Eric Puchner - Model Home

Rat Beach was calm and almost deserted. Lyle strolled along the beach with Shannon, skirting the tidewater and feeling warm lumps of sand under her arches. There were no waves to speak of but a few surfers were out in the water anyway, their hair dry from the sun. Walking with Shannon, Lyle felt a shy flush of excitement, as though she were escorting a celebrity. Sunbathers dropped their books or adjusted their sunglasses, pretending not to stare. Not that Lyle blamed them. Shannon’s body in a bikini was tall and perfect, marred only by a dark mole just below her belly button. Somehow it seemed less like a flaw than a public service: the YOU ARE HERE dot on a map. Lyle kept her own stomach bandaged in a towel, which she’d tied scrupulously around her waist. If she forgot about the towel, if she stared at the sand fleas in front of her and avoided looking at her pale and veiny feet, she felt almost beautiful, as though the sunbathers were ogling her as well.

Shannon had asked Lyle to the beach. Actually, what she’d said was: I bet you could get a tan if you tried. Lyle hadn’t known this was an invitation until much later, while she was Z-ing out the register for the night and Shannon had asked casually when she should pick Lyle up for their “tanning session.” She’d started to make up an excuse, but the allure of going with Shannon Jarrell to the beach, of basking in the flattering light of her beauty for a day and absorbing some of it herself, was too powerful to resist.

They chose a spot near the lifeguard tower. Shannon took off her baseball cap and actually shook out her hair, like someone in a beer commercial. Lyle sat down without taking off her towel.

“Aren’t you going to lie out?”

“In a minute,” Lyle said. “I’m just resting.”

“Here,” Shannon said, handing her a bottle of sun stuff. Lyle took off her sunglasses. It was Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Lotion, SPF 6. For the Natural Tan of the Islands, the label boasted. This seemed racist or overly egalitarian, Lyle wasn’t sure which. She handed the bottle back.

“I can’t wear that. I’ll fry to a crisp.”

Shannon frowned. “No, you won’t. I use it every day.”

“I’ve got my own,” Lyle said.

She rummaged through her bag and took out her SPF 30. Shannon shook her head in disgust, smearing a greasy glob of Hawaiian Tropic into her shoulder. It smelled sweet and dangerous, like a piña colada.

“That stuff’s like for little kids,” Shannon said. “You might as well wear a blanket. Don’t you want to get tan?”

Lyle did want to get tan; she’d even bought a bikini at the mall. She watched Shannon slather herself in Hawaiian Tropic and then rub it into her skin, working slowly down her body — chest, stomach, legs — greasing each part to a buttery shine before moving to the next. It was like watching someone turn blissfully to glass. Maybe Shannon was right; maybe Lyle was just paranoid. Maybe she’d underestimated her ability to tan like an islander. If Shannon could use SPF 6, why couldn’t she? After all, it was six times her natural skin protection. If you thought about it mathematically, six times was a lot. Lyle would have paid good money to be twice as unghostly as she was. She put the SPF 30 back in her bag. When she asked for the Hawaiian Tropic, Shannon seemed almost proud of her, nodding in approval before offering to rub the warm, coconuty grease into her back.

Fully greased, Lyle undid the towel at her waist and fixed herself a bed in the sand. She’d been too embarrassed to bring a book, so now she had no choice but to lie there like Shannon, the sun roasting her face. It was sort of relaxing at first, living the life of an islander, but before long she began to sweat. Or rather, began to melt like a glacier. Liquid streamed from her armpits. It puddled in her neck. It stung her eyes and trickled down her temples. It filled her ears, gradually, until she could hear the distant swoosh of her heartbeat. She peeked at Shannon, who was lying perfectly comatose. She seemed content to lie there forever. Lyle closed her eyes again and tried to think of how tan she was going to get, to ignore the sensation of being roasted on a spit, but her body seemed to expand against her will, inflating to three times its size, getting bigger and bigger until she felt like the Michelin Man in the Rose Bowl parade, untethered and monstrous. She opened her eyes again, trying to get rid of the feeling. A little hot tub of sweat had formed in her belly button. She could feel herself getting burned — horribly, irrevocably — but perhaps this was just in her head as well.

She wondered what Hector would say if he could see her. The thought filled her with shame.

A boy with scraggly wet hair was jogging in their direction, carrying a surfboard under one arm. Lyle put her sunglasses on but did not have time to cover her thighs. The boy walked up to Shannon and shook his head like a dog, drizzling some water on her face. Shannon sprang onto her elbows, scowling. The boy had little coronas of hair around his nipples.

“You’re killing me,” he said. “I can’t sleep.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shannon said. She was laughing.

The guy scrunched his forehead, as though in pain. “I’m like a Jewish kid at Christmas.”

“Who was that?” Lyle asked after he’d left.

“Some stoner. He goes to Miraleste.”

“Does Charlie know about him?”

“Kidding?” Shannon said, making a face. “He’s jealous enough already.”

Lyle watched the stoner jog up the beach and seek out a crowd of other surfers. The four boys all glanced at Shannon, like a meal they couldn’t afford. Maybe that was what it was like to be beautiful: overpriced. You flirted with whomever you felt like, because you knew they didn’t have the money.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Shannon asked. “I’m thinking of having a little party. Just some friends. My ’rents are going to be in Ireland.”

Lyle was too flattered to speak. The strength of her pleasure embarrassed her. “Ugh! I can’t. We’re going camping.”

Shannon shrugged. “No biggie.”

“Joshua Tree. My family does it every year. Four hours in the car with my mom, it’s a real fucking blast.”

“Your mom’s a drag?”

“No. Just a racist bitch.”

Shannon looked at her, visibly impressed. “I’m burning up,” she said. “Let’s go in the water.”

“Go ahead. I think I’ll stay here.”

“Suit yourself.”

From her towel, Lyle watched Shannon amble down to the water and wade out into the ocean before diving into a delicious-looking wave. She surfaced as a floating head, sleek and seal-like. The truth is, Lyle wanted to go swimming more than anything. She wanted to dive into the water like Shannon and escape the misery of heat and boredom. But she was too embarrassed. It would mean walking down to the beach with her white stomach and tuberous ass. She knew it shouldn’t matter, that no one really cared who she was, which made her hate herself even more.

Later, Shannon wanted to head down to the Snack Shack for a frozen Snickers bar. Lyle put her T-shirt back on, cinching the towel carefully around her waist. She’d hoped that lying on the beach for an hour would somehow make her less self-conscious, but it had only increased her feelings of ugliness. Not only was she freakishly pale, she smelled bad from sweating so much. A group of junior lifeguards were gathered on the beach, chasing one another with a mammoth entrail of seaweed, and Lyle and Shannon had to hike up the beach to get around them. The boys looked in their direction and giggled. Lyle imagined they were laughing at her appearance. As they neared the Snack Shack, the beach grew more crowded, a maze of bodies: it seemed like everyone was staring at her and Shannon, wondering how in the hell they could possibly be friends.