D. MacHale - SYLO

I wanted to walk right up and ask her if she was having a good time. I wanted to tell her about what Quinn and I had seen on our midnight ride. I wanted to ask her why she always looked so sad. I wanted to…but I couldn’t. Quinn had said she wasn’t interested and that was good enough for me. So I put my head down and walked past.

“Tucker!” she called out.

I stopped dead. Had I heard what I thought I’d heard? I turned around to see that Tori was looking right at me. I pointed to myself dumbly as if to ask, “Me?”

“Got a minute?” she asked.

I sure did. I put my hands in my pockets and walked back to her as casually as possible, which meant I had to force myself to keep from running.

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound equally casual.

Tori didn’t smile, but kept her eyes locked on mine. Quinn was right. The girl was confident. And intimidating. I couldn’t tell if she wanted to be social or punch me in the face. The terrifying thought hit me that she was going to rip me a new one for telling Quinn I thought she was hot. Even though I hadn’t. Even though I did.

“You guys were out on the bluffs last week,” she said with no emotion.

I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. I did my best not to register surprise.

“We were riding by,” I said, trying not to reveal anything. “Why?”

“Quinn said you saw something.”

“When did he tell you that?” I asked, giving up on being coy.

“Last Saturday. Outside of Lesser’s Fish Market.”

Right. The knots. He hadn’t been embarrassing me in front of Tori after all, he was telling her about what we saw. It made me slightly less pissed at him.

“I don’t know what it was. There was a big shadow floating over the water and it just…blew up.”

Tori nodded thoughtfully. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. She dumped her empty soda bottle into a trash can and said, “What was it?”

“My dad thinks it was a military exercise. Quinn thinks it was a UFO.”

“What do you think?” she asked, her eyes boring right into me. Challenging me. Why did this girl make me so nervous?

“I—I have no idea.”

Tori thought about what I had said, then looked away from me and back to the crowd. It was like she was done with me and had retreated back into her own world. I stood there awkwardly, not sure of what to do or say next.

“You know this song?” I asked. “It’s from an old movie. Back to the Future. My parents make me watch it once a year whether I want to or not.”

Tori didn’t react. She wasn’t being obnoxious; it was more like her mind had traveled somewhere else. She stood there leaning on the parking meter with her arms crossed.

“Ever see it?” I asked.

“No.”

“Oh,” was all I could think of saying. I waited a few seconds then said, “Good movie.”

It felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees but there was no way I was going to skulk off like some loser.

“A lot more people here than last year,” I said, lamely.

Tori didn’t look at me when she said, “I hate this.”

“What?” I asked. “The song? The band? The festival?”

“Yes.”

Yikes.

“Tucker!” Quinn exclaimed as he jogged up, thank God. “I just parked the DeLorean, Future-Boy!”

Tori didn’t react.

“You know, Back to fhe Future ,” Quinn said to her, hoping for a reaction.

“She’s never seen it,” I offered.

“Seriously?” Quinn asked, sounding shocked. “I’ve got the DVD. How ’bout if we all go over to my house tonight and watch it?”

Tori continued her non-reacting.

“I’ve got Junior Mints!” he added temptingly.

I had to laugh.

Quinn sniffed the air and said, “Hmm…who smells so lemony fresh?”

Tori finally showed life. Her back went stiff, she jammed her hands into her pockets, and she hurried off.

“See ya,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.

Quinn and I watched for a second, then I punched him in the arm.

“Ow!” he wailed. “What was that for?”

“Idiot. We worked on a lobster boat all summer. What did they tell us to use to get rid of the fishy smell on our hands and clothes?”

Quinn thought for a second, then winced when the realization hit him.

“Lemon juice.”

“Her dad is a lobsterman.”

“Ooh. I guess that wasn’t cool. But at least you finally talked to her.”

“Probably for the last time, thanks to you.”

“Sorry, man. I’ll apologize.”

He started to follow her but I grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Don’t make it worse. Let’s just go watch the end of the race.”

As we made our way through the crowd, I thought about Tori’s sudden, embarrassed reaction. After having worked on a lobster boat all summer, I understood that it was not a glamorous job. At the end of the day, you were tired and cold and yes, you smelled like fish. Quinn and I did it for extra summer cash. But Tori was a pro. That one brief moment had given me a little peek into her odd personality. She didn’t seem like a happy person, especially with the comment about hating everything. She may have been confident, but she was also self-conscious. It made her seem less odd, and a bit more human.

“C’mon,” Quinn called as we pushed through the crowd, headed for the town pier. “The boats are coming in.”

The Lobster Pot Regatta was the centerpiece event of the festival. It’s a sailboat race that’s open to year-round residents only—no weekend sailors with more money than skill. The one-mile course looped around Arbortown harbor, beginning and ending in front of the town pier. The winner got bragging rights for the year and his or her name engraved on a battered old lobster pot. It’s kind of like the Stanley Cup, but rather than drinking champagne out of it, the winners drank warm beer.

The race was singlehanded, which means only one racer per boat. There were all different classes and types of boats in contention but most were over thirty feet, which meant there weren’t any amateurs. Still, it wasn’t exactly an officially sanctioned event. I think most of the guys drank too much beforehand, but they’re all expert sailors so there were never any problems, except for the occasional puking over the side. Those who hurl might have actually gotten style points, but I can’t confirm that.

Quinn and I pushed our way through the crowd to get as close as we could to the seawall. The race was nearly done, so there were lots of people crowding in to see who would win. Or hurl. Or both. A huge orange float was moored about twenty yards offshore to mark the finish.

“Just in time,” I declared.

Several boats had rounded the final buoy and were headed for home.

“Oh, man,” Quinn said. “It’s a close one.”

There were three boats in contention, all with their mainsails up and their jibs full. That wasn’t always the case. Usually one sailor took a huge lead, probably because he was the least drunk. But this year was going to be different and the crowd sensed it. This was a real race. Everyone started shouting, cheering, and blowing ear-splitting air horns.

“You know anybody racing?” I called to Quinn over the noise.

“Yeah,” he yelled back. “The guy in second place in the Catalina. He’s a friend of my dad’s.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “C’mon Mr. Nelson!” as if Mr. Nelson could actually hear him.

The boat in the lead was a hundred yards from the finish, but Mr. Nelson was closing fast, which made the crowd scream even louder. I don’t think anybody really cared who won, they just wanted to see an exciting finish and this had all the makings of one.