buttoning it up. The two of them crept over to the wall and found a warped spot where they could see out. There were two men, both with flattop haircuts and one with an enormous class ring. They were talking about which statues to take, which would sell for the most, their voices raised because of the grumbling engine. Toby and Shelby could see the men but not their vehicle. They kept carrying statue after statue. It must’ve been a big pickup truck. They must’ve been piling the saints and knights one on top of the other i
n the bed like a bunch of dead bodies. The men may have owned the statues or they may have been stealing them.
That evening, Shelby asked her father to drive her to the library. She’d done enough walking in the woods for one day. They cruised along the edges of some cow pastures, slowed at a recent sinkhole that had collapsed half of a diabetes clinic. They pulled onto the dusty road, passed the power substation.
Lately, Shelby’s father’s breakfasts had gotten more elaborate—honey-pecan sausage, omelets, pineapple juice. He made himself read the paper each morning, grinding through the major stories of each section no matter how little they interested him. He gave Shelby gifts, the latest a book in which a bunch of poets wrote about their favorite pop songs. Shelby’s father had learned how to force his mood, to keep himself in the middle ground, neither manic nor hopeless. He seemed a bit lighter in spirit, perhaps because he had less of it. He would find peace, even if it were some compromised brand. Shelby could feel it; he would survive.
Shelby’s father parked the car and the two of them sat staring at a poster for a fundraising picnic to benefit the manatees. Shelby looked out her side window and saw the high school boys, with their falling-off black jeans and frayed shoes. They were cowardly and dangerous, a pack of hyenas.
“I don’t get manatees,” Shelby’s father said. “I don’t get the big fascination. If I’m still around when they kick, let’s have a party. We’ll make margaritas.”
“I understand manatees,” Shelby said. “They’re like friendly dinosaurs.” She got out of the car and leaned in the window. “Back in ten.”
