Its contents splashes all over him in a shower of crushed ice and sticky sweet tea.
“Fuck!” he shouts, throwing his arms wide, glaring at his soaked shirt, then me.
The bystanders gawk, tittering with curiosity. Over on his bench, Cole snickers.
“Whoops,” I say flatly.
Damon’s foaming at the mouth, eyes clouded with fury. “You’re a bitch. Abitch.”
“So I’ve been told. There are shirts for sale in the gift shop, should you want to pick up something dry. And please, have a sunny day.”
“God damn it, Piper—”
I spin around, escaping amid the sounds of low whistles and surprised cackles, the disordered racket of the strangers around us rehashing what they saw.
If you only knew, I think.
My chest hurts and my throat’s swollen because I’m about to burst into tears. I duck into a nearby restroom, lock myself in a stall, and perch on the toilet, propping my elbows on my knees, letting my head fall into my hands. I try to get my breathing under control, to keep my tears beneath the surface, but the sight of my shoes, stained with yellow mustard, does me in.
I give myself two minutes to cry.
Two minutes to sink into self-pity.
Two minutes to exorcize it from my system.
Then I get up, leave the stall, and splash cool water on myface.
I look my reflection hard in the eye:Get your shit together.
I leave the restroom, then continue on to the sea lions’ pool. It’s their lunchtime, and even though I’m hungry, I’ve got to help prep their blend of squid, capelin, mackerel, pompano, and herring.
All the while, I think about a Thoreau quote I read in English class last year:It’s not what you look at that matters. It’s what you see.
Those people at the snack hut—the guests, Adam, Travis, and even Cole—saw Damon standing close to me, talking vehemently, making me unbearably uncomfortable. Or maybe they saw me fumbling my hot dog, responding with snark, assaulting a guest with sweet tea.
Perception is a fickle bitch.
I know what happened in Gabi’s bedroom.
Damon does too, though he’ll maintain his innocence to the grave.
Gabi observed a moment, and then—like Damon said—drew a conclusion. Because didn’t I choose the attention of a boy over her a few months back? Haven’t I spent the last few years drinking abundantly and hooking up casually?
She made a two-second observation, generated context, and decided I was guilty, just as everyone who witnessed today’s confrontation will likely do.
It’s what you see.
When it comes to Damon, I wish there was a way to changewhat Gabi sees.
Henry
I find Piper at the pool on Monday night after a series of my texts go unanswered.
Her shoes are on the pool deck, splattered with bright yellow. She’s sitting on a lounge chair, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. She’s got a Delphina book on the chair beside her, its cover featuring a mermaid leaping out of the sea, purple tail arched against the moonlit sky.
She barely acknowledges me.
I take the chair next her, wishing I’d brought a book of my own. I can’t figure her out—why she’s so quiet, why she ignored my texts, why she didn’t check to see if I wanted to come down to the pool with her.
