Part 2 (1/2)

”I had to unplug the house phone, because somehow every reporter in New York City has our number.”

”Yeah,” I go. ”Layla said the Brooklyn Star is all over it. Maybe we should charge them a dollar every time they call.”

”It's not worth the invasion of privacy,” Dad says.

”Or the government people who'll want to take you away,” Mom says, which makes everyone laugh. Except I think she's really serious.

Maddy runs a hand over the length of her braid, something she does when she feels uncomfortable and awkward, which is pretty much all the time. She's painted her nails black, which is surprising since her mother doesn't even let her own makeup.

”You got lucky,” she says to me, but keeps her eyes on the road ahead. ”I don't know how you got so lucky, but someone out there is madly in love with you.”

I want to shrink into my seat at that. That was the last thing she said to me the night before the storm. The night of the bonfire at the beach when she saw me kissing another girl right after she said the words, ”Tristan, I am madly in love with you.”

”How does pizza sound?” my dad asks.

”Good,” the three of us say in unison.

The sky rumbles, and the staticky radio station has completely gone into white noise. Dad pulls over in front of Dominick's Pizza on the corner of our street. Lightning crashes in the distance. The streets are uncommonly empty. Layla and Maddy volunteer to get us a table and run inside, even though it doesn't look necessary. I walk a little slower behind them as they whisper hand in hand and turn only once to look at me over their shoulders. Girls.

There is only one man sitting in the pizzeria at the counter in front of the window. The man's skin is sunburn-leather brown, and he wears a blue cap with the words ”Save the Whales” st.i.tched in white. There's something funny about one of his eyes. It's coated with a yellow film. The other one is perfect. He rests his chin on his knuckles. I push the door and it jingles. The men behind the counter are already showering the girls with attention, getting the booth ready for five as if we're the only customers they've seen all day. With the exception of the ”Save the Whales” guy.

When the man sees me, he sets his bad eye in my direction and points out the window.

”Can't be long now,” he says.

”For what?” I'm born and raised in Brooklyn. I know better than to engage with the crazies. But his craziness makes me feel less so.

He shakes his head, picks up his paper plate, translucent with pizza grease, rolls it into the cylinder shape of a telescope, and puts his good eye to one opening. He points the other end toward the sh.o.r.e. ”No, not too long. Must be quick. Vicious they is.” He smacks his lips like he's still trying to taste the tomato sauce on them.

I'm about to say, ”Quicker than who?” but Mom and Dad walk in with a jingle. They hold hands and look from me to the old man. I shrug and stand aside, kind of wanting to hear more of what he has to say but knowing I should really go and sit down.

The man crunches up his telescope into a little ball and throws it over his shoulder onto the floor, the way my mom does with salt. He makes for the exit. There's a heavy thud on the ground when his wooden leg struggles to hold his weight.

He leans in close to me and whispers, ”Don't go trustin' them.” He points at his face. ”They'll take your eyes out, they will.”

He looks at my mother as if he's surprised to see her standing there, like he knows her. He straightens out his cap and smooths his face where pizza crumbs cl.u.s.ter at the corners of his lips. He bows a little. ”My Lady,” he says, and then is down the street as fast as anyone with a wooden leg can hobble.

”Gotta love Brooklyn,” Dad says with a smile. He tucks his Ray-Bans into his s.h.i.+rt, and Mom and I follow him to where Maddy and Layla sit.

After we decide on a meat-lover's pizza and a Hawaiian with extra cheese, Mom takes a sip of her ice water and looks right at me with her mirror turquoise eyes. ”I hope you don't mind. We invited some of the other lifeguards and your coach for a little welcome-home celebration tomorrow.”

I'm not really in the mood for people. I'm just glad I'm breathing. I scratch at my throat where I'm breaking out in a rash.

Layla looks over at me. ”You need a real good shower, Finn.”

”You're not allowed to call me that,” I say. This is good. If I argue with Layla, I'll feel like something is still normal.

”Oh, you love it,” she says.

”Can't you be nice to me for one more hour before you start hating me again? Pretty please?” I grab a garlic knot and put the whole thing into my mouth.

”I do not hate you” is her response. I can't see her face, because Maddy is sitting between us. ”Maybe a little, but only because you didn't listen to me when I was screaming at you not to go into the water.”

Maddy whispers, ”I was screaming that too.” But no one addresses that.

”He's fine,” Mom goes. ”That's what matters.”

Two steaming pies are set in front of us. My stomach is making happy noises, and for three whole slices I sit there eating without saying anything.

When the waiter comes around again, he looks at me and claps his hands together. ”Man, you're that guy!”

People acting weird around me, Take 1.

”Man, can I take a picture with you?” he asks, grabbing his cell phone from his pocket. ”I want to show my girlfriend. She thinks you're like awesome, man.”

”But I didn't do anything,” I say. He doesn't hear it, because he shouts toward the kitchen, ”'Ey, Dad, it's the Perfect Storm guy!”

A round man in an ap.r.o.n stained with tomato sauce, giving him the look of an all-too-happy butcher, comes out. His thick, smiling mustache reminds me of Super Mario. ”Oh, my boy!” He comes around the table, leans over Maddy, and kisses me on both cheeks. ”The pizza is on the house! Brave boy.”

Dad slaps the waiter on the arm like they're buddies and says, ”Mike, no more pictures. You understand.”

”No problem, my man.” Mike puts away his phone, and they return to the kitchen.

”I really hope that's the last time that happens,” I say, laughing despite myself.

”At least you got kissed by an Italian guy,” Layla says. ”How many guys do you know who have that street cred?”

”What about that time you and Angelo-” Maddy starts, but I cut her off.

”Whoa, hey. So anything else I need to know? As in, I don't have to go to cla.s.s for the rest of the month?”

”You really must've hit your head on something,” Dad says.

”Great. Good, I'm glad we're laughing at my tragedy so soon.” More garlic knots. It's not like I'll be kissing anyone later, I think.

”Listen, you kids can hang out at the house, stay up all night.” Mom fidgets with her necklace. ”Just don't touch my strawberry ice cream.”

”Oh, actually, I have to go home, if that's okay,” Maddy whispers. For a second I forgot she was there. ”Do you care if I bring some friends to your party?” She looks at me with her big blue eyes and sort of reminds me of a lost kitten.

”What friends?”

She scoffs. ”I have friends.”

”I didn't mean it like that.”

”Yes, you did. You just don't know it.”

”How can I do something without knowing it?”

She stands up from the table, her chair sliding back and falling with a thud. ”You do everything without knowing, don't you?” She looks at my mom, her lips trembling, and I know she's going to cry and everyone is going to blame it on me. ”I'm sorry,” she says, looking down at her feet because she can't seem to look at my parents. ”Thank you for the pizza.”