“Did you talk to Travis?” I ask.
“I did. He said it looked like the boy”—Turtle consults his notes—“Mitchel Damon, provoked you. But he didn’t think the spilled tea was an accident.”
I fold my hands, trying to figure out how to salvage this situation. The thought of Turtle disciplining me, of losing thechance at a letter of recommendation I only just realized I need, of losing my job…I can’t stand it. Plus, telling Tati that I’ve been reprimanded, or worse,fired? She’d shit her pants.
But pretending to regret standing up to Damon doesn’t sit well with me either.
“I’m sorry there was a disturbance, Turtle. I’m sorry I was a part of it. But I’m not sorry for defending myself. Mitchel Damon is a menace.”
Turtle sighs, tenting his hands under his chin. “I like you, Piper. You know I do. I’m rooting for you to do well here. But I can’t have a repeat of what happened yesterday.”
“I understand. And that’s why I think you should ban Damon from the park.”
He chuckles. “I’m not sure I have cause to do that.”
He might if I gave him the whole story.
I think about Henry’s reaction to my retelling of yesterday’s incident, his tight jaw and clenched fists and ruddy cheeks. I was able to ease his frustration, but what took its place might’ve been worse: pity.
I don’t want people like Henry and Turtle—people I respect—to think I’m weak. I want to take care of myself. I want to prove that I’m responsible, strong, and capable.
“It won’t happen again,” I promise my boss.
“I’m glad. The park’s reputation is important. Theparkis important—you know better than most. You’re a hard worker. I admire that. But I can’t have irresponsible behavior soiling our good name, no matter the circumstances. Do you understand?”
I nod, then slink out of his office.
Weeks after our clash in Gabi’s room, Damon’s still screwing things up for me.
Henry
TIME FLIES by.
Dad continues to see Tati almost every night. He lets me offthe hook during the day more often than not, either because his dates make him too tired to plan outings or because he’s got new priorities. Whatever the case, I’m here for it.
As often as Dad’s been out with Tati, I’ve seen Piper more. Every night, it’s a movie or the pool or putt-putt. On the mornings she doesn’t have work, we go to Clementine’s, then spend the hottest part of the afternoon on the sand, reading or napping under an umbrella, or in the surf.
In all the times we’ve been swimming together, she hasn’t worn the same suit twice.
Yesterday, we cruised down to the pier and played carnival games, watched fishermen reel in grouper and red snapper, and ate our weight in cotton candy. When we passed a couple of guys jamming on guitars, their instrument cases full of glinting quarters and wrinkled bills, we paused to listen. They blewthrough a song by Tom Petty and one by the Plain White T’s before launching into something slower, a song I recognized in the first few bars.
“This was my parents’ song,” I told Piper after one of the performers sang the first verse. “For the few months they were together, anyway.”
She looked up at me, eyes bright, cheeks rosy. “I don’t think I know it.”
“It’s old. Bob Dylan. ‘Make You Feel My Love.’”
“We should dance.”
“Nah, not to this one. It’s cursed.”
She laughed, lifting my hand, twirling beneath my arm. I could smell her rose-scented shampoo and the pink sugar on her breath. “I don’t believe in curses. Come on, Henry. Dance with me.”
It was the middle of the afternoon, and the pier was crowded. “I can’t dance.”
“Everyone can dance. Some of us just do it better than others.”
No, but really—I can’t dance. Dancing in public? In broad daylight?
