John Brandon - Citrus County

Shelby’s father parked the car and the two of them sat staring at a poster for a fundraising picnic to benefit the manatees. Shelby looked out her side window and saw the high school boys, with their falling-off black jeans and frayed shoes. They were cowardly and dangerous, a pack of hyenas.

“I don’t get manatees,” Shelby’s father said. “I don’t get the big fascination. If I’m still around when they kick, let’s have a party. We’ll make margaritas.”

“I understand manatees,” Shelby said. “They’re like friendly dinosaurs.” She got out of the car and leaned in the window. “Back in ten.”

Shelby walked along the front planters. As she passed the high school boys, one of them mumbled something, too low for Shelby to make out. Shelby went up the stairs without looking at them and went inside and got into her e-mail. If Aunt Dale still hadn’t invited her to Iceland, she was going to have to come out and ask. It was a rude thing to do, but less rude, Shelby thought, than leaving someone hanging for weeks. And maybe, as strongly as Shelby had been hinting, Aunt Dale hadn’t really comprehended that Shelby wanted to visit right now, as soon as possible, that Shelby wasn’t being hypothetical.

There it was, the message in the inbox.

Shelby,

I want you to know that I would really enjoy a visit from you, but unfortunately I’m not going to be able to make it work as soon as this summer. I’ve been hoping my schedule would clear a little, but it’s only grown more impossible. I’m hoping to take real vacation time (what’s that?) this spring, a sabbatical I’m going to call it, so maybe we can work something out, maybe on your spring break. It’ll be good and snowy for you. That may be better anyway, because I’m sure your dad still needs you around down there. I’m really glad we’ve gotten back in touch like we have. I’m sure there are a lot of interesting things you can get into down in Florida, and I’d like to hear about all of them — not too interesting, I hope. Wink, wink.

Shelby signed out, but she didn’t get up from her chair. The people in line could wait. Aunt Dale was ditching her. Shelby didn’t need to read it again. She got it the first time, she was being ditched. Aunt Dale was bowing out. The only reason it had taken her so long to say anything was that she knew she was going to hurt Shelby’s feelings. And she had. Wink, wink? What was that about, Toby? Of course Shelby’s dad needed her around, but what about what Shelby needed? Next spring. Next spring felt like another eon. The world could end before next spring.

Aunt Dale, Shelby saw, was a coward. Maybe next spring, like everything was fine. She was full of shit, this lady. Nobody was that busy. And using Shelby’s dad as an excuse. Aunt Dale was afraid of helping her flesh and blood. She was scared of Shelby, like everyone else.

Shelby picked up some pieces of scrap paper and tore them into little pieces and brushed them off the counter and into a wastebasket. She was annoyed that she was still susceptible to disappointment. She still lost her balance when a rug was pulled. She didn’t want to e-mail anyone ever again. She looked around at the other people, all staring at their screens. They were researching God-knows-what. They were trying to figure out what to feed a sick sheep, trying to buy a used engagement ring, looking for a cheap fishing boat. They were all better people than Shelby’s aunt. They would do anything for their families. They knew what was important. Aunt Dale was conducting a busy, glamorous life, and Shelby was a burdensome interruption.

Shelby stalked through the library and shoved the front doors open, then sauntered down the front steps. She rounded a planter and jumped across the walkway, landing a couple short feet from the high school boys, causing the closest of them to give ground.

“The only way you guys will ever get to second base is with each other,” she said. “None of you, in your lives, will lay your hands on a girl like me.”

The boys glanced nervously toward Shelby’s father in the car. They laughed a little, believing they could turn Shelby’s words from an insult into a joke.

“That’s why you stand out here and make remarks,” she said. “You’re not even rednecks or thieves or perverts or drug dealers. You’re worthless.”

“I am too a redneck,” one of them said, the one with the closest-set eyes and tightest ball cap. “And I’m the type of redneck doesn’t allow people to insult me.”

“Nobody thinks you guys are funny and nobody’s afraid of you.”

“We’re just some boys who like fresh air and company,” one of them said, the one with the wispy, pitiful mustache. “You like to read, we like fresh air and company.”

Shelby looked at the one who said he was a redneck and he was champing at the bit. She wished he would jump at her or raise his voice. She wanted to see her father beat the hell out of one of these kids. This was what she was stuck with. Citrus County. These were her people now. No one in Iceland was hers. Her mother and her sister were not hers. Toby — who knew? The whole county was full of these kids, these punks, full of their parents.

Shelby looked toward the car and her father was indeed peering rigidly in her direction, the look on his face all business. He was trying to figure out if these boys were her friends or what. Shelby looked individually at as many of them as she could, into their hollow eyes. The boys didn’t move. There wasn’t a peep to be heard. They were of one mind, done in. They were survivors, these boys. They couldn’t afford to have fight in them like Shelby did. They knew when they were beat.

After the final bell sounded and Mr. Hibma’s last class of the day spilled out into the hall and blended with the rest of the freed students, Mr. Hibma shut off the lights in his room and sat at his desk. All the clubs had wrapped up. Most of the sports were over. This was the time of year when even the teachers bolted right after the final bell. It was the beginning of summer, a time to be happy. Mr. Hibma clacked the heel of his shoe down on the linoleum and listened to the echo, and for once it wasn’t a dispiriting sound. The clack of Mr. Hibma’s heel was not in a minor key; it was the first note of a crescendo.

He spun his chair around so that he was facing his computer, blew on the keyboard, then backed his head away as a plume of dust rose. He turned the computer on and listened to it come to life, waving dust away with his hand. He watched the green light flicker and then steady, made sure there was paper in the printer. Mr. Hibma got into the word processing program and typed the following:

The moon is more serious each night and the sun sillier each day. I could do without anything. I could do with nothing. The Publix. 1315 Cooper Road. Clermont, Florida. 5 in the afternoon. June 1.

Mr. Hibma walked to the end of the hall and looked out over the parking lot. He saw the buses pulling away, saw the grassy plot where the flag corps practiced. He saw Pete and the Spanish expert walk out together and slip into the same car. He saw Vince drifting from crowd to crowd, offering his gum. Mr. Hibma had no idea if Dale was going to show up. He knew he’d corresponded himself into a corner, and he was glad for that, but whether Dale would physically appear was of little consequence now. Mr. Hibma didn’t need Dale anymore, didn’t care to impress her. He understood that she didn’t take him seriously. She wanted to be disappointed. That was how she lived — in search of disappointment. Had she taken Mr. Hibma seriously, even a little bit, she never would’ve responded. Mr. Hibma was trying to change his life and she thought he couldn’t. Mr. Hibma was going to shock her; he was going to stick her with a heavy secret, a problem, and she was going to have to carry it.