Alex, Approximately
Page 16
His skin is warm. The scar is raised, a tough, unyielding line. I follow it around his elbow, into the soft, sensitive hollow where his arm bends.
All the golden hairs on his forearm are standing up.
He sucks in a quick breath. I don’t think he meant to, but I heard it. And it’s then that I know I crossed some kind of line. I snatch my hand back and try to think of something to say, to erase what I just did, but it just comes out as a garbled grunt. And that makes things even weirder between us.
“Break,” I finally manage. “Gotta get back.”
I’m so embarrassed, I stumble over my chair as I leave. The ensuing metallic grate of metal on slate echoes through the café, causing several museum guests to look up from their afternoon coffee. Who’s artful now, Rydell? That never happens to me. I’m not clumsy. Ever, ever, ever. He’s messing with my game. I can’t even look at him anymore, because my face is on fire.
What is happening to me? I swear, every time I have any interaction whatsoever with Porter Roth, something always goes screwy. He’s an electrical outlet, and I’m the stupid toddler, always trying to poke around and stick my finger inside.
Someone needs to slap a big danger! sign on that boy’s back before I electrocute myself.
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@mink: Have you ever had a serious girlfriend?
@alex: Yes. I think. Sort of. What do you qualify as serious?
@mink: Hey, you’re the one who said yes. I was just curious. How long and why did you break up?
@alex: Three months and the short story is she said I didn’t want to have fun anymore.
@mink: Ouch. The long story?
@alex: Her idea of fun included hooking up with my best friend when I was out of town.
@mink: I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.
@alex: Don’t be. I’d checked out. It wasn’t all her fault. If you don’t pay attention to things, they wander off. I learned my lesson. I’m vigilant now.
@mink: Vigilant with who?
@alex: I think you mean with WHOM.
@mink: :P
@alex: No one in particular. I’m just saying, I’m not the same person I used to be. I confessed; now your turn. Anyone you’ve been vigilant about in the past?
@mink: A couple of guys for a couple of weeks, nothing major. Now I pretty much look out for myself. It’s a full-time job. You’d be surprised.
@alex: One day you might need some help.
“You see how picky I am about my shoes, and they only go on my feet.”
—Alicia Silverstone, Clueless (1995)
8
I don’t work with Porter for the next few shifts. Grace, either, which bums me out. The museum sticks me with some older lady, Michelle, who’s in her twenties and has problems counting her cash fast enough. She’s slowing down the line and it’s driving me crazy. Crazy enough to march up to Mr. Cavadini’s office, peer around the corner . . . and then just change my mind and clock out for the day instead of saying anything.
That’s how I roll.
One morning, instead of roaming the boardwalk, Sherlocking my way from shop to shop, stuffing my face with churros, I spend it pummeling Dad in two rounds of miniature golf. He took a half day off from work to hang with me, which was pretty nice. He gave me the choice of either the golf or paddleboarding—and no way in heaven or hell was I dipping my toe in the ocean after hearing Porter’s tale of terror on the high seas. Nuh-uh. I told Dad the whole story, and he was a little freaked himself. He said he’d seen Porter’s dad outside the surf shop and knew the family were surfers, but just assumed the missing-arm incident had happened a long time ago. He had no idea how it went down, or that Porter had rescued him.
See. Only ten days in town, and I was already filling Dad in on choice gossip he hadn’t heard, living here for an entire year. The man needs me, clearly.
My reward for spanking Dad’s behind in putt-putt is that I get to pick our lunch location. Since we grabbed a light breakfast before our golf excursion, I call a breakfast do-over at the Pancake Shack. It’s got a 1950s Americana diner vibe inside, and we grab stools at the counter, where a waitress in a pink uniform brings us glasses of iced tea while we wait for our pancake orders. My dreams have finally come true! Only, they haven’t, because the Pancake Shack doesn’t exactly live up to my expectations, not even their “world-famous” almond pancakes, which I give one thumb down.
When I voice my lukewarm grade, Dad sticks a fork in my order and samples a corner. “Tastes like Christmas.”
“Like those almond cookies grandma used to make.”
“The gross, crumbly ones,” he agrees. “You should have ordered a Dutch Baby. Taste mine. It’s terrific.”
His is way better, but it’s no churro.
