Read Online Snap by Carol Snow - Free Book Online

inside. “Styrofoam, mostly: coffee cups and some of those take-out containers. I’ll wash them with bleach when I get home so they don’t smell. I’m speaking from experience.”
    â€œAre you going to add them to the piece you were working on the other day?”
    She shook her striped head. “Nah, the lollipop field is almost done. This is raw material for my next piece, which I plan to call Landfill. Last week, I found a busted boogie board on the beach; that’ll be my canvas. I’ll use the Styrofoam to build a series of hills, which I’ll cover with different things: aluminum foil, hamburger wrappers, whatever I can find.” She paused. “I haven’t figured it out beyond that. But it’ll make some kind of an environmental statement.”
    She pointed at my head. “I like your hair.”
    That was a bit like having a blind person compliment my photography, but whatever. “Thanks.”
    â€œYour camera working okay?” she asked.
    â€œYeah. I still can’t figure out how that old woman turned up in a shot, though. Anyway, I haven’t been able to take many pictures because of the rain.”
    She motioned down the beach. “You might want to come back tomorrow. Saturdays, the town rents kayaks—over there, by thatlittle gray house. They’re all different colors, and I always thought they looked cool lined up on the sand. I mean, not as cool as the trash cans, but—you know.”
    I checked her face to see if she was making fun of me, but she meant it about the trash cans. The girl liked her trash. I looked down the beach and tried to imagine the kayaks. It would be fun to play around with the shapes, the colors.
    â€œThanks for the tip,” I said. “I’ll check it out.”
    â€œAnd also tomorrow…” She looked down shyly. “There’s this excellent thrift store downtown. I get most of my clothes there.” That explained a lot.
    â€œIt’s only open on Saturdays,” she said. “I was planning on going tomorrow—it opens at nine—so if you want to meet me there….”
    Used clothes? Yuck. I went to the Salvation Army a couple of years ago when I needed a costume for the school play, and everything just smelled…weird. Like dust mixed with perfume mixed with death. I didn’t want to offend Delilah, but that whole “vintage” thing was way overrated.
    â€œSaturday…hmm,” I said, as if trying to recall the details of my busy schedule. The breeze blew my hair in front of my face. It felt like a cobweb. I reached up to tuck the hair behind my ear and that’s when I caught the smell, almost beachlike but not quite. It was the mildew from my still-damp clothes. Humiliation washed over me.
    â€œMy parents forgot to put my suitcase in the car,” I said. “That’s why I’m always wearing the same thing. But I’ve got lots of other stuff at home.”
    â€œOf course!” she said. “I didn’t mean…what I meant was…you know. There’s not a lot going on around here, so it’s just something to do.”
    The breeze blew again, releasing an even stronger mildew aroma. I wanted to rip my clothes off and throw them in the ocean. Next week my dad would go to Amerige and bring back my suitcase. Next week sounded far away.
    â€œThe thrift shop sounds…fun,” I said.
    We walked down the beach, gazing at the ground, finding treasures everywhere. A yellow shovel. A button. An empty suntan lotion bottle. Delilah ignored a damp magazine but snatched up the National Enquirer. “The headlines are like gold,” she said. “Look at this: ‘Worst Beach Bodies.’ I could glue the headline on a board and then stick some Barbie dolls next to it. Wish I’d saved the headless one….”
    I snapped pictures of the yellow shovel, of a volleyball net, a lone beach chair. After each shot I