#ocean week

  “Is that new?”   Butters looks up from his text book. “Is what new, Kenny?”  Kenny gestures towards the shelf above the bed. It’s mostly filled with old knick knacks and souvenirs, but there are a few picture frames propped up against the wall, mostly hidden behind porcelain rabbits and little collectible jars. “That.”   They’re supposed to be studying. Bunny rocks back in his chair, uses one foot to push it away from the desk. “Oh, well, you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, Kenny. I’ve got a bunch of old stuff up there.”   “That jar. Where’d you get all those shells from? It wasn’t there last time I was over.”   “Oh! Well, no, but it ain’t really new either. I’ve had those for a real long time. They’ve just been in my closet for a while.”   “Huh. You pick them up in Hawaii?” Kenny folds his arms behind his head. He’s stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The fabric of his pale pink tee-shirt is pushed up around his navel.     Butters glances back at his book; it’s not a project that’s due any time soon and, mostly, they just use studying together as an excuse to get Kenny in the house. “Yeah. I used ta have more, but the jar broke so I had to get rid of them.” Butters pushes the chair out all the way before padding over to join Kenny on the bed. “I really like ‘em up there.”   Kenny scoots over so there’s more room on the twin size mattress. His elbow knocks against the wall. “Me too. They’re pretty bright.”   “I got shells from when we went to Hawaii together.” Butters curls up against Kenny’s side, resting his head on the other boy’s shoulder. “And a bunch from the trip I took after that. There’s a sand dollar in there somewhere. It took me ages to find one that wasn’t all crumbled up.”   Kenny’s silent for a moment. He lets his head flop to the side, chin bumping against Butters cheek. “Can I see them?”

  It’s been two weeks.   Two weeks, and there’s been no sign of the princess.   Two weeks, and the kingdom is still in a rage. The Royal Guards are rushing from one cravet to the next, demanding answers, looking for clues. They don’t want to admit what has happened – they don’t want to be the ones to say history has once again repeated itself.   But the children? Oh, they have no such problems. Even among mermaids, the youngest of the race are prone to gossip, loose lips barely hidden behind their cupped hands. And it’s these rumors that Delta listens too, from her place within the shadows, for children speak the truth more often than the guards do, and children understand that temptation is often impossible to resist.   They speak most often, of course, of the first princess. They speak of the woman stolen away from her hearth and home by a prince, who drew her in with sun-kissed words and swept her away, never letting her return. There are statues of Ariel at the center of Atlantis, though age has stripped away all of the more fine details.   According to the children, there will soon be statues of Fen among the depths as well, for she has gone to the human shores.

  Delta is sick to her stomach and fears that she must be sick in the mind as well. With every league that she puts behind her, the water pressure changes, and the light grows brighter. Her arm is aching, filled with pain that should have faded years ago. The missing scales from her tail are burning, like they’ve just been ripped off all over again.   But still, she swims upwards, chasing after a princess who is kind, and caring, and utterly infatuated with the idea of love, true love; who does not realize that there are so many risks in the world that cannot be avoided.   Delta swims upwards because she has already felt the sting of human kind and she will be damned if Fen feels it too.

  “I can’t believe you talked them into letting us come along.”   Kyle shrugs. Sharp shoulders bunch up around his ears. He just got out of the shower and his hair is still wet, red curls leaving damp marks on the back of his baggy neon purple shirt. “It wasn’t that hard. Gerald totally owes me still, and mom doesn’t care who comes along, as long as it doesn’t fuck up her plans.”   Kenny pulls his legs up onto Kyle’s bed, tucking them against his chest. “Yeah? And what are her plans?”   “To ditch all of the first chance she gets,” answers Kyle, cheerfully. He’s careful with the creases when he folds the next shirt, and even more careful about rolling it into a tight little tube. It joins the rest of his clothes in the suitcase. “You have swim trunks or do you want me to bring an extra pair?”   “I mean, I have a pair.”   “Do they actually stay up?”   “Depends on what else is up,” quips Kenny, grinning. The tip of his tongue presses against the gap between his front teeth and Kyle rolls his eyes.   “Right.” Kyle picks up another pair of swim trunks. The fabric is green and white. He shakes it out twice before laying it on the top of his dresser and starting to fold it. “I’ll bring an extra pair.”

  Everyone crams into the car at half past noon.   Gerald is driving. He keeps looking into the rear view mirror and scowling, like maybe someone forgot to explain there would be extra guests coming along. “Alright,” he says. “I’m going to head out now. This is your last chance to get anything that you might have forgotten.”   Kyle rolls his eyes and slouches against Stan’s shoulder. “If we knew what we needed to go grab, it wouldn’t be forgotten.”   “Don’t get smart with me,” warns Gerald. He puts the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway. Even though there are six people crammed into the car, Gerald still puts on one of his own personal CD’s, with a fairly awful mixture of synth music from the eighties.   Ike fishes his headphones out of his bag. “You want to use an ear bud?” He’s claimed the middle bench seat. Kenny’s sitting next to him, leaning against the passenger door.   At the question, Kenny perks up and scoots a little closer to Ike. “Yeah, man. That would be awesome! You put any of those songs I suggested on there?”   “I’ve got all kinds of cool songs,” answers Ike, pushing one of the bright green ear buds in. “My playlist is bitching.”   Stan and Kyle are wedged into the last bench seat. Stan snorts, knocks his elbow against Kyle’s side. “Is his playlist bitching?”   “Bitching and complaining, maybe.” Kyle is careful when he sits his bag down between their legs. “I feel bad for Kenny, having to listen to that for the next couple of hours.”

