by Steve Berman
“Dad—” he said. But before he could try to explain, his father put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Sorry, son, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” he said. “Maybe we can make it up to you later this summer. Think of something fun you can do on your own. Okay?”
“Okay, sure,” Shane said.
The fishing poles twitched and dipped. Shane’s dad smacked him on the back.
“Oh boy!” he said. “Looks like we’ve got something! Come on—help me out here!”
They’d hit a school of crappie, and went home with six sleek fish. Cleaning them before bed was the not-fun part of night fishing. Shane’s dad was adept at the process. It kind of made Shane gag, but he could do it. He cleaned two to his dad’s four.
“You’re catching on,” his dad said encouragingly.
Yeah, Shane thought. At least I didn’t cut myself on the knife this time. He did feel pretty good about it, though, once the guts and scales were dumped and he’d washed his hands and rubbed lemon on them. He liked the plump sheen of the fish and the multicolored glint of their scales. He also enjoyed knowing that delicate white filets for tomorrow’s dinner were packed away in the refrigerator in a Ziploc bag. It was the process in between that he didn’t like.
*
He lay in bed thinking about how you’d paint the change from live fish to dinner. You couldn’t just portray a plate of fried fish. That would be lame. He glanced over at the other twin bed with its matching cowboy bedspread. He sighed and wished he’d talked his parents into bringing Mark along. Then there wouldn’t have been room for a guest. He’d thought about it. Honestly, the reason he hadn’t was that he’d had a secret hope he might meet someone this time. On the beach or somewhere. And if Mark had been there, it would have been awkward. Well, now he was going to meet someone. Just not the way he’d hoped.
He wondered if maybe you could paint a plate of fried fish. Like Warhol. Plates of fried fish in different colors to match the scales of the live fish. Or a fish that was made of lots of fractal filets, kind of a mosaic… First he’d have to learn to paint fish, though. He wanted acrylics for a messy, tactile surface. He needed to bring more art supplies up to the cabin. And if his mom owed him one, maybe he could get her to redecorate his room. Matching cowboy bedspreads couldn’t even be passed off as ironic. They were just tacky and childish. He rolled over and turned out the light.
*
In the morning, he got hold of his friends at home and discussed the injustice with them in detail, promising to keep them up to date as events unfolded. He felt better after hearing their assurances that his parents were insane, and listening to Jana laugh about the cowboy bedspreads.
In fact, he felt good enough to take the kayak out and cruise slowly past the Simms house to see if anyone was around. He was in luck. A group of guys was getting ready to go tubing behind the Simmses’ new powerboat. One of them was Scott, the boy who had been in his English class last year. Scott actually waved to him, so he slowed his stroke and drifted alongside.
“Hey, how’re you doing.”
“Howzit,” Scott said, giving him a pretentious Hawaiian hand gesture. Shane happened to know that Scott had been on vacation to some time-share resort in Hawaii once or maybe twice. That didn’t make him an islander.
“It’s good,” Shane said.
“Hey, are you going to the bonfire tomorrow night?” Scott said. Shane saw by the look exchanged between the other two that they hadn’t planned on inviting Shane. He tried to think fast how to answer in a way that wouldn’t reveal he hadn’t known there was a bonfire planned.
“Maybe,” he said. “Did they decide where it was going to be?”
“Well, it turned out the Petersons were going to be home after all, so we couldn’t do it there,” Scott said. “And Chase said no. Can you believe it? His parents are actually going out of town for the weekend, and told us he wasn’t interested in partying.”
Shane shook his head in a way that said “Some people.”
“Yeah, so we’re just going to do it at the park. It’s the middle of the week. With any luck Smokey the Bear won’t get there till it’s too late.”
The guy driving the boat revved the engine impatiently.
“Later!” Shane said, and got out of the way before the wake hit him.