“Still haven’t found him, huh?” he asks, and I know he’s talking about Alex. I told him the basic deal, that I’m gun-shy about confessing to Alex that I’ve moved out here, and that I’m trying to find him on my own. Dad and I are a lot alike in many (unfortunate) ways. He gets it. Mom wouldn’t. Mom would have freaked her pants off if she knew Alex even existed in the first place, so there’s that. But Mom didn’t really pay much attention to anything going on in my life back in DC, so it wasn’t like I went to any trouble to hide him. And now that I’m here, I notice that she still isn’t all that concerned, as I have yet to receive any communication from her since the initial Did Bailey arrive okay? phone calls. Whatever. I try not to think about her lack of concern too much.
From my purse, I retrieve a tourist map of the boardwalk. It’s just a cartoony one I picked up for free one morning. I’m using a marker to X out the shops that I’ve either surveyed or that don’t fall into the parameters that Alex has unwittingly provided me—can’t see the ocean from the window, not a shop with a counter, et cetera. “This is what’s left to cover,” I tell Dad, pointing the sections of the map I haven’t hit yet.
Dad grins and chuckles, shaking his head. I try to snatch the map away, but he holds it against the diner counter, moving aside the cast-iron skillet that holds his half-eaten Dutch Baby. “No, no. Let me see this marvelous thing. You’re thorough and precise, a chip off the ol’ block.”
“Ugh,” I complain. “Weirdo.”
“What? This is quality CPA blood running in your veins, right here,” he says proudly, thumping the map like a dork. “Wait, how do you know he just wasn’t working in one of these places on the day you went by? Or unloading a truck out in the alley?”
“I don’t, but I figure I’ll hit every shop twice.” I show him my homemade legend on the corner of the map. Dots for even-day visits, squares for odd. Male symbol for a boy my age working there—but ruled out as a possibility for Alex upon initial assessment. Triangles for churro cart locations. And wavy lines for all three stray boardwalk cats I’ve found so far, including Señor Don Gato.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. “With superior deductive skills like this, how could you not find him? And if he’s not worth the hunt, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I knew I liked you.”
“You kind of have to,” he says with a grin.
I grin back.
Someone walks over to the counter, and Dad leans forward to look past me. His face goes all funny. He clears his throat. “Good morning, Sergeant Mendoza.”
All the golden hairs on his forearm are standing up.
He sucks in a quick breath. I don’t think he meant to, but I heard it. And it’s then that I know I crossed some kind of line. I snatch my hand back and try to think of something to say, to erase what I just did, but it just comes out as a garbled grunt. And that makes things even weirder between us.
“Break,” I finally manage. “Gotta get back.”
I’m so embarrassed, I stumble over my chair as I leave. The ensuing metallic grate of metal on slate echoes through the café, causing several museum guests to look up from their afternoon coffee. Who’s artful now, Rydell? That never happens to me. I’m not clumsy. Ever, ever, ever. He’s messing with my game. I can’t even look at him anymore, because my face is on fire.
What is happening to me? I swear, every time I have any interaction whatsoever with Porter Roth, something always goes screwy. He’s an electrical outlet, and I’m the stupid toddler, always trying to poke around and stick my finger inside.
Someone needs to slap a big danger! sign on that boy’s back before I electrocute myself.
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@mink: Have you ever had a serious girlfriend?
@alex: Yes. I think. Sort of. What do you qualify as serious?
@mink: Hey, you’re the one who said yes. I was just curious. How long and why did you break up?
@alex: Three months and the short story is she said I didn’t want to have fun anymore.
@mink: Ouch. The long story?
@alex: Her idea of fun included hooking up with my best friend when I was out of town.
@mink: I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.
@alex: Don’t be. I’d checked out. It wasn’t all her fault. If you don’t pay attention to things, they wander off. I learned my lesson. I’m vigilant now.
@mink: Vigilant with who?
@alex: I think you mean with WHOM.
@mink: :P
@alex: No one in particular. I’m just saying, I’m not the same person I used to be. I confessed; now your turn. Anyone you’ve been vigilant about in the past?
@mink: A couple of guys for a couple of weeks, nothing major. Now I pretty much look out for myself. It’s a full-time job. You’d be surprised.
@alex: One day you might need some help.
“You see how picky I am about my shoes, and they only go on my feet.”