  The first rest stop is fine. It’s barely twenty minutes out of South Park, because Gerald forgot to bring ibuprofen with him. Kyle only barely manages to hold back a sharp tongued comment.   The second stop is different. They are seven hours into the drive when Sheila announces that she needs to get out of the car and move around, so Gerald decides that they should just get a hotel along the way. It’s a small building, the sort of hotel that makes you double check the lock on the door every time that you walk past it.   Ike gets a room on his own, which is something of a personal victory for the boy. Kenny, Stan, and Kyle end up in another one, with two small beds and a promise – a lie, more like – to spread out blankets on the floor for the third member of the party.   Instead, they all crowd into the bed on the left most side of the room, because that one is pressed up against the wall. It’s a mess of arms and legs and soft pajama fabric, blankets pulled up to shoulders and then over their heads.   Kyle giggles from his spot wedged firmly between Stan and Kyle. He’s got a fistful of Kenny’s worn tee shirt and his legs tangled up with Stan’s. “Dudes, I am so not tired right now.”   “I’m hungry,” says Kenny, helpfully.   Stan snorts. His mouth is pressed into Kyle’s red curls. “You’re always hungry, Kenny.” Then, after a moment, he adds, “but I could kind of go for a drink. That was, uh, you know, that was a long car ride.”   “There was a gas station half a mile back,” suggests Kyle. “You want to hit it up?”   Even in the dim light of the hotel room, Kenny says, “when don’t I?”

  The gas station ends up being more than half a mile back. By the time the trio of teenagers stagger into the building, they’ve all decided that not changing out of their pajama’s was a very bad idea. Kyle isn’t sure what state they’re in but the cashier doesn’t so much as bat an eye when they amble up to the counter, arms piled full of potato chip bags, beef jerky sticks, a cheap bottle of wine and two four packs of even cheaper beer.   “ID?” She sighs, hand held out like she’s half expecting a fight.   Kenny smiles, all boyish charm and dashing blue eyes. He whips out an expertly crafted fake ID from his back pocket. “Booze is for me, snacks are for them.”   “I really don’t care,” says the cashier. “I just need it on camera.”   She rings them up and puts their goodies in cheap plastic bags. Kyle gathers them all up in his arms before anyone else can get them, passes Stan a beer almost before they’re out of the convenience store.   “Here’s to the best fucking summer yet,” says Kyle, voice probably too loud for this time of night.

  They leave the beer cans and empty wine bottle in the room when they pile back into the car, and Stan’s a bit more relaxed about the ride there. Gerald is determined to get to Jersey without renting another room and he spends the whole time fighting with Sheila about how often they need to stop.   When they get to Jersey, the city is nothing but a mess of bright lights and sound. Kyle isn’t sure whether to feel lighter or more weighed down, because he will always love his home town but there’s a certain connation with being from the Shore that he’s never been able to shake.   “This place looks bitching,” crows Kenny.   Gerald scowls at him through the rear view mirror, but Ike is quick to agree. “We’ve got a fuck ton of stuff to show you guys.”   “Language,” scold Sheila. “Watch your mouth, Ike!”   Kyle knocks his arm against Stan’s side. “Don’t worry, man. Ike’s going to take off as soon as we park.”

  It’s barely dawn when Cartman goes scrambling down the beach. The Cliffside is still wet from the night before, bare feet slipping over the stones. It’s the middle of winter and the chill bites at Cartman’s skin, at the place in his knee that no amount of magic could ever heal up completely right.   The last lingering traces of the nightmare chase after Cartman like the shadow horses in the forest. He can still hear the sound of hooves catching on the ground, can hear the way that Kenny had screamed in his dream.   Even though Cartman’s grown up with the warning always be careful on the rocks, he pays it no mind. He just moves.

 “I don’t believe you,” says Wendy. She sits the cup of cappuccino down a little harder than is strictly needed. Foam splashes over the edge of the cup and spills across the counter.   Ike grins. He leans closer to Wendy, nearly bumping their noses together. “Is that a challenge?”   “No, it’s not. Ike, there’s no way you know how to surf.” She leans back, flicking Ike on the tip of the nose. “You need to clean that up.”   A huff, but Ike grabs a handful of napkins out of the nearby holder. He wipes them through the hot mess. “You spilled it, Wends. And, nah, I’m tellin’ yous. I’s fuckin’ awesome at surfing.”   The bell hanging above the door rings. Wendy puts on her customer service smile, which gets decidedly more fake every time someone comes in and requests an extra large pumpkin spice, high foam, low fat, made with part soy latte.   “Welcome to Bean Street,” says Wendy, stepping back over to the cash register. “What can I get you today?”