He came into the house before supper and saw that someone was talking to his mom. Glimpsed from the kitchen door, the stranger intrigued him. He was tall, with thick dark hair that straggled over his collar in little curls and ended up in a ducktail at the back. His outline from the rear was attractive—thin and rangy with long arms and legs. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned hands and forearms. Shane stepped through into the kitchen.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, hi, honey. Good timing. Chase just stopped by.”
OMG, Shane thought. Please don’t tell me I was just cruising Chase Huntington.
Chase turned and smiled, sticking out his hand.
“Chase. How’re you doing,” Shane said—thinking, WTF, he’s going to shake my hand? Who does that?
“It smells good in here, Mrs. Kerry,” Chase said. Shane thought, What a suck-up. It did smell good, though. It smelled like his mother’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies.
“Thank you, Chase. I just made some cookies. Why don’t you boys take a plateful out in back and let them cool enough to eat.”
Chase offered to carry the plate, plus napkins. Shane rolled his eyes behind his mother’s back. Could she get any more corny? Anyone would think Chase was some poor, starving orphan instead of the son of an investment banker.
At least she hadn’t poured them glasses of milk. Shane pulled a bottle of A&W root beer out of the cooler on the porch, and Chase accepted a Diet Coke.
“So your mom was telling me about her bird watching,” Chase said. “She said you knew a lot about birds, too.”
“Not really.” Shane shrugged. “She’s been working on her Life List since I was a kid. I used to go out with her sometimes.”
“I think it’s cool to know about birds. Birds are not my specialty.”
“What is your specialty?” Shane said. Thinking: Could this get any more Aspergers-y? We’ll be talking about how to breed hamsters next.
“Amphibians,” Chase said, like that was a perfectly normal topic of conversation.
“Really,” Shane said. His eyebrow shot up before he could stop it. Chase looked fazed for a minute. Then he shrugged and fit half a cookie into his mouth.
“These are good,” he said, chewing. “See, amphibians are the early warning system of the ecology. They’re dying now, or turning up deformed, and we don’t know why. Global warming, pollutants? We haven’t figured that out yet, but we need to, because ultimately it will affect humans, too.”
In spite of himself, Shane was intrigued by the audacity of a geek who would just go on saying what he wanted to say.
“How did you get so interested in amphibians?”
“My uncle is a biologist,” Chase said. “He’s like the black sheep of the family. So we had that in common. And I really wanted a pet turtle when I was a kid, and he started telling me why that was a bad idea. I guess he could see that made me really sad, so he promised to take me out to see some turtles in the wild, and I got into it. I started hanging out in swamps on my own. I like wetlands because they’re liminal.”
“They’re what, now?” Shane said. Actually, he had some idea what the word meant. It had come up in a movie he’d seen about cave art.
“On the edges of things. Changing from one state to another. Wet to dry, dry to wet. Air to water, water to land. Amphibians move between environments. Also, they’re very sensitive to conditions. Like frogs. Frogs have absorptive skins.”
He paused and looked at Shane. He sighed. “Okay, I know it’s not a popular topic. You asked.” He slumped back in his chair and took another cookie. “These are good. Did I mention? Yeah, I guess I did. So what do you d
o when you’re up at the lake? I haven’t seen you hanging out on the Simmses’ dock.”
“We just got here,” Shane said. “I haven’t had time to hang out much.”
He hoped Chase would get the subtle implication that Shane was not having time to hang out because now Chase was here. Chase gave him a look from under the locks of hair falling over his brows. The look said he knew Shane had just dodged the question. Okay, maybe Chase wasn’t as clueless as he appeared. Shane noticed his eyes were very dark. You’d almost think they were deep. If, Shane corrected himself, you didn’t already know it was just Chase.
Chase reached out one long arm to the edge of the table, where Shane had left his bag of art supplies in a jumble when he decided to take the kayak out. He picked up the notebook.
“Is this your mom’s?”
That was exactly the wrong thing to say. Shane could feel his face reddening, though he willed it to stop. Art was girly, art was not something a normal boy would care about. He had to fight back that notion every day. Not that anyone said it to him. But he was afraid they would. He heard it in his own head.
