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Cady isn’t laughing but still trying to catch her breath. “Are you okay?” I demand, panting heavily, and unwilling to put her down.
“I think something bit me,” she gasps. “My foot. Shark,” she says at the same time I decide, “Jellyfish.”
“It couldn’t be a shark,” I assure her.
“It better not be a jellyfish because you are not peeing on my foot.”
“I’m not peeing on anything, but let me look at it.” She has an angry red mark on the side of her foot. “I think it was a jellyfish. If it was a shark, you wouldn’t have a foot left.”
“Are you sure?” Cady hops on one foot because I’m still holding the other in a death grip.
“Would you rather be bitten by a shark than a jellyfish?”
“Yes, because I don’t want you to pee on me!”
The inanity of our conversation hits both of us at the same time, and we look at each other and laugh. “It hurts,” Cady moans, through her laughter.
“Vinegar works,” I decide. “Can you make it to that bar over there?”
Cady looks where I point, but before she can answer, I decide for her. “Jump on,” I instruct, standing before her. “I’ll carry you.”
29
Cady
Ihave no choice but to let Max carry me, because whatever bit, or stung me, left a mark that really hurt.
Riding piggyback along the beach isn’t exactly comfortable for either of us, but I’m distracted by Max’s thumb rubbing the side of my knee.
All the way to the bar.
And it’s nice the way he takes over, takes care of me. I’m perfectly capable of explaining to the bartender what happened, but Max goes ahead before I can open my mouth.
Like he cares about what happens to me. That I feel better.
I have vinegar, and then warm water poured over my foot. To stop the venom or the stinger—I’m not really sure. I had no idea jellyfish were so hazardous.
They look so peaceful.
After all this, both the bartender—a very cheerful local named Bob—and Max, along with a group of interested spectators, insist I need a drink to recover.
I am covered in sand, with my hair everywhere, and I sit at the bar that’s seen better days, and let Bob make me something called a Stinger. I finish, but don’t love it, so he tries a Jellyfish shot.
That tastes better, so I have two of them. And then a beer, to hydrate, Bob says.
It’s good that Max insists on carrying me back to Sandflower because I’m a little tipsy.
“I never would have thought you were the beer type,” Max says as we say goodbye to Bob and our new group of friends.
“I grew up drinking beer,” I tell him.
“I think growing-up Cady would be a lot different from present-day Cady.” His thumb is back, stroking my knee and I fight to ignore it. “Although I wonder if she’s a little like playing-in-the-waves Cady.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve played in the waves,” I muse. “Did you ever write a letter to yourself when you were younger?”
“Like to my ten years in the future self?” Max shakes his head. “Never.”
“I did when I was twelve. At twelve, everything was good—my mom was still alive, and she’d just had the twins and my stepfather still loved me. I think it was some school assignment, so I wrote the letter and it wound up in some of my mother’s things. I found it last year.”