—Alicia Silverstone, Clueless (1995)
8
I don’t work with Porter for the next few shifts. Grace, either, which bums me out. The museum sticks me with some older lady, Michelle, who’s in her twenties and has problems counting her cash fast enough. She’s slowing down the line and it’s driving me crazy. Crazy enough to march up to Mr. Cavadini’s office, peer around the corner . . . and then just change my mind and clock out for the day instead of saying anything.
That’s how I roll.
One morning, instead of roaming the boardwalk, Sherlocking my way from shop to shop, stuffing my face with churros, I spend it pummeling Dad in two rounds of miniature golf. He took a half day off from work to hang with me, which was pretty nice. He gave me the choice of either the golf or paddleboarding—and no way in heaven or hell was I dipping my toe in the ocean after hearing Porter’s tale of terror on the high seas. Nuh-uh. I told Dad the whole story, and he was a little freaked himself. He said he’d seen Porter’s dad outside the surf shop and knew the family were surfers, but just assumed the missing-arm incident had happened a long time ago. He had no idea how it went down, or that Porter had rescued him.
See. Only ten days in town, and I was already filling Dad in on choice gossip he hadn’t heard, living here for an entire year. The man needs me, clearly.
My reward for spanking Dad’s behind in putt-putt is that I get to pick our lunch location. Since we grabbed a light breakfast before our golf excursion, I call a breakfast do-over at the Pancake Shack. It’s got a 1950s Americana diner vibe inside, and we grab stools at the counter, where a waitress in a pink uniform brings us glasses of iced tea while we wait for our pancake orders. My dreams have finally come true! Only, they haven’t, because the Pancake Shack doesn’t exactly live up to my expectations, not even their “world-famous” almond pancakes, which I give one thumb down.
When I voice my lukewarm grade, Dad sticks a fork in my order and samples a corner. “Tastes like Christmas.”
“Like those almond cookies grandma used to make.”
“The gross, crumbly ones,” he agrees. “You should have ordered a Dutch Baby. Taste mine. It’s terrific.”
His is way better, but it’s no churro.
“Still haven’t found him, huh?” he asks, and I know he’s talking about Alex. I told him the basic deal, that I’m gun-shy about confessing to Alex that I’ve moved out here, and that I’m trying to find him on my own. Dad and I are a lot alike in many (unfortunate) ways. He gets it. Mom wouldn’t. Mom would have freaked her pants off if she knew Alex even existed in the first place, so there’s that. But Mom didn’t really pay much attention to anything going on in my life back in DC, so it wasn’t like I went to any trouble to hide him. And now that I’m here, I notice that she still isn’t all that concerned, as I have yet to receive any communication from her since the initial Did Bailey arrive okay? phone calls. Whatever. I try not to think about her lack of concern too much.
From my purse, I retrieve a tourist map of the boardwalk. It’s just a cartoony one I picked up for free one morning. I’m using a marker to X out the shops that I’ve either surveyed or that don’t fall into the parameters that Alex has unwittingly provided me—can’t see the ocean from the window, not a shop with a counter, et cetera. “This is what’s left to cover,” I tell Dad, pointing the sections of the map I haven’t hit yet.
Dad grins and chuckles, shaking his head. I try to snatch the map away, but he holds it against the diner counter, moving aside the cast-iron skillet that holds his half-eaten Dutch Baby. “No, no. Let me see this marvelous thing. You’re thorough and precise, a chip off the ol’ block.”
“Ugh,” I complain. “Weirdo.”
“What? This is quality CPA blood running in your veins, right here,” he says proudly, thumping the map like a dork. “Wait, how do you know he just wasn’t working in one of these places on the day you went by? Or unloading a truck out in the alley?”
“I don’t, but I figure I’ll hit every shop twice.” I show him my homemade legend on the corner of the map. Dots for even-day visits, squares for odd. Male symbol for a boy my age working there—but ruled out as a possibility for Alex upon initial assessment. Triangles for churro cart locations. And wavy lines for all three stray boardwalk cats I’ve found so far, including Señor Don Gato.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. “With superior deductive skills like this, how could you not find him? And if he’s not worth the hunt, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I knew I liked you.”
“You kind of have to,” he says with a grin.
I grin back.
Someone walks over to the counter, and Dad leans forward to look past me. His face goes all funny. He clears his throat. “Good morning, Sergeant Mendoza.”