“No. Mine,” he said shortly. He reached for the notebook, but Chase held it just beyond his grasp.
“Oh. Cool. Mind if I look?”
Shane did mind. But what could he say? “It’s private”? That would only let Chase know he was touchy about it. A sure way to get more unwanted attention.
“Yeah, whatever,” he said begrudgingly. Thinking: I don’t care. Don’t give a shit what he thinks. What does he know?
Anyway, if Chase gave him any crap about his sketches, he’d have the excuse he needed to stop even pretending to be polite to him.
He waited to see if Chase would linger too long over his drawings of handsome men, if Chase would make any comments. Chase browsed through the pages attentively, but didn’t appear to pause on one more than another.
He looked up and smiled, his gaze browsing over Shane’s face as if it were another drawing. His smile was not bad, Shane thought, surprised. Interestingly crooked, a little crinkle around the eyes, and a glint of humor or things unsaid that brought life to his expression. It might even have been attractive, to someone who didn’t know he was just Chase.
“You’re good,” he said. “I didn’t know you could do that. I like the kind of abstract ones the best. They have a flavor to them. They’re different.”
“Thanks,” Shane said. That was a conversation stopper in the opposite way from what he’d expected. He hadn’t expected Chase to appreciate his painting.
“So, are you planning to be an artist? Are you going to go to art school?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, you should. You’re that good.”
“Yeah, well, my parents aren’t that impressed. You know how it goes. They want you to do something practical. My dad thinks I should get a business degree and then go into advertising or marketing or something.”
“Yeah, I do know how it goes.” Chase smiled wryly. “My folks couldn’t figure out why I wouldn’t want to go to Chicago with them. They’re attending a Republican fund-raiser. For some guy who doesn’t believe in global warming. Law school—that’s what they want for me. They know I’ll never get into Harvard like my brother. But anybody without a law degree is a loser as far as they’re concerned.”
At that point, Shane’s mother called them in for dinner. She’d fried the fish in beer batter and made potato salad and corn bread. Chase ate like there was no tomorrow, and kept the compliments flying as fast as his fork. Shane had started liking him more, but he started hating him again while he watched Chase make conversation and ingratiate himself with the adults. Everything was great and wonderful, and Chase jumped up to help every time Shane’s mother had to take anything out to the kitchen.
“So, Chase, what’s this job that’s so important you wanted to stay here?” Shane’s dad asked. This was a sore spot with Shane. His dad was always hinting it was about time Shane got a job. Shane loved his summers. He knew he’d have to work sooner or later, but he was trying to put it off at least until he was sixteen and could drive.
“Well, sir, it’s not really a job, I guess, because I don’t get paid. It’s volunteer work.”
“What kind of volunteer work?” Shane’s mom said.
“My uncle works at the Biological Station in Kalamazoo,” Chase said. “He’s coordinating volunteers for the frog census in western Michigan. I’m helping him with that.”
Shane’s mom laughed. Probably disappointed he isn’t working for Mother Teresa, Shane thought.
“Frog census? What on earth is that?”
“We’re trying to find out how many frogs there are in the area, and what kinds,” Chase said. “You can’t actually go out and catch them, because they’re too elusive. So someone has to go out to their habitats and listen for their songs. You sign up for a certain route that goes to different sites, and then you record your observations over a given time period. It’s kind of technical, but it basically means I have to go out in a boat and listen for a couple of hours every night. If I’d gone back to Chicago with my parents, it would have left a big hole in my observations.”
“Let me get this straight,” Shane’s dad said. “You have to go sit in the swamp at night, and this you do for free?”
“Yes, it’s good experience if you want to be a biologist,” Chase said.
“Sounds crazy to me,” Shane’s dad said. “This is what they spend our tax dollars on—counting frogs.”
“No sir, this part is all volunteer,” Chase said. “It doesn’t cost you anything.”
That shit-eating smile stayed plastered on his face even though they were obviously laughing at him, Shane thought.
