Read Online The Video Watcher by Shawn Curtis Stibbards - Free Book Online Page B

in my tread. I searched the grass, found a twig and dug at the stone, feeling all the while like I was in one of those scenes in a movie where the guy turns to his friend for help and the friend gives his buddy advice, and the advice turns out to be wrong. When I got the stone loose, I dug at another one.
    â€œSorry, am I scaring you?”
    â€œNo. It’s fine,” I said and threw the twig aside. “I think you should see someone.” As I said this I felt like a ham actor reading lines from a TV drama script.
    He shook his head.
    â€œWhy?’
    â€œPride, Mr. P., Pride.”
    I stared back at English Bay and realized, almost with horror, what a beautiful day it was. Clear. Bright.
    â€œJust forget about it,” he said.
    â€œHow about now? Are you okay now?”
    â€œNow’s okay.”
    I nodded. “So you’re not going to blow that cop away?”
    I knew that’s not what he was talking about, and that I shouldn’t be changing the topic—but Cam laughed.
    I laughed too, and the mood lightened.
    â€œI would love to waste that chink,” he said, and mimicked the sound of a gun firing.
    Thinking of the maniac and the parked car and Brad’s (or Chad’s or whatever his name’s) head exploding, I laughed again.
    Cam sighed. “I think I’m in love. I think I’m in love,” he said.
    â€œWith who? The Brazilian?”
    He giggled.
    The fact that he said this just after his previous announcement frightened me. But I tried not to think about it.
    â€œLet’s go,” I said.
    We both stood up. I dusted off the back of my jeans.
    Things will be okay , I told myself. Things will be okay.
    Â 
    The beach was crowded and it took at least five minutes to find a spot. Cigarette butts and wood chips speckled the sand. I cleared away a discarded French fry container and spread out my towel. Cam sat on a log next to me, pulling off his white Nike shirt and exposing his dark, rippled chest.
    â€œAre you going in the water?”
    â€œNo,” he said glancing up and down the beach. “You go. I’m going to wait here.”
    Still disturbed by what he had said—or feeling that I should be—I headed into the water. The water was cold. It was cold, and I gasped when a wave hit my groin and my muscles tightened as I dove into those cold waves, the intense sensations pushing all thoughts from my head. I swam metres through the salt water under the surface, and opening my eyes, stared into the dark mud-filled nothingness.
    When I surfaced, the skin on my back burned. I wiped hair from my eyes and crouched low in the cold water, the breeze off the ocean suddenly freezing. Two boys, splashing near me, shouted something about a shark.
    A metal barge was moored about fifty-feet from shore. It would be used later in the summer for The Symphony of Fire. Closer, there was a small diving platform. A slide was on top, and bathers were sliding down it.
    I pushed off and swam out and climbed up the ladder. The dry wooden planks were scorching. As I lay down on them, my back actually felt like it might get burnt. High up in the blue sky a thin streak of cloud lay frozen. I closed my eyes. The ocean breeze was cold on my wet skin. When it paused, the sundry sounds came to my ears, the shrill cries of children and the clanking sound of people rocketing down the slide. I enjoyed the blank feeling of these sensations. I enjoyed the clean, empty feeling they gave me and I lay there another minute. When I sat up and opened my eyes, blotches appeared on my vision. At the raft’s edge there was a girl of about fifteen. She sat with her legs in the water. Her face reminded me of my cousin Emily’s, but this girl’s breasts were larger. But then Emily’s breast might be larger too—I hadn’t seen her in a year. I guessed I would get to see at Harrison, at the end of summer, if they’d changed. This girl arched her back, adjusting