Read Online Sex & Violence by Carrie Mesrobian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carrie Mesrobian
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this place called The Donut Co-op to eat breakfast and read Under the Waves . I rang the counter bell, and the guy who came out gave me a two-for-one on the donuts and free refills on coffee and didn’t care that I sat there all afternoon reading about the life cycle of the mayfly, as presented by my boy E. Church Westmore. I was about to mark my place in the book, when I came to this passage:
Formally known as Two Storey Island, later shortened to Story Island, this formation has been a distinct feature of Pearl Lake since time immemorial. Purchased in 1859 by Anson F. Archardt, it was left inviolate for over fifty years until noted lumber baron Barrett A. Archardt decided to fortify the property with boulders to prevent erosion and build his family a lake house on it. Archardt intended it as a vacation home for his wife and three young children, but tragically Archardt’s wife drowned not long after completion.
Archardt then leased the property to Kent County, on the strict condition it be preserved in perpetuity as a sanctuary for loons.
I drove around Marchant Falls, killing time, wondering how long a barbecue could last. I went into Cub Foods and got a bag of chips and a soda and saw they were hiring. My father paid for the car and insurance but had said gas was my responsibility, so I needed a summer job. That was one thing he always insisted on, wherever we lived—that I got some kind of part-time job. I grabbed an application from customer service and headed back home.
Once in the drive, I could see the empty picnic table at Baker’s cabin. Evidence of a barbecue but no people. I went into our cabin, flopped on the sofa and drank my soda and ate my chips. I thought about Story Island. The sanctuary for loons, the abandoned house, the motherless children. Barrett Archardt and his drowned wife. I thought of him holding her in their old-time clothing and her saying, “Oh, Barrett” all breathy, which was ridiculous, because what chick could get all worked up over anyone named “Barrett”?
The house was quiet and the sun was starting to go down and I realized that I would have nothing to do except wait until it was time to get in bed. That and the motherless children and the poor bastard named Barrett abandoning his house because he lost his wife and everything else gave me this feeling I thought of as being Almost-Weepy. Which had been happening to me since I was eleven when my mom died. Almost-Weepy was where you felt bad enough but just a little too dry to actually weep. Though Almost-Weepy was probably better than being Actual-Weepy.
There was a knock on the door. More of a banging, actually, and I jumped up. Was this another thing about life on the east side—people demanding shit of me at all hours?
It was Baker Trieste. She looked frantic and apologetic and her hair was all over her shoulders and I could see through her thin white shirt that she wore a striped bikini top as her bra and I felt thankful for that, because I hadn’t noticed how nice her rack was the night before, which gave me something else to think about besides being Almost-Weepy. She was also holding a red gas can, which said she actually needed something real, not just to be social endlessly or something.
“Evan,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re home. I need to ask you a huge favor.”
My father chose this moment to wander out of his bedroom then, looking like he’d slept in his Dockers and T-shirt.
“Oh, hello,” he said to Baker, running his hand over his bald head, as if to freshen up. “I’m afraid I missed your barbecue. Did Evan here go?”
“No, actually, he didn’t,” she said, tipping her head and looking a little peeved at me.
“Sorry,” I said.
“I’m here to ask you a favor, Mr. Carter,” Baker said, in this responsible, student-council-vice-president voice. “My friends ran out of gas, and they’re out in the middle of the lake strand-ed on their pontoon. And Keir hasn’t got our boat off
Formally known as Two Storey Island, later shortened to Story Island, this formation has been a distinct feature of Pearl Lake since time immemorial. Purchased in 1859 by Anson F. Archardt, it was left inviolate for over fifty years until noted lumber baron Barrett A. Archardt decided to fortify the property with boulders to prevent erosion and build his family a lake house on it. Archardt intended it as a vacation home for his wife and three young children, but tragically Archardt’s wife drowned not long after completion.
Archardt then leased the property to Kent County, on the strict condition it be preserved in perpetuity as a sanctuary for loons.
I drove around Marchant Falls, killing time, wondering how long a barbecue could last. I went into Cub Foods and got a bag of chips and a soda and saw they were hiring. My father paid for the car and insurance but had said gas was my responsibility, so I needed a summer job. That was one thing he always insisted on, wherever we lived—that I got some kind of part-time job. I grabbed an application from customer service and headed back home.
Once in the drive, I could see the empty picnic table at Baker’s cabin. Evidence of a barbecue but no people. I went into our cabin, flopped on the sofa and drank my soda and ate my chips. I thought about Story Island. The sanctuary for loons, the abandoned house, the motherless children. Barrett Archardt and his drowned wife. I thought of him holding her in their old-time clothing and her saying, “Oh, Barrett” all breathy, which was ridiculous, because what chick could get all worked up over anyone named “Barrett”?
The house was quiet and the sun was starting to go down and I realized that I would have nothing to do except wait until it was time to get in bed. That and the motherless children and the poor bastard named Barrett abandoning his house because he lost his wife and everything else gave me this feeling I thought of as being Almost-Weepy. Which had been happening to me since I was eleven when my mom died. Almost-Weepy was where you felt bad enough but just a little too dry to actually weep. Though Almost-Weepy was probably better than being Actual-Weepy.
There was a knock on the door. More of a banging, actually, and I jumped up. Was this another thing about life on the east side—people demanding shit of me at all hours?
It was Baker Trieste. She looked frantic and apologetic and her hair was all over her shoulders and I could see through her thin white shirt that she wore a striped bikini top as her bra and I felt thankful for that, because I hadn’t noticed how nice her rack was the night before, which gave me something else to think about besides being Almost-Weepy. She was also holding a red gas can, which said she actually needed something real, not just to be social endlessly or something.
“Evan,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re home. I need to ask you a huge favor.”
My father chose this moment to wander out of his bedroom then, looking like he’d slept in his Dockers and T-shirt.
“Oh, hello,” he said to Baker, running his hand over his bald head, as if to freshen up. “I’m afraid I missed your barbecue. Did Evan here go?”
“No, actually, he didn’t,” she said, tipping her head and looking a little peeved at me.
“Sorry,” I said.
“I’m here to ask you a favor, Mr. Carter,” Baker said, in this responsible, student-council-vice-president voice. “My friends ran out of gas, and they’re out in the middle of the lake strand-ed on their pontoon. And Keir hasn’t got our boat off
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