“I think it’s cool,” Shane said. “Most people don’t understand the importance of amphibians in the ecology.”
He said it just to irk his parents, because he was fed up with their know-it-all attitude. Chase shot him a look of astonished gratitude, a genuine smile lighting up his face.
“Anyway, it’s not that much different from night fishing,” Shane said.
“Night fishing gets you dinner,” Shane’s dad said, ostentatiously spearing the last fish filet. Too late, Shane remembered that he’d meant to keep his parents in a good mood.
“I will have a job later this summer, though,” Chase said. “My uncle has a lab tech position lined up for me, starting in a couple of weeks. I’ll get paid for that.”
Shane’s dad gave him a “There, you see” kind of look. Once again, Shane resented Chase.
It wasn’t the best moment to ask, but he figured it was now or never.
“Hey, Mom and Dad, remember how you were saying that maybe I could do something fun later,” he said. Thinking: To make up for having Chase here!
“Well, I saw Scott this afternoon—you know, Scott Blanchard from my English class? And he invited me to a party tomorrow night.”
“What kind of a party?” his mom said.
“Just a beach party. A campfire. Jason Simms and those guys are going to be there.”
He could see his mom shaking her head already. “Oh, honey, I just don’t think that sounds like a good idea. Will there be adult supervision?”
“I guess so,” Shane lied. “I didn’t really ask. Come on, Mom, you know those kids.”
Too late, he wished he hadn’t mentioned Jason. He didn’t want his mom to get the bright idea of calling Mrs. Simms to ask about the party.
His mom looked at his dad. His dad didn’t look welcoming to the idea, either.
“No, son, I don’t think so,” he said. “You never know what’s going to happen at something like that. Drinking, party crashers. Kids do dumb things in a group. And besides, you have a guest.”
“I’m sure Chase could go, too,” Shane said. Taking Chase along was the last thing he wanted, but he’d do it if he had to.
“Thanks, but I can’t,” Chase said. “I’ll be finishing up my survey.”
Tha
t really burned Shane. Chase could at least have put up a good front. Supported him. Obviously the guy had no friends and didn’t know how to be one.
“I can help with the dishes,” Chase said. “Then I should get going.”
Shane wanted to choke him—and also his own mom and dad—but he wasn’t ready to give up and burn his bridges yet. If Chase could suck up, he could, too.
“Could you use an assistant?” he said. “It sounds kind of interesting.”
“Do you wear a life jacket?” Shane’s mother said.
“Yes, Mrs. Kerry, I have a whole list of safety protocols I have to follow. Don’t worry—my mom already grilled my uncle about this.”
“When are you going to get back?”
Chase looked at Shane for help. Shane wasn’t going to give him any.
“Uh…well, I guess I never timed it. I’m pretty sure I’ll be through by midnight. Would that be okay?”
“Fine,” Shane’s mom said. “If you boys will be back by midnight, that should be all right. Shane—I want you to take your phone with you. Text me every hour so I know you’re okay.”
*
The Huntingtons had a nice fiberglass powerboat. But for this job, Chase took the old rustbucket rowboat. He threw Shane a life vest.
“We’re not really going to wear these, are we?” Shane said.
“Damn straight we’re going to wear them,” Chase said. “Go on—put it on or get back on the dock. Listen, that water is cold. And it’s muddy and full of weeds at the bottom. I’ve fallen in before. It’s not fun.”
The boat had a motor, but Chase used the oars instead.
“The quieter you are, the more you can hear the frogs,” he said. “Also, they’ll clam up if there’s a lot of noise.”
Shane had to admit that Chase looked all right at the oars. There was easy power and no splashing in his stroke. The boat glided through the water almost silently, leaving hardly a ripple in its wake. A waning moon rose above the pines on the shoreline, and mist hovered over the water, smelling of reeds and mud.
“Want me to row awhile?” Shane said. He wanted Chase to see that he could handle a boat equally well.
