Read Online Either the Beginning or the End of the World by Terry Farish - Free Book Online

also warm me and hold me. So I make a fear up for Luke, one I don’t tell my father.
    What would Luke’s fear be? Not the 95 bridge. Not the cars screaming. Not the speed of the current if a guy jumps. All these can ease a body. His fear is behind the eyes. It wedges his eyelids open. I imagine the clock ticking, the waves against the rocks, nothing he wouldn’t do for sleep. His fear is that he can’t go there. What do you do if you can’t sleep? He needs to keep sorting the net as it flies through the winch and shave the snow from his nostrils and mouth the way I’ve seen my father do on the boat. And now he doesn’t have a boat and that adds to his sleeplessness.
    Pilot wakes and paces by the door, as if she feels tension in the house and she’s worried we might leave.

SPANISH DANCER
    Rosa holds out a white paper bag. “My mother made these.” Inside are warm circles of pastry sprinkled with cinnamon. “ Pastelitos ,” Rosa says.
    We sit at the Formica table and eat, dusting our lips in confectioners’ sugar.
    â€œIt’s illegal,” I say. “But we’ll do it out of the garage. Word of mouth. You in?”
    â€œWhat do you mean it’s illegal?”
    â€œNothing’s going to happen. It’s a fisherman thing.”
    Rosa lifts her guitar and begins to strum.
    â€œWe’re just selling shrimp, right?
    â€œThat’s all we’re doing. Just a hundred pounds. One tote.”
    â€œI don’t see why you’re doing it. If it’s illegal.”
    â€œIf I can sell for him—by myself, to see how it works—it will change our whole business model. We’re not making it.”
    â€œSofie, nobody’s making it in the business. It’s not your dad. It’s the ocean.”
    I feel my lips grow taut like my father’s when he’s angry, even though I know she’s right. Just last night Pete was talking about selling his quota of what the government allows him to catch to try to get out from under some of his debt.
    â€œForget it, Rosa. Just forget it, okay?”
    Now Rosa tries to fix us. She says, “Okay, so my mom’s a pastry cook. What do I know?”
    I don’t answer. I want to say, You’re right . . . you don’t know anything.
    â€œI’m worried about you, Sofie. Don’t you eat anymore? Look at you.”
    She reaches forward, runs her hands down my cheekbones. I put my face up to hers and trace my lips with my finger to show her the confectioners’ sugar I can still taste.
    â€œWho doesn’t eat?” And she traces her lips with her finger and we stick out our tongues and we laugh. But it’s true about how little I feel like eating.
    â€œI’ll do it,” she says.
    I say, “I have to fix the ocean. We need to make it here together, my father and me. Or he’s leaving.”
    Rosa puts her guitar down and pulls up a song she’s been learning on her phone.
    â€œHold off,” Rosa says. “Fix the ocean later. Get your guitar.”
    â€œNo, you play.”
    We listen to this melody while I begin to letter a sign for our illegal trade on the back of an old poster project.
    Rosa plays along to the song on her guitar, “Spanish Dancer.” It’s a girl nervous about love, wondering what it was like for her mother, when she was young.
    I pull up the chain of the dog tag that I now wear around my neck.
    Sanna
    Lucas
    O negative
    Protestant
    Universal donor. His blood will match with anybody’s. Even mine.
    - - -
    We wear half gloves with the red tips of our fingers working machine fast. We pack plastic bags with Mrs. Tuttle’s shrimp. Put ten bags of shrimp over ice in an ice chest, with the sign mounted on poster board. Sweet Northern Shrimp Fresh Off the Karma.
    We sit, our heads propped on our mittened hands, ready. Drivers do stop.
    â€œHow much would it cost for shrimp without heads, ready to cook?” a